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Springtrap’s eyes lazily rolled in his skull, he’d been here for… he wasn’t really sure anymore. There was a calendar, but it had started to decay too. He knew it’d been a few years, but time was something he couldn’t grasp anymore.
Everything felt gross. The paint on the walls was peeling, everything had a disgusting layer of dust and webs clinging to it. But worst of all, as he sat trapped in this hot dry room, he could feel his skin beneath the molding suit harden and dry and within his prison of flesh, he could feel his organs beginning to lose their protective casing and slosh around in his stomach.
He didn’t like moving much, it felt odd, his body was not his and every time Springtrap made too large of a movement, his skin fought against itself and eventually snapped. The springlocks shuddered, rust making the components spasm and sink deeper into his abdomen.
Springtrap could feel his organs slosh around again.
He had to get it out- his organs, they couldn’t sit in there and rot anymore.
Slowly shifting his weight, Springtrap groaned, pain and discomfort was something he wished he'd gotten used to- he was surprised it was something he could still feel. Maybe it was his soul screaming out rather than his physical body. His hands fumbled around, eventually finding the wall, Springtrap began pushing himself up, his skin cracked and somewhere near his shoulder split.
In a weird way, it almost felt good when his body broke. It made his entire arm shake as the pressure suddenly released and Springtrap shuddered out a sigh as he finally got himself to stand. The skin around his knees had split and crumbled a long time ago, along with his feet and lower legs; they’d actually snapped away from his body, leaving only rusted metal in its wake.
At least he didn’t have to worry about being unable to walk.
Springtrap leaned himself against the wall, paint crumbling under his weight. He could feel the remains of flesh within him shift, if he still had a stomach, he’d probably puke. Metallic fingers reached up to his jaw to rub at the rusted springs, a ritual he had to periodically do so he could open his mouth. A few pleased groans and strangled sounds filled the silent room as slowly but surely, he could open his jaw again.
Now that he was in less discomfort, the messy part could begin.
Letting his arms go slack, he struggled to find the courage to reach up and poke at the skin between the torso and pelvis of the damaged suit. He was glad his sense of touch was almost nonexistent, or he probably wouldn’t have been able to do this at all.
Carefully, he prodded at the mummified flesh with his index finger. He almost expected it to make a horrible grating sound, but it didn’t, in fact it was almost like touching normal skin… almost. Where healthy skin would squish, his stayed still, it reminded him of plastic- or funnily enough, an animatronic suit. He and his prison were one in the same now, weren’t they?
He chuckled at the irony of it all.
Continuing to scratch at the dried flesh, he began adding pressure, the skin finally starting to make a horrible crunching noise. He added more pressure. The dried flesh began to bend, threatening to split open and allow him access. He pressed harder. Suddenly, he broke the flesh with a horrible crack and his finger collided with something wet and viscous.
Pushing his finger deeper into the hole, his jaw slacked open, some mimicry of drool pooled on the edge of his teeth. It was disgusting, yet intriguing. He would’ve thrown up by now if he could. Sliding another finger towards the wound, he forced it in, cringing at the way his flesh fought against himself and ichor began to dribble out along with something greenish in colour. His mouth clamped shut, eyes widening. Springtrap wasn’t sure why he didn’t expect his own organs to turn that sickly green colour like his victims, but the sight of it made him stop in his tracks.
He felt dirty. He needed to get this out. No matter the consequences.
Grinding his jaw, he began to continue the self mutilation, the fingers within him curled and he began pulling on his flesh. More liquified intestine slipped out of him and landed on the ground with a horrible splat. He was so glad he couldn’t smell anymore. Leaning forwards, Springtrap watched as more liquid began to dribble out of him, he tore himself open more, allowing access for more slime to slip out. Once it was done pooling around his feet, he slowly stuck his hand into himself and gasped when he hit something hard, pulling away from it.
Springtrap rasped, curiosity getting the better of him.
Cupping his hand back inside, he felt around, eventually finding what he hit, a metal rod. That’s not too surprising. Dipping his hand lower he found what he was originally looking for, organs that hadn’t been able escape the confines of his pelvis. Scooping the slime in his hand, he pulled it out in a heap and groaned as it slopped out of him and hit the wet concrete.
Letting himself lean back against the wall, he pulled his hand out of his abdomen and sighed. It was finally done, and the lack of weight was strange. But Springtrap was used to adapting. This was just another thing to get used to.