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You slam your eyes shut, Sounds of cracking and creaking and struggle and ripping filling the empty space between the ringing in your ears. There's a subtle cry, high pitched and pained, gasping with a slight gurgle.
Your stomach sinks, Your eyes open wide. Your brother screams. And is quickly silenced, a loud crunch, grinding of strong plastic teeth,The remains of flesh and bone being turned to nothing but bits and pieces scraping on the inside of an animatronic's mouth.
It was supposed to be a joke. A prank. A way to scare the shit out of your little brother.
You're paralyzed, a red fox mask shielding your face from the blood spraying any which way. You hated how wet your tank top got.
Distantly, you hear yourself scream for your father, hear your friends run out of the building, but none of it really registers. Like you’re watching everything through a fog that doesn’t dissipate until you leave the hospital, hours later. The burning smell in your nose as your father lights a cigarette in the driver's seat is what finally brings you back to the present, strapped into the backseat of the car, staring holes into that little seatbelt bear he always used.
The car hadn't started yet, but it felt like it was moving anyway. Maybe it was just the desire to go home… Or maybe just the nausea of knowing what you’ve done. The awkward silence between you and your father was seemingly endless until he finally took that cigarette out of his mouth and exhaled some smoke.
“What the hell did you think you were doing?” He sounded so horribly empty. Like he couldn’t even find the energy to be angry with you. He just started the car and began to drive, not even sparing a glimpse at you in the mirror.
"It...Was supposed to just...Be a prank— I-I didn't come up with the idea!- it wasn't my fault-!" You attempted to lie- just a bit- both as an odd form of denial, and as a way to salvage what little future you had left from the inevitable rage your father will have in due time.
“A prank?! What kind of a fucking prank-!” He twisted around in his seat to glare at you, and you felt the car swerve slightly before he righted it, facing the road again and taking a deep breath. His next words were quiet, but in the silence of the car they were just as loud as his shouting, “You shoved his head into a machine while it was running and you thought nothing would happen?”
"I…We...We didn't know it would— We had no clue it closed its mouth that hard- We thought it would just sandwich him a bit and then we would take him out- Before anything happened..." Your hand drifts to the bloodstains on your tank top. It's still a bit wet.
“Oh yes, of course,” Father waves his hand, showing off the fingers he’s damaged working with the animatronics, his pinkie was missing from the second knuckle, “all the signs saying to stay off the stage were purely for show.”
"It was just supposed to be a prank…" You tried to think of anything else to say but that, but it was all you had. You weren't thinking and you wanted to prank the brother you considered a wimp and a waste of oxygen. Which sounds even worse now that his blood is on your hands. "We were just- We we're just playing around-"
You feel the car jerk to a sudden stop, and you’re not sure if father didn’t realize he was coming up to the traffic lights until just then, or if he was trying to get you to fall off your seat. “I always knew you were an idiot, Michael, but seriously? That’s the only excuse you’ve got?”
You fought back the urge to curl up in your seat and forced a nod. Best you could do at the time- And the best way to avoid the strained relationship you and your brother had. "Y-yes, father—"
You hear him scoff, and after a moment of silence realize that’s the end of the conversation. He flicks his cigarette ash at you as you turn to stare blankly out the window for the rest of the trip home. The hollow guilt in your stomach turns to dread as he pulls into the driveway, and you’re certain he’s going to scream his head off at you once you’re both in the house, since Mom and Elizabeth aren’t home. He never screams at you when they’re home, only when it’s the two of you.
You feel sick to your stomach when you realize that Mom and Elizabeth don’t know yet, that they’re out of town for a “girl’s trip”, and no one from the hospital could contact them. Father would have to tell them.
You already wish you were back in the car, and nothing's even been said yet. You take off your shoes, put them by the door, and take a deep breath as you finally take the fox mask from its spot dangling from your neck, and take a moment to look at it. You always liked this fox, you hoped it would be an animatronic one day, so you could see him move. But after seeing it stained with blood and guilt, you hoped that you wouldn't have to ever see that dream come true. Actually, you never wanted to see this stupid mask again. So you do the next best thing, and throw it into the garbage can with as much force as you can muster.
Father looks at you with the same vacant eyes and blatant disdain he’d had since he got in the car, but he looks about as tired as you feel, and, after a moment, just collapses at the kitchen table, bottle of booze in hand, ignoring you completely. Better than being yelled at, at least. You scurry off to your room (staunchly ignoring that your brother’s room is right next to it- you think if you so much as look at his door you’ll be sick) before he changes his mind.
Your room was always a bit sad compared to your brother's room— And it looked even worse if you compared it to your sister's. It was barren for the most part, a plushie of a fox made by mom, the one really colorful thing in the room… There was a bit of wallpaper peeling off in the corner. If anything, your room just had the essentials. Well, the essentials, and the things you've been stealing from school and corner stores. Most notably a poster, and a random knife stand that could hold about four knives, though you only had one in there, and it was dull and somewhat garbage at its job since you always used it as a sword when you played outside.
You always imagined using it to defend yourself against some monster or thing— You even tried to prepare for it one day, but that monster never came. At least, you never thought it did. Maybe that was because it was you the whole time.
It was now time for the thing you probably dreaded most. Taking off the blood-soaked tank top. In a twisted way- you never knew why you thought this- but it almost felt like this was all you really had left of your brother. This was the closest you've ever been to your brother. His blood on your tank top. You didn't want to let go of it.
