So I just realized I have uploaded two more chapters on deviantArt and completely forgot about this. So there you go. Sorry for the long delay.


Chapter 6

Vincent picked up the lifeless body. It hardly weighed more than forty pounds. Now what?

He had to cross the kitchen to reach the Show Room. There was not enough time to get blood out of the curtain and the remains of Pete hadn't splashed that far.

He would have to hurry. The sky was already lighting up.

"Screw you stupid thing," he snarled at the Puppet. The music box had long since stopped playing its melancholic tune, but there was no movement from the animatronics or that blasted Marionette. They better stayed away. Anyone trying to touch him would regret it.

Ethan was a lot smaller than the Puppet and easily fit into the box. Then he unhooked the blasted bag of sand and canvas from its strings and loaded it on the cart as well before rolling it into the Safe Room. He would have to keep everyone away until he could clean up this mess. The Safe Room was on no map, it should be just forgotten in the chaos. For now, he just needed to erase the bloody marks on the cart and swipe up the trail he had left. He should have thought about it earlier. The time frame was already so small.

Vincent returned to the backstage on the path he had obviously taken and took off the bloody clothes there. Barefooted, almost naked, he filled a basket with water and wiped away the drips and splashes his feet and clothes had left. The water turned a deep, beautiful shape of red roses. Unfortunately, he had no time to admire it. After rinsing out the basket and drying it off carefully, he put on his clothes again. They stuck to his skin, cold and heavy, tainting his hands crimson again.

Vincent looked down at the now brownish spring suit. He knelt down and shook it a few times, as if trying to wake him.

"Unfortunate for you, kiddo," he said with a grin. For a few moments, he went over his plan again. It was easy, it was foolproof.

Vincent jumped to his feet and sprinted to the office, ignoring the animatronics he passed by. He dialed 911. The shaking of his hands was so authentic he needed three attempts to punch in the number.

"This is 911, what is you emergency?" It was a woman's voice, calm and professional.

"H-Hello, this is... I'm at Freddy Fazbear's, there been an accident, please, come quick, oh God, there's so much blood." His voice turned to a distorted whimper and broke.

"Please stay calm, Sir, the police is on the way. What kind of accident?"

Vincent ran a bloody hand through his hair. "The- The spring suits. Somebody climbed into a mascot costume and the locks broke, oh God it's horrible, I think he's dead, he doesn't move, there's blood everywhere."

"Sir, what is your name?"

"V-Vincent. Vincent de Briss."

"Where are you now? Are you with the victim?"

"N-No. I'm in the office. I'm a night guard here, you know?" He breathed out a helpless laugh. "I'm supposed to watch this place, but there's no camera on the backstage and kitchen... I didn't... I couldn't help him."

"The paramedics and police are on the way. I have to ask you to unlock the doors for them."

"O-Of course." Vincent staggered to his feet and ignored the woman on the phone. The speaker fell into its cradle with a clack not unlike the breaking spring locks.

He made his way to the front doors, step by step, and reached them in time to scare the hell out of a young deputy that happened to be going first. Vincent unlocked the doors and the pizzeria filled with uniforms and paramedics faster than one could say 'Pizza'. He directed them to the Stage and the body, but his eyes never focused on any face. He got a blanket that was way too warm for this weather and a glass water and a towel to wipe his hands. Eventually, after about three people running out with their faces tinted green, an elderly man with military-style blond hair sat down opposite of him. They had led Vincent into one of the Party Rooms, away from most of the blood, and given him spare clothes that were too big.

"Detective Donovan," the man introduced himself before opening his notepad. "I'm really sorry, but I'll have to ask you some questions."

Vincent didn't look up from the black and white checkered floor, but nodded.

"Can you describe the events? When did you notice there was someone on the backstage?"

Vincent rubbed his temples. There was a long pause. "When he started screaming."

The detective hesitated before continuing. "Please... describe the events."

"I was in the office. There's a camera system, but none for the kitchen, that's the back door, and... and the backstage." He had to clear his throat. Donovan leaned forward to make out anything. Vincent's voice was barely a whisper. "And... then I heard someone scream. I went to investigate and... he was there, w-writhing like a fish and I heard these horrible sounds... I can hear them now. Forever."

"How could an intruder enter?"

"A set of spare keys was stolen yesterday," Vincent stated. "The boss asked us about it."

"Do you know the victim?"

"No."

Donovan made a significant pause before he asked the next question. "How did you know it was a male then? There's not much to see in the suit."

"He screamed. He heard my steps and pleaded me to take it off, to save him." Vincent buried his face in his hands. "I couldn't do anything. What was I supposed to do? Oh God..."

Donovan sat back. He usually didn't get so close, but the desperation of this young man was heartbreaking. The newbies usually threw up – but they had volunteered for the job. This boy hadn't. Donovan put a hand on his shoulder. The tremors ran all the way through his arm up to his own. Vincent flinched away, startled, then slumped again.

