Wednesday, November 10, 1993
The silver stars faded in and out of the darkness. They twirled on the ceiling above him and glinted in the morning light that shone through the dusty windows. A few coughs forced their way up Mike's throat. A painful groan escaped his lips. He reached up one hand to rub his aching neck.
Mike silently stared up at the ceiling. He winced as a reflected glimmer shone right in his eyes. His throat hurt, his lungs burned from blockage and coughing, and his heart still throbbed loudly in his ears. Every muscle felt weak and stiff. Every breath struggled to pass his lips, and he barely felt the hard, cold tile against his body.
Thoughts of laughter, of his mother, of playing games and taking in the wonder of this place faded away as the reality of last night seeped back in.
Too close, his mind told him. That was way too close.
The chill from the floor finally registered properly. Slowly, Mike pushed himself up. He expelled another cough as he bent forward. He brushed some strands of black hair out of his eyes, with a stray glance to his watch.
6:06am.
Had he really only been out for a few minutes?
Mike rubbed his eyes, then took in his surroundings. White cloth to his left, with pointed flecks of color on top. A small stage to his right, with closed purple curtains barely scraping the edges and silver stars shining over the cloth. Just beside Pirate Cove, the video game cabinets were off again. Before him, Mike saw the tops of his old dress shoes, then the checkered floor stretching beyond them into the dark hall. He caught part of the prize corner from here, the present box sitting innocently beside it.
Remembered music, jingles, and laughter echoed in his mind. Shadows of the past played before him. The warmth of that summer day two decades ago gave way to the coolness of autumn now.
A draft flew over the top of his head. Mike felt behind him until his fingers found the guard hat that must have fallen off when Bonnie dropped him. He pulled it back on, then reached beside him, utilizing the nearest chair to pull himself back to his feet.
The memory briefly lingered in his mind. The innocence of it unnerved him compared to the horror he endured literally minutes ago. Never would Mike have thought any of the characters were capable of...of that! He chose not to dwell on it, and instead focused on steadying himself on his feet. Mike pushed the chair back in place.
Run, his mind told him. Run away and never look back. It's too dangerous here.
His legs refused to obey, and his body responded with another small coughing fit. Mike clutched the chair and gathered his bearings. One hand loosened his top button. The movement of his fingers against his skin calmed him more than releasing the restricting cloth. His tie hung undone over his chest.
A deep breath, a glimpse to the party hats in front of him, a glance to the stage.
The Fazbear band's expressions were calm, greeting the new day. They stood in casual poses, their trademark items in hand. Mike narrowed his eyes at Bonnie in particular. He disliked the sudden pit in his stomach, the ripple of fear going down his spine. The bunny's shy kindness and gentle demeanor no longer existed. All Mike saw now was a monster, betrayed by his once-friendly demeanor.
"You...bastard!" he sneered.
Bonnie faced forward, his guitar in his paws, mouth closed, his red plastic eyes staring ahead. Mike swore he saw the rabbit's jaw lower a smidge, the eyelids turn, the subtle movements turn the animatronic's simple smile into a smirk.
Mocking him.
Mike narrowed his eyes, but another cough forced his attention away for a second.
When he looked up again, Bonnie once more appeared sweet and friendly, better matching the shy, benevolent character he saw in his memories. Mike blinked a few times in uncertainty, wondering if anger and fear altered his perceptions.
Not that it mattered right now.
That damn rabbit almost did him in. The aching and throbbing at his neck vividly kept the thoughts of Bonnie's shape in the office at the front of his mind, the feel of cold tile on his back and legs over his skin, the sheer strength and ease the animatronic utilized to drag him here.
Mike rubbed his throat again with a grimace at the pain. He let his heartbeat normalize and his stomach settle before he headed for the bathrooms to see if Bonnie's tugging on his collar left a bruise. God, it hurt like a bitch. He undid two more buttons as he walked, refusing to look at the animatronics as he passed them.
He flicked the bathroom light on and headed over to the sink. Mike pulled off his hat and tossed it on the counter. He tilted his head back and angled it carefully to get a look at the damage.
