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Arnold passed out not long after the mimic, animatronic, thing, destroyed his truck and ripped the data diver right from his hands.
His body hurt like hell when he finally a woke again, around him was the rubble of their van. It's broken beyond repair, he can see the inside workings of the car from where he lay crushed between it all. The past few hours had left like a fever dream. From the moment dispatcher called him for this job to the moment he left. Nothing in that place made sense! Arnold thought to himself.
He was going to die here, fazbear wouldn't care. They never care for their employees.
They're manipulative, greedy, liars!
Fazbear wasn't coming for him, no one was coming for him. He was in the middle of no where on a small two lane road. He had no phone, no way to call the police, even if he had it would've been destroyed like the rest of everything.
There was only one way he could survive this — if he does he's never going back to that company — by pulling himself out of the truck and finding someone, or soemthing to help him.
Arnold winced from the pain of putting pressure on his arms. They weren't as bad as the rest of his body, but they hurt. He pushed through, making small noises of pain he knew no one would hear, but maybe, just maybe, someone would.
The next step was even worse, pulling the rest of his body out, his legs were bent and broken in ways that were far from natural. When looking back at his legs he gagged, almost throwing up. They were more than just bent weird, he could see bone. You shouldn't be able to see your own bones! There was blood covering almost everything, skin was peeled off and— Arnold stopped looking at his legs to see what else was wrong.
I can't walk on these, but I don't want to die here either.
His attempt at pulling himself out was stopped again. What scared him the most was how he didn't even feel it, a large metal object was stabbing through his torso.
He cried out, in pain, shock, fear, all of it. "I'm never getting out of here." He cried softly to himself, there was no way for him to take the object out of him. "Why did I even take that stupid job...why did I start working for this damned company."
Desperation.
He was poor, and desperate. Just like most people employed by fazbear, who else would take this dangerous jobs without any warning, any help, knowing that every day at work could be your last. Who else would work for 36-plus hours without sleep, without a break? Poor and desperate people like himself.
That's who.
That's why.
Arnold didn't think it would be him, no one thought it would be them who dies. He'd seen the bodies, he'd gotten farther than them. He just wants to go home and sleep. Quit his job and sleep. Leave stupid Utah and stupid Hurricane.
And just sleep.
His eyes drifted to his surroundings, he could barely see anything, it was all blurry from crying, from pain, from everything. Slowly his eyes fluttered shut, his breathing slowed from fast and heavy pace it had been all night. Slowly, he started to fall asleep.
But just before he fell into eternal sleep, a little voice in the back of his head screamed, it was quiet, but mighty. It screamed to keep trying, to not give up, to make it out of here. That he can sleep when he's in a hospital, when he's safe at home. His eyes flew open as adrenaline filled his body.
With grunts and groans and reached back — it hurt, and he failed. His arm was hurt, he was tired. He couldn't reach back that far, but he didn't give up, he didn't give up once the whole job. He kept going. So he tried again. And again. And again and again and again and again and again until he finally got hold of the object stabbing through his torso.
"Gah!" He grunted in pain as he pulled the object out in one swift move. He felt the injury now, felt how the blood spilled out and down his sides, how it pooled under and around him. Doing so took a lot out of him, he was panting harder than he had before.
Arnold took advantage of the adrenaline still coercing through him. He push his torso up with his arms and pulled the rest of it as he attempted to get out of the debris of the recked vehicle. He winced at the pain in his legs that were still entangled with the mangled car, the pain distracted him, his arms buckled and went out under him, he hit the ground hard and let out another sound of pain.
He almost wanted to give up again, but he didn't, that little voice was growing slowly, louder. He wanted to listen to it. So he tried again. The same routine over and over again.
Lift himself up, pull his body, feel the pain and fall. Lift, pull, fall. Life, pull, fall. Lift, pull, fall.
While he wasn't sure how long it had been exactly — it felt like hours — he finally got out of the car. He wanted to cry of relief, but also of helplessness. It had been what? 45 minutes, maybe an hour, and he only just made it out of the car. Despite how hard that little voice screamed, a larger, louder voice spoke over it. And this one was speaking the truth.
He was truly going to die here. No one took this road, he hasn't seen any other car for a few days. The only people he's seen in the last 24 hours were dead bodies of fazbear technicians of the past. People like him, who were poor, desperate, and over worked. Who needed the money, and died just trying to live.
He didn't die in that factory, but he was going to die not far from it. It pained him to think that, but it pained him more being awake. Dealing with both the mental and physical trauma he's experienced in 6 hours. He'd be happier to just die here and now.
Maybe if he was lucky someone would drive past and find him, help him. Maybe by then it would be too late. Maybe not. Maybe. He could hold on to maybe.
For now, Arnold puts his life in the hands of whoever finds him. He puts his life in fates hands and hopes she has mercy on him, more than anyone at fazbear or that factory did.
With one finally Lift, Pull, and Fall. He closes his eyes, and sleeps.