"What did you do afterwards?", Donovan asked quietly.

Another long pause. "I'm... not sure. I tried to get him out of there... I really tried. I'm an engineer, you know? I... I should know how these things work. But I couldn't. And then it was so cold and... I ran to the office and called 911."

"You did nothing else in between?"

Vincent only shrugged his shoulders. Donovan flipped his notepad close and stood up. "Thank you, Sir. We might have to contact you at some point in the future, but that's it for now. Maybe you should go and get some rest."

Another cop, the young deputy that had seen the blood-smeared Vincent first, came in and whispered something to Detective Donovan. He nodded and the deputy vanished again.

"I'm sorry, but I have another question. The victim has been identified as one Peter Fairchild. Does that name mean anything to you?"

Vincent raised his head and the detective didn't wince at his empty eyes only because he had seen it too often already. Maybe his wife had always been right. This was no job you could do for long and continue to sleep soundly.

"N-No. Unless... Oh no..." A shudder ran through his scrawny body and the strange violet eyes widened in unspeakable horror.

"What?"

"We-we have a part-timer, a high schooler. Everybody just calls him Pete, I don't know his full name... Please tell me it's not him. Why should he... he knows how dangerous the spring suits are..." The boy buried his face in his hands again.

"So the company knew this might happen if anyone used these... spring suits you called them?"

"That's why they were taken out of service. Nobody was allowed to use them." Donovan couldn't suppress a wince at the other voice. He turned to the door to see a short, chubby young man with close-cropped brown hair and the attempt at a beard. His face was almost as pale as the night guard's but his expression that of resolve and determination. Otherwise, he looked just scared.

"And you are?", Donovan asked, suppressing a sigh. Nobody was allowed at the crime scene, he had told the deputies a million times. And now this kid interrupted the questioning, too.

The young man didn't stop but walked up to the detective. "Scott Goldwyn, I'm the security manager." Donovan raised an eyebrow. That kid didn't look older than his own son who just finished high school. Scott ignored him and knelt down in front of Vincent.

"They already told me what happened." He shot a glance at Donovan. "I've been asking the management for security cams on the back door for years. It's not your fault."

Vincent blinked at him, his eyes focusing on a person for the first time. "Is it Pete? It's him, isn't it? I thought I knew the voice." Scott laid an arm around his shoulders and Vincent just slumped into the embrace. He was really tired all of a sudden. It had been a long night.

"I'm afraid so," Scott murmured. "Detective, was that all? I can answer your questions, but I think Vincent should go home and get some distraction."

Donovan nodded. "Of course. Mr. De Briss, we might contact you later on. Please stay in the city for now."

"Sure." Vincent staggered to his feet, refusing to lean on his friend. Scott didn't look so good. The soft-hearted fool was holding up pretty well. But he had probably not seen the mess on the backstage. The purple man covered his smile with a suppressed sob. Scott led him out, past deputies spying on them with interest and the first spectators from the direct neighborhood.

"Can you drive or should I bring you home?", Scott asked.

Vincent wiped his face. "My car is behind the building. I'll go home and... take a shower." He had wanted to say make breakfast, but that would have been unrealistic. He was tired from the adrenaline rush, but that was about it. Just wash off all traces and get some rest. And dream sweat dreams of blood and dying lights.

Scott nodded. Now that they were away from the suspicious eyes of the police, Scott's courage and professionalism faltered like a card house. He sat on the shade-cooled trunk of Vincent's car and stared at the ground for almost a minute.

His voice was that of a beaten child. "How the hell could Pete get such an idiotic idea? He saw what happened to Danny. How do I explain that to anyone?"

You'll think of something. You always do. Now get off my car.

Vincent patted his shoulder, but didn't say anything. Scott leaned against him and Vincent forced himself to return the comforting gesture from before. Scott had his eyes closed and didn't see the disgusted snarl crossing his face for a second. What a romantic, unworldly, delusional fool. Looked like he had even forgotten his punishment only two days ago. He was so easily hurt and forgave too fast. That was no good. Lessons like that shouldn't be ignored.

"Thanks," Scott murmured after a while and straightened up, wiping his eyes. "It should be the other way around, right? I mean, you..." He paused and a helpless laugh escaped him. "God, this is insane."

"Can you manage?"

Scott slid off the trunk. "I guess I have to until Adrian arrives. At least the mystery of the disappearing keys is solved now and Jenna out of this." Vincent's hands automatically brushed his waist, but his special belt was gone. Of course, the cops had taken it. He'd better get that back with everything attached.

Scott gave him a smile that could not have looked real with even the best of imagination.

"See ya, then." There was a question mark in his voice.

Vincent simply nodded and got into his car. He backed out of the lot and turned towards their apartment. Scott was a tiny, forlorn figure on the empty parking lot, framed by a beautiful summer sunrise.