Red marks mingled with purple, the bruise still fresh and pulsing. He grimaced as he noted the edges already started to turn yellow. It still hurt to breathe. The marks would take days to heal.
"Shit," he whispered.
Just what he needed.
Mike gently ran his fingers over the skin. He winced at the pain. It looked worse than it felt, but it spoke enough of the near miss.
At how lucky he was that this was the worst of it.
"...Fuck this," he said quietly. "I quit. I fucking quit!"
He didn't bother to button his shirt or fix his tie. Mike grabbed his hat and deliberately turned his back to the mirror before putting it back on.
Get home, he told himself. Change. Wash the uniform, bring it back, never come back here again.
He walked out the bathroom and towards the front door with strong determination. It was time to listen to all the warning bells that rang loudly since his first night...to put away his search for answers. Before he even reached the hostess stand, a small sound entered his ears, faint, but distinct.
Like a tiny chime on a metal xylophone.
Mike perked and listened to make sure he heard things right. Another silvery chime rang, a different note, then another: a music box starting to unwind.
Weird; so far as he knew, nothing in the building made sounds like that. Except…
Mike immediately turned around to the prize counter across the room. From childhood, he recalled the present box played music, right before the Puppet inside popped out and handed the birthday child a gift. But the chimes he heard now were different, nowhere near the box. Rather...closer to the stage.
No, Mike thought. Ignore it. There's nothing for you here.
He reached into his pocket for his keys and looked through them as he turned around again. Upon finding the car key, Mike looked up, expecting to pull open the front door and make a break for it.
Instead, he found himself standing in front of the stage and staring up at the animatronics. Mike blinked a few times, suddenly feeling hazy and light-headed, as if waking from a dream. At first, he noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Just Freddy, Bonnie, and Chica, still in their poses and watching an invisible audience.
Then he saw it.
The cupcake's eyes faced to the right. Freddy's index finger no longer gripped the microphone, but pointed. Bonnie did the same with his most forward hand.
Mike looked them over. His eyes tracked their pointing the bathrooms. The music also originated from that direction. When he looked back at the band, Bonnie and Freddy gripped their respective items properly, and the cupcake now faced forward with the rest of them. Mike reached up to rub his eyes. Once more, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
"...Stop fucking with me."
Mike tightened his grip on his keys. His gaze went from the bathrooms to the front door. The chimes eerily continued to play. Thoughts of last night flashed in his mind, of the Puppet in the bathroom camera, how it pointed to him, then down.
It ignited just enough morbid curiosity to override Mike's desire to leave. He headed for the corner by the bathrooms, his eyes trailing up to the camera above him. Nothing but black and white tile, resin pizza decorations on either side, and a wall covered in children's drawings before him. With the camera facing the bathrooms, the entire wall was a blind spot.
The Puppet pointed to him on the camera last night. Or, more accurately, it pointed to the wall.
Here.
The word rang just as clearly as it did the night before, almost as musical as the tune playing right now. Images of the past and present intermingled, before he realized:
There used to be games here.
Mike remembered that Bonnie game clearly. He could almost feel the carrot-shaped joystick in his hand, the buttons under his fingers, see the ancient graphics. He even recalled a few tricks on later levels.
"Why did they close it up?" Mike whispered, not that he expected an answer.
He moved closer to the wall, where the sound rang loudest. It took another second to realize the sound came from behind it, despite playing so clearly that he initially assumed the contrary.
It stopped...
"The fuck?" Mike whispered.
Was there something back there?
Short…
He pressed his ear to the wall to reassure himself that he wasn't just hearing things.
Never to go again…
No, he definitely heard something behind the wall. Clear as a bell, a music box played an old tune. The chimes slowed on the last few notes.
When the old...man…
The song started again as Mike examined the wall. He ran his fingers over the rough surface, looking for...he wasn't sure what just yet. A handle, maybe, a button, an indent. Something, anything, that could lead him back there. Back to the music box.
One point in the wall felt weak. Mike gently pushed into it. A tiny bit of plaster crumbled away, sprinkling over the black and white tiles.
He shouldn't. This was insanity. It would mean his job, and property damage he really couldn't afford. Yet the Puppet still lingered on his mind. How it stared at him. Pointed to him. Lead him here. How the other animatronics captivated his interest and somehow ensured he didn't leave just yet.
