GRAPHIC/DISTURBING CONTENT WARNING: This story depicts the gruesome details of the deaths that befell each of the children whose souls later possessed the animatronics seen in the Five Nights at Freddy's saga from the perspective of their murderer.
It's a cold, gray day. The scent of rain burns your nostrils. There's a gooey, lukewarm cake smell there as well, wafting out in plumes of warmth that leak from the windows. The diner is catering a birthday party. Again.
It bugs you. It really does. All those children laughing and playing and smothering frosting all over themselves... it annoys the hell out of you. But in a sick, twisted way, you think it turns you on. You can't deny it. Vulnerable and young, they're flaunting themselves in that stupid diner, just waiting for someone to go in there and flat-out kill them all. Rape them a little. The works.
Not you, though. That's not you, you're sure of it. Besides, you've tried it before. Planned it out in your head, the evil part of your brain that wanted to know if it would work. Of course, it wouldn't. Too many people. Parents. Employees. It's too much hassle, anyhow. And for what? A sniveling snot who would cry and scream the whole time you did it.
It's not worth it, you think as you drive calmly by Fredbear's Diner. The pallor, violet color of your new car glistens with moon-white raindrops and silver light. The engine growls in your eardrums and echoes through your soul. Besides, you have your whole life ahead of you. You don't want to waste it murdering kids. That's not your style.
You're very sure of this fact even as you spot the bawling child standing outside the building's window. Alone. Afraid. Soaked to the bone in rainwater.
You slow down and let the car snarl on the curb for a while, then you decide to get out. Part of you says you're going to help this kid, and part of you isn't sure what the hell you're doing.
"Uh, hey," you say in that definitely-not-a-rapist voice that you know is never going to change. "You, um, you alright?"
The boy turns and looks up at you. He sniffles. You briefly wonder if he's noticed your stutter; that constant um and uh sound you make when you talk. You've had it as long as you can recall.
"I can't find my momma," he says finally, wailing quietly. You catch yourself staring at his wet, tear-streaked shirt. You shake your head at the thoughts that barrel through your mind.
"You can't?" you ask, even though you both know what he said. "Oh, boy."
You're both quiet for what feels like a long time.
"How about you come with me?" you finally tell him, taking him by the hand. You feel his tiny fingers recoil at your alien touch, but they relax when you squeeze him gently. Like a father would. "I can help you find your momma."
His little face lights up. He's so freaking happy you came along to save him. He thinks you're like Superman.
"What's your name?" you ask mindlessly as you lead him away from the windows. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see that stupid-looking guy inside, wearing the Fredbear costume that should scare the shit out of kids but instead makes them laugh and love.
"Jacob," he chirps, his tears dissipating as you unwittingly pull him into the growing darkness of the nearby alleyway. There are still twin streams of powder-purple tears on his face, one under each of his pretty eyes.
"Jacob," you repeat as you yank him ever-nearer to his death. Your heart begins to pound against your ribcage so hard you think it'll break the bones. The white of your tense knuckles almost glows in the dank, black air. You can now smell discarded pizza from the dumpster near you. "That's a beautiful name. Very, um, very cute."
You can hear the fear in your voice, but Jacob doesn't sense it. He's too clueless to know that your getting aroused simply being this close to him. That's until you make that final, damning move that sets you on the path to hell, paved with candy and sweetstuffs all the way down.
You clamp your hand over his mouth. You realize how strong you are. You force him to the dirty concrete. You realize how hot it's gotten outside, despite the icy sweat and rain on your forehead. You undo the buckle of your belt. You realize how fucking wrong this is.
But then you realize...
The muffled screams can't escape your grasp.
... and so you decide...
That maybe it is worth the trouble, after all.