Chapter Text
He still remembers that day like it was yesterday.
“I think the little man said he wants to give Fredbear a biiiiig kiss!”
It wasn’t a good idea, he knew that at the time, but he had gotten so caught up in the ‘prank’.
“On three! One, two…”
There had been a loud, sickening crunch. It fell silent, albeit only for one moment. The warm, iron-scented liquid had splattered all over him. Those clothes were stained red to this day, a thought that raked his stomach like claws.
After that, it was a blur. There was screaming, he knew that, but it all blended together into a whirl of motion and noise. That crunch still lingered in his ears. He could still feel the sticky crimson clinging to his fingers, under his fingernails, on his face.
The sight of pastel confetti glued unwillingly to the blood coating Fredbear's jaw refused to leave him, with the bright purple banner cresting just above the beast from the ceiling like a semicircle halo. 'Happy 7th Birthday, David!' it read, like a verdict to Michael's eyes. Seventh and last, no more to ever come again.
"Murderer."
"It's all your fault."
* * *
Monday, August 6th, 1990, 11:00 pm
Michael rolled over in bed with a groan. His alarm was shrilly beeping, the sound an offense to his ears. Squinting his eyes shut against the blindingly bright street lights outside, he blearily felt for the off button.
Those nightmares were getting worse.
Reluctantly, he heaved himself out of his invitingly warm bed, shivering as a shock of cold air hit his skin. Father should have paid the heating bill before he left, he bitterly noted, but shoved the resentment from his brain. His father's words at a previous complaint of his floated briefly through his mind.
"A bit of cold air never hurt anyone, Michael. Toughen up. Be a man!"
"Yeah, Michael." he mutters to himself with a stiff yawn, reaching for his work clothes. He tugged on a purple button-down and grabbed his shiny new badge off his old, stained, wooden desk. You’re doing it for her. Remember that.
For her, and for the others.
Wandering downstairs, he paused by the kitchen. Breakfast wouldn’t hurt. Or— dinner? It was night, after all. Did it matter?
He rolled his eyes and shook off the question, heaving open the refrigerator. He perused his options. It was about as empty as his stomach felt, save for a couple packages of hamburger beef past their prime and a dubious-looking jug of milk. With a heavy sigh, Michael reluctantly made a mental note to go out for groceries later, slipping the keychain his father left from the dingy kitchen counter into his blue jeans pocket.
A dark figure slipped around the corner of his eye, and he paused, inspecting the room with narrowed eyes.
It was late at night, and there was a full moon. It had risen high above the other identical suburban houses with white painted siding, dousing the neighborhood in a sleepy dim light and filtering through the sheer blue kitchen curtains. Nobody was here. It was nobody.
Reassured, Michael made for the driveway, before– Ah. Right.
The driveway was empty.
* * *
His father had set down his mug– tea, as always, every morning– with a decisive thud by the stained sink, adding to the collection of dirty dishes already in the sink.
“I will be taking the car for a few days, I have some business to attend to— Michael, you wouldn’t mind watching the house, would you?”
Michael glanced over, meeting his father’s own intense blue-grey eyes from his seat at the kitchen table. “Err.. yes, sure, but… Business? What sort?”
His father hadn’t replied at first, only tugging on a pair of shoes and shoving his car keys into his pocket. Eventually, he huffed with an air of annoyance.
“It is of no consequence to you. I said I will be back.”
“Yes, but, the new job–?”
“You can walk. It’s not that far.”
The creaking front door had shut with an air of finality.
* * *
“‘It’s not that far’,” Michael repeated mockingly to himself, muttering. His feet were starting to hurt as he trudged along the sidewalk. He shot a glare ahead at the road. “Sure, it’s not. You’re not the one who has to walk several miles.”
At least he was almost there. The facility laid a little way down the road– it was a large-ish building, made of red brick with a flat roof, and white and black checkered trim along the top. A colorful plastic sign with a gaudy red to green gradient as its background sported a cartoonishly stylized clown girl thing– Circus Baby, Michael recalled– holding out a hand as if to welcome in its nonexistent customers. Cherry red letters with white outlines lay below the sign, reading ‘Welcome to Circus Baby’s Pizza and Rental!’.
He approached the entrance, trying a couple of keys until one of them clicked. Easing open the solid metal door, his footsteps echoed in the cavernous lobby. Was this place still even in business?
He sucked in a breath and approached the elevator.
“Here goes nothing, I guess.”
* * *
“You can put her back together, Michael. We can have our family back.”