It wants to show me something, Mike thought.
He pressed his ear to the wall. The chimes instantly cut off.
"...Hello?" Mike said quietly, calling to whatever was behind the wall. "I'm here."
Silence.
Mike awkwardly stood there for a moment, then tried another tactic. Gently, he knocked on the wall.
Slowly, a gentle tapping answered him, then scratched at the same spot on the other side. The music started again to prove he was on the right track, that he wasn't imagining things. Mike found the small indent and scratched at it again. The chimes grew louder as he chipped at the plaster.
The scratching on the other side stopped right before he broke through on his side. Mike pulled his hand back, half-expecting something to crawl out.
Nothing.
Only darkness, and a strange, musty smell. The music stopped playing again.
Mike grabbed for his flashlight and peeked in as best he could. He saw something back there, a dark...screen? An old video game cabinet?
Mike's eyes widened.
Not just any video game cabinet, either.
He turned off the flashlight and grabbed his keys. He held all but one in his hand, and used the remaining key to dig at the plaster and push it forward into the sealed room to hide the evidence of his destruction. He carved out about five inches in diameter, then turned on the flashlight again to look inside.
The first thing he noticed was the orange carrot-shaped joystick with its green button on top, and the two purple buttons beside it. Even under who knew how many years' worth of dust, he picked out the art of Bonnie's face, perfectly preserved with the others in a sort of time capsule behind the wall.
It still existed.
Mike moved the flashlight and searched the room as best he could, mindful of whatever it was that lead him back here. Something shuffled away to avoid the beam of light. Aside from it, he saw two more video game cabinets - starring Freddy and Chica, respectively - beside the Bonnie one. Mike tried to see if there was anything to the right. If the room contained anything else, he couldn't make it out.
The sound of the door jingle forced his attention away from his discovery. Mike turned off the flashlight and tucked it back. He quickly grabbed the nearest drawing to tack over the hole. Convinced the fruits of his curiosity remained safely tucked behind a stick figure Chica, he carefully slipped back behind the partition separating the dining room from the bathrooms.
The heavy footsteps and grumbled muttering told him that Waylon entered.
"Schmidt? I saw your car out there. You know you're supposed to be gone by now!"
Mike waited for the manager get further down the hallway. He then made a mad dash for the front door to avoid confrontation. The door jingle hid the sound of the ceiling tiles shifting as he left. Mike readied his keys again, more concerned with getting to his car and getting out before Waylon could investigate why he was still here.
He never noticed the long, thin figure making its way back into the present box when the front door shut behind him.
Friday, July 13, 1973
For what seemed like a long time, Charlotte lead Mike around to try different games while they waited for an opening to see Freddy. Mike found a Chica game that let him catch the right ingredients to make a cupcake. It quickly consumed his attention, Freddy forgotten for a while as he directed his focus into moving Chica left and right. Charlotte took the game cabinet beside him to both keep an eye on him and try her hand at helping him win a few more tickets.
By the time Mike grew tired of the game, he turned to see Freddy no longer stood where he was before. Maybe he went to another table? Mike started to wander off. Charlotte noticed and reached to gently take his arm, her own game forgotten.
"You know better than to wander off, Mikey," she said.
Mike tugged his arm from her grasp.
"But Freddy's not there anymore!"
Charlotte glanced around the room, and sure enough, not just Freddy, but the other animatronics seemed to have disappeared too. She frowned, and quickly located the blond employee with the clipboard. Mike stayed by the games as his mother got the man's attention. He looked around the room, noticing, like Charlotte, that neither Bonnie or Chica or even Foxy was out anymore.
Curious, he stepped away from the games and began to search for them, his mother forgotten as she spoke with the employee. Mike looked around the tables, found himself near Pirate Cove, then cycled back over to the prize counter.
The strange, green-blue present box still sat beside it, its purple ribbon running up both sides and catching the light. Before, Mike paid it little heed when the stuffed toys on the shelves behind the prize counter intrigued him more. Now, without other children poking and prodding at it, it held slightly more interest.