When he was out of sight, Vincent turned a corner in the opposite direction and drove to Gryffon Park. He parked the car at the edges and wandered into the trees. The park was more or less on the exact opposite side of the city from his apartment and a good deal away from Freddy's. The parking lot was one of the many places everybody illegally dumped their trash.

The park was deserted at this time of day. It was usually left to the joggers and dog owners anyway, and he had arrived in that small period of time between the early morning people and those who came last minute before the insane heat of noon.

Vincent reached the small lake and laid down in the grass. The sky was getting brighter by the minute and had turned into a clear blue streaked with yellow. The grass was still cool, a soft breeze tickling his skin.

A quote from his high school literature class popped up out of nowhere.

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind. The thief doth fear each bush an officer.

Vincent began to laugh. First it was only a grin developing into a giggle, but then a genuine cramp of laughter surged through him. He lay there for several minutes, shaking with laughter, until his belly ached from it and he forced himself to stop. He tried to, at least, groaning with pain, out of breath and happier than the last months had been. Grass tickled his skin, the smell of summer and drying vegetation and success.

The kid's panic. His stupid questions. Even the sounds of Pete slowly being turned into mincemeat. Breaking bones and tearing flesh. Screams.

It was hilarious. He could go over this again and again.

Eventually, his laughter died away to a giggle that would have made a passer-by's blood freeze.

He straightened up with a happy sigh, wiping tears of laughter out of his face. He had managed this quite well, he thought. The stupid detective thought him to be a vulnerable kid. His story was simple, and in all the confusion he could not be expected to remember puny trivialities. Of course, they would come back later, for more details, but not for an interrogation. He had been the only one at the scene, that was all.

Vincent stood up and stretched, feeling a slight pain in his stomach from already sore muscles. The grin didn't want to get off his face. He had to be careful around others. He almost hadn't managed concealing his smile from Scott after that idiot detective had left. Fools, everyone.

He had been gone for too long. Year after year he had not known who he was - but now he was back and felt more alive than ever. Like this, he could easily stand up to his ass of a brother. There were a few things still unresolved.

He snorted, amused that he wanted to avenge people he didn't care for, after so many years. Angie. Scott. Maybe it was a matter of self-respect. And, one should never forget, it would be fun.

Vincent frowned at the grass stains on his trousers and shirt. He would have to get those out soon. Damn it. Though he supposed he would not have to make it to his shift next evening anyway.

Vincent got back to his car and drove home. He didn't see anyone following him. That would have been premature anyway. He wasn't a suspect. There was no one out in the apartment complex either, but just for good measure, he upheld the air of disconnection and shock. That old bitch saw everything.

Vincent dropped his clothes on a pile, with the bandages and everything else. The bruises were better now, but not gone completely. Maybe he could ask Mrs. Barnes for more of this miracle cure.

The police would be confused – and suspicious – when they found out Scott and he were sharing their living space. Scott had only meant well, but his care might have been too obvious. Of course they were more than colleagues. They had been friends for most of their lives.

Before he entered the bathroom, he suddenly craved a glass of water. Of course, in the bathroom was enough of that, but he wanted fizzy water, for whatever reason. He went back into the kitchen, glad that the blinds were drawn.

Scott had left a note on the kitchen table, probably written long before he heard of the events.

Look what I found – I'm pretty sure that's yours.

Next to the piece of paper lay a pocket knife. Not one of the modern ones, with lots of functions which mostly didn't work anyway. The blade was three inches long and could be folded shut with the wooden handle. Vincent DB was scratched into the darkened, slick surface. It was the knife they had gotten at the boy scout's, so many years back. Vincent had participated only because Victor would otherwise get all the cheer and approval (which he did anyway), because Scott's parents forced their son to stay, and because it was a great excuse for staying away long periods of time.

Vincent opened the knife and wondered where it had come from. He had carried it around for years, until college, and somehow forgotten all about it when they moved south, away from their past.

Well, now that he had it again, it would probably be a great tool. Vincent put it back and was about to go into the bathroom when he heard a thud from Scott's room.

Curious, he peeked in. Usually, he left Scott's room alone and Scott his, but one glance wouldn't hurt. He spotted the dark red lump on the ground next to the bed immediately. Smiling to himself, he picked up the worn-off plushy and examined it. Foxy had bleached out over the years, some tears had been sewn – the company had never sold quality products – and one of the teeth was missing, leaving only a golden bucktooth.

Vincent sat the plushy back on its spot on the bed. Scott tried to keep it a secret, but Vincent had always known how much he loved this relic. He had bought it when they had been on that stupid road trip with their families. The purchase had been made when Vincent and Scott had been at Freddy's alone. After their return home, Foxy had stayed with Angie, just to make sure Mary and Victor didn't get wind of its existence. They would have destroyed it just for the sake of seeing Scott devastated.

