"Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven."
Gripping the rosary around his neck, Mike whispers words of confidence under his breath. His quiet murmurs don't interfere with the still silence of the church. There's not a single church-goer or another priest in the small building, leaving the air musky and oddly silent. The others have left long ago; Mike is the only one here.
The chilly air cools the sweat on his face as he treads up the carpeted flooring. His priest garments swish as he walks, his blue eyes locked onto the ground. At this time, knowing what he's going to do, shame and worry collides in his insides.
Up ahead is the altar and the tabernacle, golden and shiny from the light above. Glass windows color the carpet different hues, creating a captivating sight. Everything in the church is captivating, a distraction, which is one reason why Mike chose this life of dedication.
This is the day I do it, he assures himself, picking up a bible from the pocket of a kneeler beside him. They all face the front, facing the raised form of a hand-made wooden Jesus statue.
This is the day where I confess everything.
With the bible clutched in his hands, he bows to the altar, then kneels. His priestly garment splays across the flooring as he kneels, his eyes closed in concentrated prayer.
Please, forgive me for what I'm about to say, almighty Father.
Taking a deep breath, Mike allows the barriers to fall. Everything floods back to him, and his chest immediately tightens. The heat, their screams, everything. He shouldn't remember all too well because of what he took and what they gave him afterwards, but it's as clear as a picture.
If only the other priests knew about this, they would've never accepted him as one of them.
No! I have to do this! Placing the bible onto the ground, Mike glances up at the statue of Jesus. Somehow, the sight relaxes him, and he allows the events to roll off of his tongue, knowing that the almighty Father is listening.
Riding through the night, Mike felt serenity. Bringing the stick to his lips, he inhaled the smoke. His head was fuzzy and the music playing from his stereo sounded like heaven. Every individual sound he could piece out, from the violins to the light guitar pieces. His hand grasped the steering wheel, his mind aware of everything and working at the pace of a rocket shooting through the sky. His instincts were sharp, his eyesight distorted, and his mind convincing him that this was rational.
Down the road, through the murky downtown, and up a lengthy driveway he drove. No lights were visible from the pizzeria or Mike's car. There was no one around to witness this, due to it being so late in the night.
Pulling up to the building, he braked sharply and almost cried out when he flew against his seat belt. Before leaving his truck, he took another hit and sighed, watching the smoke rise up and out the open window, slinking upwards towards the stars. Time flew out the window when he leaned back into his chair, mind clouded by nothing important.
What am I doing? Finally climbing out of his truck, he watched the smoke disappear into the night sky.
In the back of his truck, he shuffled through piles of tools and pulled out a large bottle of gas. His arms didn't feel any strain whatsoever as he carried it through the desolate parking lot and to the building in front of him.
Even in the night, it looked shiny and promised a great time for children and adults alike. Inside, there were games, food lined up in a buffet, and large TV's for parents to watch while their kids run around and do whatever. It was an illusion of what really went on through those backstage doors.
Through working there, Mike soon found out about the night guards and how the manager covered up everything. He eventually told people about the murders, honestly freaked out and enraged at the Fazbear business, but they called him a lying freak and distanced themselves away from him.
What's worse is that he couldn't do anything about the murders. Legally, he needed proof, which he didn't have. Once, he had set out a camera and played it through the night in hopes of getting proof. It was crammed in between two books on a high shelf in the parts and repair room. In the morning, it was smashed by something heavy, by the looks of a large foot.
After the camera incident, in the daytime he would lash out at the animatronics, kicking and denting their pathetic suits, but that was all he could do. It wouldn't stop them from killing again and again and again. The number of slaughtered night guards would rise, sometimes two in a night. That's when he turned to the smoke, until his life revolved around inhaling and exhaling the stuff. Everything feels better on cloud nine, and he can forget.
Popping the lid, Mike tipped the bottle, watching the thick liquid pour out. There wasn't a lot of it, so he had to use it sparingly. Quickly, he surrounded the building, leaving a skinny trail of the substance. The air stank of it, and it burned the insides of his nose.
There needed to be certainty that the place would combust and that there would be no chance of escaping, so Mike headed back to the front of the building. The container of gas clutched under his arm, he climbed the safety latter built into the side of the establishment and stepped onto the roof. Up above, he poured the rest of the gasoline out, the stars reflected in the liquid. His shoes squeaked when he stepped through the gas and headed back down the ladder. Taking off his shoes, he chucked them at the building and stepped away from the establishment, enough to avoid being burned but to throw a match. The oil smell was overwhelming and Mike lifted his nose towards the sky. Above, the moon shone brightly and the sight captivated him.
He's not the only one that inhaled the sharp scent. "What's that smell?" From the slightly open window, Chica leaned on her tiptoes and stared outside. She spotted Mike as he examined the night sky, his face illuminated and dreamy. The way he looked, she wouldn't be surprised if he fell onto the ground and curled up for a nice, long nap.
Glancing at the empty bottle beside the man's feet, she called out to the others, "Could you guys come here? Mike's outside. I don't know what he's doing."
Bonnie appeared first. Glancing out the window, his nose crinkled. "Why does he have gas? Either way, he must've spilled it somehow."
"What's the day guard doing here?" Foxy asked, striding up to the window. His arm shone with blood; they had just captured the night guard. "If he comes inside, are we going to kill him?"