This close to it, Mike now noticed a thin, clear string - one a bit thicker than fishing wire - going up to the ceiling. He traced it down to the middle of the box, and when he gripped the edge and stood on his tiptoes, he noticed the string went into a tiny hole in the middle of the box.
What was inside?
Something washed over him then, a gentle warmth from within. Mike pressed his ear to the side of the box. He tried to block out the noise of the games and the other children as he listened. Gently, he knocked on it. Mike heard a faint hollow echo, and frowned a little. Maybe the box was empty? But then, what was the string for? He knocked again, just to be sure.
And to his surprise, something knocked back!
Mike took a step away from the box, not expecting it. He looked to either side. To his left, at the end of the counter, a red-haired teen with braces in her smile traded out another child's tickets for a pack of stickers. To the right, he saw other children with their families, playing games, or messing with the curtains at Pirate Cove. Effectively alone, Mike stepped toward the box again.
The top two flaps pushed up slightly. Mike reached to grab the edge of the box. He pulled himself up onto his toes to peer inside the small tent now formed from the partially-opened flaps. In the shadows under it, he saw...a light.
A small light, like a single white Christmas light, broke through the dark and stared at him. It remained still, though the slit of light from above revealed something smooth and white under the angled panels. Something curved and red rested beside it. A circle cheek, he realized, like a clown.
A jack-in-the-box?
Mike gripped the edge of the box with one hand, then slid the other under the partially-opened panel. He started to lift it up to try to get a better look at the thing inside. The little white light suddenly vanished back down into the dark, taking the smooth bits of white and red with it. A soft gasp escaped his lips as the Mike let go of the panel. He once more stepped away from the box. From inside, he caught the distinct sound of something shifting around.
A soft knocking came from one side of the present. Mike hesitated a moment, then approached the box again. Gently, he knocked on it. The thing in the box knocked back. Puzzled, Mike looked back at the top, at the now-closed flaps.
Dare he try to look inside?
Another knock came from one side. Mike moved from the front of the box to follow the sound, and knocked again. A few joyful music box chimes played, a song he knew well.
All around the cobbler's bench...
"Hello?" he asked, quietly.
Mike heard a creaking sound and looked up. One of the flaps partially opened again. He moved back to the front of the box, wondering if the box was
supposed to do this. A game, he wondered? Figure out how to make the jack-in-the-box open?
That warm feeling returned as Mike once more stood on his tiptoes to peer into the box. He carefully gripped the edge, then started to lift up the flap a little more, to let in just enough light to see inside.
"Michael Schmidt!"
Mike yelped and let go of the flap. The box snapped shut. He turned around to face his mother. The blond employee with the clipboard accompanied her. Charlotte frowned, one hand on her hip.
"I told you not to wander off."
"I was just trying to find Freddy," Mike said.
But then he found the box again, and got distracted with playing with its sole resident, whatever it was. He peered over his shoulder, half-hoping the clown inside might peek out again. The box stood silent and still once more, with no hint to it being anything more than just another prop.
The blond man chuckled.
"I don't think Freddy can fit in there."
Mike turned back to him and his mother, his cheeks suddenly getting pink. He knew the man was right. The box was big, but not that big. He turned back to look at the box, at the purple ribbon around its blue-green sides, the clear string going up to the ceiling.
"...What's in there?" he asked, still wondering about the character lingering inside.
"You'll find out soon," the man said, checking his clipboard.
The four flights of stairs stretched for an eternity as Mike headed up to his apartment, keys in hand and ready to unlock the door. As he reached the fourth floor, he stopped in the stairwell. A glance to his watch showed it was just after seven. He took a deep breath and reached to open the door leading into the hall.
Vanna should be in her apartment now. The last thing Mike wanted was confrontation. He felt like shit, probably looked like shit, and every weird thought he had the last three nights all fought for dominance in his mind. He stood there for another moment, his mind temporarily going blank as he tried to think of a way to brush her off if he ran into her. His neck throbbed, and his train of thought resumed as Bonnie's triumphant smile in the monitor glow dominated everything else.
Better to not let her ask questions at all if their paths crossed. Any answer he thought of sounded crazy.