Foxy had always been his favorite and when they finally moved away, he took it with him, stuffing it deep down in the boxes so nobody saw it. It had been some strange twist of fate that they had been at Angie's to recover a few things when they found her. In all the chaos, nobody noticed Scott bringing that silly thing to their car.

No matter how much he tried to explain it away as just a sentimental thing, Vincent knew the truth. It was an open ear - when Scott was sad and couldn't get himself to talk to anyone, not even Vincent, he just told the plushy all of his worries, like he had previously told Angelica, the sister he would have liked to have. It had been with her for years, maybe he saw some of her in it.

The counseling Foxy provided was his secret, and Vincent let him believe it. Where was the point in shattering that blissful illusion?

"It's been a crazy day, Foxy," he sighed and patted the loosening ears. "But I guess Scott will tell you about that later. No need to bore you with hearing the same story twice."

The shower was a relief. For a while, Vincent just leaned against the wall, letting the lukewarm water run over him. It ran into the drain tainted pink and now the trembling set in again.

"Pete you damn idiot...", he muttered. His hair was clotted with dried blood and it took an eternity to get all of it out. His motions were automatic and without conscious thought. Pete was dead because he had failed. It had been the boy's own fault, by some degree, but in the end, he had failed either way.

Pete had been just a kid. Just a shy, quiet boy he had rejected the night before. He shouldn't have mocked him, unintentional as it had been. And now his blood would be on his hands forever, just like...

like Alex'. And Ethan's.

Vincent stopped moving altogether and blinked. Shampoo stung in his eyes, but he barely noticed. What?

There we are. Do you remember their struggle? It was beautiful, wasn't it?

"No," he murmured. "You're not real. You're just a spooky story Victor invented to scare us."

Oh, I'm as real as you. In fact, I am you. We are one.

"I'm not a monster," Vincent hissed between clenched teeth. "I'm not-"

Ethan whimpered as the knife opened a lovely little line on his forehead. The blood was just a drop compared to their surroundings, of course, but it stood out like a beacon. Cut after cut, he decorated the smeared, sticky skin. The screams were delightful. This little coward was more of a fighter than strong, sweet Alex had been.

"No, that's not... Ethan wasn't there. How the hell would a little boy manage to sneak out in the middle of the night? Pete doesn't even have a car." Vincent didn't notice falling to his knees. The pain would set in later. He heard that horrible laughter, a mixture of his own and his brother's, and tried to block it out by covering his ears. The water pounded down on his head, careless, untouched by pain and fear. "That's not real. Something is screwing with my head."

It was a bright summer day. The air was stuffy, roasting the people like chickens, and the sun beat down on them as if it was its last day. In other words, it was Vincent's worst nightmare.

He trudged along the sidewalk, trying to keep his head down so his sweat-soaked hair blocked out some of the sun, and seeing where he was going. The bright light made everything shine three times more than it should and he could only make out vague shapes in the white where objects blocked his path. Driving had been next to impossible, but he couldn't have reached the inner city by foot. Not when his back sent a wave of pain through his body with every move.

He would have to return the car with the tank filled, but it was better than staying. Hopefully, Scott had done the sensible thing and decided to take a walk as well.

They would continue on the last part of their 'vacation' this evening, when his father was conscious enough to drive again. When they were home, at least Vincent knew where he could stay. Hide, in Victor's words. Whatever you called it, it was better than staying. He couldn't wait for college to start. He hadn't found a place yet, especially none with a scholarship, but that was only a matter of time.

What a godforsaken town.

A wave of pizza smell washed over him. Vincent stopped in the shade of an awning, giving him the tiniest bit of relief. His eyes adjusted and he could read the writing on the door.

Fredbear's Family Diner

He contemplated if he should go inside. He was hungry. But the ten dollars in his pocket were the only money he had left. Everything else, his father had taken before showing him what not supporting the family brought him. And he still needed to fill the car. No pizza for him.

Vincent stayed where he was a while longer. The shadow was treacherous, but he didn't feel like walking anymore and it was still better than the sun.

Angie had invited them to go swimming when they came back. Looked like he could forget about that for the next week. Like hell he would let her see the black and red stripes on his back. And Victor... Victor had just grinned. Why not? He was the perfect son, that could do everything and got everything. He was normal. He had their black hair and tanned skin. He played football since middle school and was popular. And he never questioned a word father said.

Vincent leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. Clenching his fists hurt and that made him stay on the ground. If Victor was here, he could have strangled him with bare hands. This goddamn triumphant grin. His spite. Or, even better, push him into the lake. However grand Victor might want to appear, swimming was one of the things he wasn't capable of. And should he ever be in trouble, Vincent wouldn't be the one to pull him out. He had a cable in the trunk. He knew how a garrote worked. Victor was always allowed to stay out late. Nobody would miss him.