…It would be really really weird to sleep in a blood soaked tank top, though. And you did not want to think about this anymore. So you force it off yourself, tossing it onto the top of the door to your closet. You quietly mumble “fuck it,” to yourself, and flop onto your bed, hiding yourself under your blanket and burying your face into your pillow.
You hear muffled footsteps come down the hallway, and then a faint click from your door. You’re locked in.
It’s quiet for a while. Disturbingly quiet. Just quiet enough for you to finally try to process what had happened. It was your brother’s birthday. You and your friends had gathered by the restaurant your dad runs with Uncle Henry, and put on your masks (as per squad tradition- It made you all look cool as hell) before entering to see your brother crying.
Now, most brothers- better brothers- would have been worried.
Tried to help.
But you didn’t. You never did.
Ever since he was little, you had to take care of him. Take care of him, and your sister. Father was too busy working to bother, and Mom wasn’t always home. Every big brother babysits from time to time. And yet, your brother got all of the love, your sister got all of the love.
…Why were you different? Why were you left out? Why did father hate you specifically? What did you do?
Whatever.
It didn’t matter. You got your friends, and worked together to make your brother’s life hell.
And it was fun.
You had fun.
You twisted fuck.
You had the thought, "Why not mess with him while he’s too scared to fight back?" Fredbear already did the work, all you had to do now was profit. When you were satisfied, you would stop, and act like it never happened. Let the kid have a birthday. Hang out with your friends and make fun of the little kids around. Maybe kick Springbonnie in the junk. Use that trick Uncle Henry taught you to get your quarter back from the arcade machines. Teen stuff. So you just…Did it. You remember how quick your friends joined in. “Wow, your brother's kind of a baby, isn’t he?” Your friend in blue grinned under his mask. “It’s hilarious.” You nodded. “Why don’t we help him get a closer look? He’ll love it!”
“No, please-!” Your brother wheezed through his sobs. You scoffed.
“Come on guys, let’s give this little man a lift. He wants to get up close and personal!” You had far too much fun watching your friends lift him away. You followed suit, hands shoved in your pockets as you watched your brother yell, “No! I don’t want to go-!” “You heard the little man!” You motioned your head at Fredbear, “He wants to get even closer!” And you laughed. You laughed. And that’s when you had that twisted thought. “Hey guys,” A thought that would haunt you forever. “I think the little man said he wants to give Fredbear a big kiss!”
“On three!” You pulled your brother back, rocking him back and forth as you and your friend in red prepared to toss him. “One… Two…” And up he went.
You hug your pillow. You fight tears, they threaten to come out, but boys don’t cry. Big boys don’t cry. You’re sobbing. Everything hurts, and you don’t know why. Your chest was tight, your head was pounding, you could barely even see through how thick your tears were.
Stop crying.
Stop. Crying.
Crying is for babies, for weaklings like your brother. But you just can't stop, and that tips your grief over to frustration, frustration to anger, and you see red, furiously swiping the tears from your cheeks.
Sitting up, you ball up your hands and rub your eyes as hard as possible, growling slightly under your breath, until you pause completely, inhaling with a groan.
You came up with the idea.
You bullied your brother.
YOU had the bright idea to take it too far and throw him into Fredbear’s mouth.
This was all.
Your.
Fault.
Your hands grip at your hair, knuckles white from the force of it, tears streaming down your face at a rate comparable to that of a waterfall. And with barely any breath at all, you scream. Voice cracking and weak, yet the pain behind it drives the yell to powerful levels. You have to hunch over a bit to get it all out, ripping your hands out from your hair as you stretch out your arms. You stay like that for a moment, arms flopping down as you try to catch your breath. The anger didn't stop, you didn't know what to do with yourself to handle it. With nothing in your mind but burning anger, at yourself, at your father, at your brother, you can barely see as you reach for your knife.
You don’t even notice when the force with which you rip the knife from its block throws the thing to the floor, ignoring the clatter of it landing against the side of your trash bin, throwing junk to the floor. You don’t acknowledge any of it, entirely consumed by your rage and self-hatred, twisting and shoving the knife into the wall, gyprock crunching satisfyingly under the blade and your fist balled around its handle. You pull back your hand, watching the dust crumble away from your knife to the floor.
The plaster dust across your hand reminds you too much of the blood on your shirt.
You throw the knife across the room with a yell, and it lands tastefully (horrifyingly) through the chest of your fox plush with a satisfying (sickening) thud into the wall behind it. But that wasn't enough.
It wasn’t enough.
With a shout, you throw yourself at the plush, pulling the knife from its chest and watching the stuffing come out with it. It’s fascinating. You plunge the knife back in again, pulling out more stuffing. Knife in, stuffing out. In, out. Again. Again.
Again.
Again.
You raise your arm to stab the plush again, but just before the blade hits, you see the plushie’s eyes through your own tear-filled vision.
And just for a moment, you saw him. Your brother. His eyes wide as they look into your own, filled with terror. The stuffing stuck to your arm feels like his blood all over again.
You stop. You think you’re gonna be sick.
You drop the knife. It clatters to the floor. In the sudden silence it feels like it’s crashing against your skull.
Maybe that’s the headache.
You pick up the mangled remains of your beloved brother plush, and cry.
"I'm sorry-" You choke on your tears.
"I'm so sorry."
There’s no answer.