"Mike's out there?" Approaching the group, the others stepped aside to let Freddy through. The bear scrutinized the still man, his eyes narrowed. His eyesight was better than any of theirs, accustomed and trained to see through the dark. "He's not Mike."
"That's Mike," Chica argued, squishing her chubby finger against the window to point. "I know it is!"
"I don't mean it like that. That's Mike physically, but mentally, he's not there."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Foxy demanded, watching Mike take something out of his pocket. His eyes squinted when he asked, "And why are his eyes red?"
Mike could hear everything they were saying. Their words disgusted him, and his lip curled. Taking the pack, he flicked a match. Flame burst from the stick and Mike found the fire fascinating. Like always, he found certain things interesting when he's not fully here. This time, it was the lick of the fire.
The short-lived trance was burst when something grabbed onto his arms, their paws digging into his skin. Mike snarled when he saw Freddy's face and when the bear put out the flame with his massive paw.
"You're high," Freddy stated, grabbing onto the man's shoulders sternly, having the urge to shake him. "You're not thinking right. Go home. If you don't, we'll have to kill you."
"You'd kill me, even if I left. You kill everyone! Now, I'm going to kill you!" His hand reached for the pack, but Freddy grabbed the pack and smashed it in his hand. "Go home." Backing away from the man, Freddy shook his head.
A small smile crossed Mike's lips as he slipped out a cigarette lighter from his other pocket. Since his vision was perked, he clearly saw Freddy's horrified face. He could make out every hair on his face, every flaw and imperfection.
The flame connected, the place alighted. Mike felt the burst against his body and it stung his skin. Inside, he could hear their cries. Just like the other night guards cried out when they were killed, they were reacting the same way, too.
Sometimes, in order to get revenge and win, you needed to break the rules.
He watched Freddy run for the building, his frame becoming smaller and smaller and disappear entirely as he tore into the establishment.
Time fast forwarded as the place burned and the sirens rang. Like a statue, Mike couldn't move his gaze from the building. Through the window, he saw Foxy running around with flames demolishing his suit. Their screams were like music; he could hear every individual pitch and tone.
Their music suddenly ended and a strangled wail cut through the air, mixing with the upcoming sirens. Blood rushed from Mike's face when Freddy glanced out the window, his eyes tortured and furious.
They're dead- Mike knew it. Before he could do anything, Freddy's face disappeared.
When the fire trucks came, the building was unrecognizable. Flames reached for the sky, the walls caving in. The firefighters rushed around the building, their uniforms disheveled. Putting out the flame, they spotted three burned suits, the charred remains of a mutilated man with the word 'night guard' on his suit, and a man standing outside the pizzeria, his mind in the clouds. From the shadows of a tree, if looking hard enough, furious eyes glowed through the darkness. They're trained on the man looking up at the sky, who wasn't aware of anything else except for the light-aired feeling inside of himself.
"Mike?"
Jeremy enters the church, his stomach full. Dinner had been served an hour ago, and he was starting to worry about the empty seat beside his. They both sat near to each other at meals, being close in age and compatible personality-wise.
Hearing his quiet sobs, Jeremy rushes up to the altar, watching as the tears drip from his friend's face. The rosary glints around his neck as he kneels down beside him and touches his shoulder. "What's on your mind?"
Shaking his head, Mike sniffles and refuses to meet his gaze.
"I'm going to wait until you tell me, because I know something is on your mind."
The two sit at the altar for some time. In this time, Jeremy examines his friend's facial expression. He's examining the twisted side of Mike's face. One side is perfect, the other is marred by two deep scratches, already healed but ghastly to look at. Jeremy doesn't know the story of how it happened, and he has a feeling that this is what's making Mike feel so emotional.
"It was everything involved in this," Mike points to the scratches on his face. "He's already dead, but he still haunts me to this day. I didn't do the best things, either, but I thought I was doing what was right."
Giving a small smile, Jeremy touches the rosary around Mike's neck. "Mike, I want you to tell me who gave this to you."
Confused, Mike answers quietly, "The Bishop."
"Right. I remember how excited you were when you received it from him. When you got it, he told you something that he tells everyone else before they become a priest. What was it?"
Wiping his eyes, Mike thinks. "Accept anyone, forgive, and follow our Lord."
"Precisely. Forgive. You need to forgive yourself. If you knew it was right in your heart, then you need to let go of the battle going on inside your head. That's what your current dilemma is all about." Grabbing the bible out in front of Mike, Jeremy admits, "And the whole history behind your scars, I'm sure you did what was right. Whatever that may be, you're a good person at heart. If you were truly evil, you wouldn't have stayed here for the five years you've been serving."
"That's… true," Mike says quietly.
"See? You're finally understanding." Standing and holding out his hand, Jeremy says, "Now come on, let's get you something to eat. You need food after all of that."
With a small smile, Mike allows Jeremy to pull him up. Forgive myself. That's what I need to do. Jeremy's right- I have been beating myself up over it for the past several years. I need to let go. Will I be free? I'm not sure. But I'll think about that later.
Leaving the church, they head back to their comfortable homes, where family and food is patiently waiting for them.
A/N: Readers: Wow, Alicia, you've actually created a story with a happy ending?
Me: Yep! I think it's about time Mike gets happiness.
(Hope you all enjoyed this one. I was unsure whether to post it or not, but in the end decided to.)