The door slammed open, right into his shoulder and tender ribs. Vincent gasped, too shocked to cry out, despite the burning pain in his side and back. A tiny figure rushed out of the restaurant, but stopped a few steps away when she heard him curse.

It was a little boy with a mass of dark curls standing in all directions. He stared at Vincent, startled. On second glance, it might as well be an androgynous girl. There was a pink ribbon placed on his – her - hair like a statement. The bushy eyebrows were drawn together in a dark zigzag line. Tears shone on her face, freed from her eyes by the shock.

The kid looked like Victor.

"What?", she asked, in that same provocative voice. Vincent felt his nails dig into his palms. The kid stared at him. "I'm sorry," she said and turned her back on him, walking away. It happened to be the direction of his car, so he followed within the space of a few meters. The light made him next to blind, but the sidewalk was empty and there was nothing he might hit on accident. The child turned into a dark alley. "Idiots, everyone," she mumbled. And it was Victor's voice, the same spite and contempt for his brother, and his brother's friends. He would pay.

Vincent turned into the alley as well, his steps light and full of vigor, despite the ache in his body. A smile had spread on his face. In the shadows, he could see better and the searing rays of the sun didn't reach them anymore.

The child turned around when she heard him come closer, and the next moment, he could wrap his hand around her slender neck and smashed her against the wall. What should have been a cry for help turned into a strangled gurgle and eventually into a dazed whimper. Her tiny arms flailed helplessly and he grabbed her wrist, locking it between her back and the brick wall. He pressed her to the wall with his body, his breath speeding up from the effort. She was strong for such a small, fragile child.

The girl's face was beginning to turn blue, contorted in fear and pain. Her dark eyes stared at him with one obvious question in them: Why are you doing this? He laughed, although quietly. He couldn't risk alerting anyone. He wouldn't talk to her, but he answered anyway.

Why? Why?! Because it was fun, of course.

He grabbed her other arm. It was slapping at him uselessly, sending small shock waves through his ribs. The girl opened her mouth in a breathless, agonized scream as he squeezed. Tears were running over her face. Her question had turned into a wordless plea that broke off as her humerus shattered in his grip. The arm dropped, suddenly a dead weight.

He traced along his belt to the small leather sheath. A present from Angie. Silly girl, trying to be rebellious but too goodhearted to succeed in anything. Vincent drew his knife and flipped the blade out. He had sharpened it just two days ago for the purpose of – he chuckled – woodcarving.

Alex' eyes widened even more and her resistance multiplied, despite her already blue lips and broken arm. He had trouble holding her in place. It happened like it had to: his hand slipped. Alex gasped, air flowing back into her lungs. She kicked him, her foot missing what she was aiming for and hitting his thigh instead. He hissed in pain and slammed his whole weight against the fragile body of the child. A second later he had regained his grip and her cry was cut off before she could reach a significant volume.

Alex gurgled when the knife dug into her chest. Her eyes bulged, as if they were about to fall out of their sockets. Her mouth opened in a fruitless attempt to scream, spilling blood and spit over her chin. Blood gushed out of the wound and into her shirt, turning gray to dark red.

The knife slid into flesh easily. Again, and again, and again. He had never felt better. Alex gurgled and whimpered, the lights in her eyes slowly dying away. The more they faded, the more his blood rushed, and the greater the ecstasy became. She wouldn't die just yet. She was just slipping away into unconsciousness and he could easily draw this out a while longer.

There were steps coming to the alleyway. Vincent spun, dropping the child to the ground. She lay there like a broken doll, her skin almost translucent, in a spreading pool of this beautiful red liquid. Her eyelids fluttered weakly, but she didn't move.

He looked up and down the alley. His blood was still rushing with adrenaline, but now his excitement had been replaced by panic and rage. Whoever this was, he had interrupted this precious moment of revenge. Maybe he should just kill him too.

No. It was too risky. There was nowhere to hide and he wasn't sure if he could overwhelm an adult, especially not without making too much noise. His moment was over, cut painfully short by whoever was coming closer. He sent one last string of curses at the stranger before he turned and ran.

He parked the car in front of the motel they were staying in. After filling the tank just so much his father wouldn't notice, he had exactly two dollars and fifty-three cents left and he had hidden those in a place his father was least likely to look: His wallet.

Vincent got out, from stuffy heat (the windows refused to go down) to slightly more airy heat and looked around if he could find Scott anywhere. By now the sun was beginning to set. Maybe they would stay another night. Everything but that. He couldn't wait to be home.

Scott had left on Vincent's command just before his father came trampling in like a rhinoceros, waving a ten-dollar bill and yelling why he had kept that to himself. Victor had stayed the whole time, so maybe Scott had gotten away.

Vincent could easily find him by the shrill voice yelling at him. Everyone else had already turned away from the spot, embarrassed, but Vincent walked up to Scott without hesitation, even as his mother yelled at him and Mary stood close by with a contemptuous smirk on her ugly little face. She scampered away when she saw Vincent approach though. Oh you better run.

After a moment, also Elsa Goldwyn noticed him. She straightened up and her features softened a bit. She might have been the only adult that didn't mind his appearance or existence in general.

"Vincent."

"Good evening, Mrs. Goldwyn," he said politely.

She smiled and shook her had, as if sad. "Alright Scott, don't you do this again."

"Yes Mum," he mumbled, not looking her in the eyes. Elsa shook her head once more and stomped off. She was good at that, despite her tiny feet.

The boys looked after her until she had disappeared, then Scott leaned back. The shirt rippled over his stomach. He had never been scrawny like Vincent and Victor, but over the past year, he had added more pounds than was normal for his rather reluctant growth. Vincent didn't want to think about the why. He would like to go away, far away from his parents and his brother, and everyone. Everyone except for Angie and Scott.

"What happened?"

"I listened to the radio. There was a murder at this small pizzeria we were at yesterday. A little kid on the sidewalk. Sounded pretty horrible." He shrugged his shoulders."They already got a special newspaper edition out, but Mary sold me out before I could read it completely."

"Oh, snap." Vincent sat down next to him on the bench. At least there was a bit of shadow. "I got like two dollars left. Wanna eat something?"

Scott's eyes flickered downward on a tiny stain on his shirt. Looked like chocolate ice cream. After such a treat Scott was probably the only person that could look uncomfortable, even embarrassed. "No thanks."

Astoundingly, they arrived home the next morning, quiet, without a fuss. Vincent and Scott went swimming with Angie and she took care of his bruises without asking questions. She didn't have to. There was nothing to explain. She took in the story of the murder, but a few days later, they had all but forgotten about it. It was far away, not connected to three teenagers enjoying each other's company before the summer ended. Everything ended some time. It's one of the basic facts of life, and maybe the one people want to think about the least.

Vincent breathed in water and coughed. It finally, finally tore him from the horrific flashback. His throat was rough. Had he been screaming? Did it even matter?

"That's not true," he whimpered. The tears felt searing hot, like lava mixing into a cool lake. Vincent furiously rubbed at his eyes without accomplishing anything. His attempt at standing up ended with a fall. He felt the cool tiles against his back and just buried his face in his arms. It was cold in here, very cold. But not as cold as Ethan and Alex were. Pete, too. Just a stupid proof of love. Things teenagers did. None of them would do anything anymore.

He could see their eyes. Pete's cloudy blue, Ethan's checkered green, Alex' dark brown. They were staring at him, silently condemning his actions.

It was fun, a voice inside of him whispered. We can kill them all. Just remember how much fun it was. How he struggled and writhed. A pathetic little fish. And we enjoyed it. We laughed. Those insects will all die by our hands.

"No," he croaked. "Stop. Just stop. Please. Leave me alone." The water rained down and he watched it run into the drain for a long, long time.

Why not? You know you want to.

"Leave me alone!", Vincent whimpered. He sat there for a long time, soaked, shaking, weeping, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees, every sob sending a shock wave through his body. "I want to be normal. I want friends, somebody... somebody I love. Go away, Victor. You're not part of my life anymore. Not after all you did to us."

The voice didn't say anything more, but he could hear it laugh and it was his own laugh. He curled up even more and continued to cry until he had no more strength left.

Tell yourself you're a good man.

"Leave me alone!", Vincent roared, his voice breaking to a tiny wheeze at the second syllable, and jumped to his feet. On the slippery surface, he lost his balance and his back hit the wall once more, sliding down. Pain rushed through his shoulder and Vincent cried out in surprise. It was a primal sound, the scream of a tortured animal. He had to put a hand on the wall to steady himself, breathing heavily. Hot blood ran over his back, down his legs, dripping on the floor, dissolving in the water. The stream turned pink once more.

Vincent stared at it, the burn turning to a heavy pounding, a red wave running through him with every heartbeat. How bad was it?

Maybe, maybe he should just sit down again. Wait until it either stopped bleeding or he died.

Absently, his eyes focused on the nail Mrs. Barnes had driven into the wall. It was probably intended for hanging up a sponge or something similar, but neither Scott nor Vincent had ever cared or thought about it. Now the metal was glistening red. The head was missing, probably broken off under the pressure.

Vincent stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. His hair was sending big drops down his body, but he didn't pay it more attention that ruffling it with the fabric once. While he dried himself off, he could feel blood trickling down his back and wondered if he could die of an infection from the part of rusty nail that was probably still stuck in his shoulder. The nail had left a gash from his shoulder blade down to the spine and the towel had smeared the dark blood all over his skin.

Numb, he tried to rub it off with a few paper towels, but every movement made the injury bleed more. Vincent grabbed his trousers and left the shirt where it was. He would have to ask Scott for help if it didn't stop bleeding. Until then, he would just stay here, where he wouldn't make a mess that couldn't be cleaned up. He even put his still wet hair into a ponytail and so happened to meet his own eyes in the mirror. The white had turned red with shattered blood vessels and the circles under his eyes made a good match for his hair.

He winced when the front door opened. "Vincent?", Scott called quietly. No cheery double "Hello". He sounded as horrible as Vincent felt. "Are you home?"

"Yeah." The word was just a croak, too quiet to be heard. Vincent cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm here."

"A-Are you hungry? I didn't bring anything, but..."

"No thanks." He leaned his head against the door. Blood didn't make him sick. He had always liked the smell, even the taste. Now this triviality just added to his misery.

"I- I'll be in the kitchen."

"Scott." The steps paused. Vincent hadn't been aware of planning to say anything, even less sounding like the wreck he was.

"Vince, are you okay?"

He closed his eyes, fighting back the burning tears. "No. No, I'm not." He had to take care nobody else got hurt. Scott. Or Jenna. They were just bystanders like Pete and Ethan. They were in danger around him. Scott had sounded scared and that was good. He better should be.

The door swung open. He hadn't even noticed opening it, but now he had to run with his choice. So he took a step into the hall, then another one.

Scott's eyes widened when he saw him. "Oh- Oh God, what the-"

Vincent didn't look at him. He just shrugged his shoulders and rubbed at an itch in his cheek, leaving another red stain.

The dark voice wanted to laugh into this childish fool's face. It wanted him to explain every last detail of the scene he had witnessed, to make this small mind see. How delightful it had been.

Scott caught him when he fell to his knees with a deafening shriek of desperation. Vincent dug his fingers into the silly violet shirt, soaking it with blood. The goddamn bear was smiling down on him like a mocking God.

"Vince, you're bleeding." From a distance of three feet Scott's voice would have been inaudible. Vincent just buried his face into his friend's chest, feeling hot tears soak the fabric. "It's my fault," he whispered, again and again. "It's all my fault."

A warm, gentle hand came down on his head and began to stroke his hair. The instinct-driven part of him melted into the touch, searching desperately for comfort when he didn't deserve it.

"It's not," Scott cooed. He knelt down and took the shaking body into his arms. "Don't you think that. Pete should have known better." His voice broke and the next words were just a ghost. "He should have known."

Vincent had the urge to laugh along with the dark voice. What came out was a raspy sob. Yes, Pete should have known better. It was not entirely his fault the boy was dead now. Not entirely. Not like Ethan. And Alex.

"I killed them." Scott continued to cradle him, but there was a hint of confusion in the way he paused for a split second. Vincent pushed him back. "Alex Radkowski. I killed her."

Scott actually managed to sound indignant. "Don't be silly, you could never-" He broke off with a startled gasp when Vincent's hand closed around the bandage hidden under his shirt. The grip wasn't tight. Not tight enough to hurt yet.

"I never meant to harm you. Anyone." Vincent dropped his hand again and his fingers dug into the carpet. Mrs Barnes would kill them for making such a mess. "It's him. The- the voice. It's not Victor, but almost... he tells me how much fun it was and sometimes, I- I can't help it. We were there that day and Dad had given me a beating and that kid looked like Victor and I was angry and I... I killed her. I couldn't remember it afterwards but now I do and it's telling me how much fun it was and... Oh God, I'm so scared." He tried to reach out for his friend and missed through the wet curtain turning his sight into a blur of colors.

"Help me, please. I don't want to be like this. I don't want to be a monster." The gray-greenish carpet didn't answer him and neither did Scott. For a very long time, it was silent and Vincent realized what a goddamn bastard he was for dragging him into this in the first place. He had no right to ask for Scott's help. Scott was a gentle, kind man with a heart of gold. If the knowledge didn't break him, he would maybe even convicted as a co-conspirator, just for his friendship. He didn't deserve this. But now it was too late.

Maybe he does the right thing, the dark voice teased. That would be good, right? You wouldn't struggle. You're dangerous after all. A threat to everyone you love. The voice snickered. But of course he will help you. He loves you, always did. He's such a shy guy. No wonder after all that happened. But he will always stand with you. Your good little puppy would never betray you.

"Shut up!", Vincent hissed. He tried to sound authoritative and ended up with a plea. The voice laughed.

Soft, gentle arms wrapped around his shoulders again. Scott's skin was cold and he had started shaking as well, but there was more strength in his body than met the eye. The dark voice growled and finally went silent. Vincent rested his cheek on his friend's neck and Scott let him cry until he stopped out of exhaustion. He wanted to say something, wanted to reveal the last bit of secrets and the most horrible, Ethan, but he couldn't. He couldn't drag Scott into what felt like a spiral descending into insanity even more.

By some miracle, he began to feel calmer. His pulse began to slow and eventually, even the trembling eased off. Then Vincent recounted everything that had happened in the last few days. The animatronic's attacks, Alex' ribbon, his method to get her to sleep, the flashbacks, the voice, his suspicions. Only Ethan never appeared in his tale. He couldn't burden Scott with that as well. He was the only anchor Vincent had in his life. If Scott was gone, who would stop him from becoming what he feared?

See, you're exploiting his crush on you. Isn't that a wonderful base for a friendship? He would have liked to think it was the dark voice. That would be an excuse. But it was only his own guilt speaking. "Scott..."

"We'll find a solution." Vincent wiped his eyes to blink up at his friend in awe. Scott's voice was rock steady, without the slightest tremble. As if he wasn't shocked at all.

"You're... you're not scared of me?"

The laugh was forced, but astoundingly realistic. "Fuck no. You're my best friend. The day I'm scared of you is the day hell freezes over." So, two days ago?

"Let's have a look at that cut before you catch anything." Vincent had no strength to protest. Scott somehow heaved him to his feet and brought him into the living room, where he fell down on the sofa.

Scott swallowed. He felt woozy and the colors had a strange quality to them, but he couldn't pass out now. Vincent needed his help. The nausea increased for a second when he tried to comprehend what Vincent had told him. Alex Radkowski. Dear God.

Of course, Vincent had always been a little... unpredictable. It had gotten worse after Angie's death, and much better when they went to college. But he was a good person. He protected them as well as he could. As far as he managed. Some things he had no influence on and they never felt any anger at him for it. In Vincent's presence, he felt safe. Sometimes, Scott even managed to think Vincent understood what he felt for him, even if he didn't return it. A smile here, a touch there. They didn't need to have some awkward talk that would end in disappointment. Scott could deal with it by himself.

Crush was a good word. It described the feeling well.

He shook off such impractical thoughts. The wound hadn't stopped oozing blood, now settling in the soft ravine of Vincent's spine. If it hadn't been so horrible, the sight would carry a macabre kind of beauty. Vincent didn't stir and his breathing was so faint Scott froze in panic until he detected the movement.

Mrs Barnes had left a first aid kit somewhere around and he found it after a few minutes of search, trying hard not to panic. One step at a time. There was a solution for everything. Nevertheless he almost cried out in relief when he found the object.

He rushed back into the living room and set the kit down on the table. It was neatly ordered and he found everything he needed on the spot.

"This will hurt," he said quietly, his eyes wandering over soft, pale, blood-smeared skin and the hints of fluent muscle. Vincent gave an inarticulate mumbling. He flinched under the hydrogen peroxide even as a small smile appeared on his face. He enjoyed the pain as a punishment. Scott shuddered when he realized he couldn't argue with that logic. This was his best friend, damn it!

Scott sew the cut, equally busy with setting clean stitches and keeping the light feeling in his head away from taking over. Last, he put the biggest plaster he found over the wound. Vincent had stopped moving altogether, except for deep, rhythmic breaths. He had fallen asleep during the procedure. The events and his breakdown had exhausted him.

Scott put everything back and then began to clean the blood off Vincent's skin, where he could reach without waking him. As the water dried, his body felt a little warmer again. Scott stared into nothingness for quite a while, just kneeling in front of the sofa with a bloody towel in his hand.

Some things ran in the family, it seemed. He suppressed a whimper and tried to fight back the memories before they could overwhelm him. A walk in the woods. Stars exploding in his head. His arms twisted behind his back. Victor's laughter. Pain. His dignity and self-respect, he had worked so hard to assemble, shattering into tiny splinters.

Scott rested his head in the small of Vincent's back, enjoying the warmth and touch. He could almost pretend it was like in his dreams, fueled by his wishes for a long, long time.

This had been years ago. He wasn't a frightened child anymore. Vincent had tried to protect him his entire life and now he was the one who needed help. He was not a monster. There was a monster bearing his face, but it was hundreds of miles away.

As much as he wanted to stay, there was work to do. Scott stood up and began to clean up all the blood. It was a lot.

Just think of a glass of milk. Spilled out, it looks like more than it is. After the hall and living room was clear, he went to get a shower and put all the laundry away. Hopefully, the stains would go out. It wasn't even noon yet when Scott found nothing else to do. He checked on Vincent again, allowing himself to run his fingers through the soft, chaotic hair. Nothing more. It was enough.

Or so he told himself.

He could call at the pizzeria and ask what the situation was. But his head felt like it was filled with lead. He wasn't going to be of use to anyone.

Foxy grinned at him with his golden bucktooth from his place near the pillow. Scott felt a tired smile cross his face. He fell on the bed, taking Foxy into his arms. The fabric had turned rough over the years and was held by more stitches he had set than anything else. Scott buried his face into the formerly pink belly of the plush fox before he rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling, the toy cuddled up against his neck, and began to talk.