Mike pulled the door open. The fourth floor hallway stretched before him, apartment doors on either side. Dim lights between the doors gave enough light to see the different numbers, the graying walls and fading dark green carpet. Some of them flickered, sputtering with the last bits of filament. Before, Mike considered it a small annoyance he kept forgetting to tell management about. Now, it momentarily reminded him of the west hall at Freddy's.
And how Bonnie's dark silhouette sometimes stood at the end of it.
Mike shook his head to banish the thought away. He was safe now, and just needed to get home. He swallowed hard and ignored the pain in his throat as he stepped with care, the carpet already muffling his footsteps as intended.
One of his neighbors had the TV up way too loud. Hints of mud mingled with old carpet smell. Children laughed behind another door, with a mother's voice gently chiding to stop playing and get ready for school. Incense and cigarette smoke lingered behind a door he passed. Water pipes ran, a dog yipped playfully, someone's toast burned, a baby cried.
Normal sounds and smells. Sounds and smells he normally never noticed or paid much mind to. Sounds and smells that made him realize just how much more acutely he was aware of his surroundings than before.
A knob turned, and Mike froze. Hs eyes darted to quickly figure out which door was about to open, and whether or not he should run. Across the hall, an old man in a dingy old shirt, torn sweats, and slippers stepped out. Mike made it a point to avoid his gaze.
At least it wasn't Vanna.
One more door, he told himself. Unlock it and go inside.
He barely made it in. Mike flicked on the living room light, though he took care to shut the door as quietly as possible behind him. As soon as the lock slid into place, the rest of his strength immediately drained. Mike collapsed to the floor. He rested his back against the door as he stared up at the ceiling. From below, he heard another TV, or maybe a radio being played too loudly. Voices accompanied by background music, at any rate. The hum of the fridge in his kitchen joined in, along with footsteps from the ceiling where his upstairs neighbors undoubtedly got ready for work or school. His old wall clock ticked in the living room. The long silence between ticks said that he needed to change the battery soon.
What is that place doing to me?
Don't think about it anymore. Just breathe. Close your eyes. Relax.
Remember you're home.
Remember you're safe.
Mike sucked in a breath and held it, before he slowly let it out. He kicked off his shoes before making the attempt to stand. He tried to tune out the random sounds as he made his way to the bedroom. As soon as he entered, Mike threw the tie onto the dresser, then worked on unbuttoning his shirt. He shot a glance to the closet, and the bit of yellow poking out.
The Chica toy, he knew, and the rest of the junk he hadn't put away properly the other day.
He pondered a moment and wondered if he should make another attempt at reading the journal. Mike's heart panged, longing to know, yet at the same time, terrified of breaking that sacred trust. The six years the journal remained buried in the bottom of that box spoke enough of his hesitation.
There's no way he can know.
The thought brought him no comfort. Mike sighed as tossed his shirt near the tie before he walked over to the closet. His legs caved almost of their own accord as he reverently knelt down in front of the box. He took Chica and gently set her down beside him before he began his search through the knick-knacks for the journal.
His fingers found the leather spine and gripped it. Mike pulled it up from the bottom of the junk pile and held it in his hands for several moments to warm the cold leather. He closed his eyes and took a breath before he opened the journal, picking a random entry about three-quarters of the way through.
...have been handling it well on my own, even with the panic attacks. I generally calm down enough before I leave that I can play it off as fatigue-
The words slowly melded together, until they were no longer recognizable as words, but rather...scribbles; black scratches of pen in random lines, darkening the page. Mike blinked to be certain his eyes weren't playing tricks, but the scribbles remained. He turned the pages one after the other. Each turn of the page revealed paper blackened with ink. Slowly, two circles appeared in the middle of each sheet, growing lighter with each page he turned, until a figure began to appear inside them, like an image in a camera lense.
Before he could make out the figure, the pages suddenly tore out of the book, then fluttered around him. Mike snatched at the air for them, desperate to grab one and make out the figure. The papers swirled around him, the ink-soaked pages creating a dark void. After a few seconds of confusion, Mike caught one of the pages and held it tight in his fist. The brittle paper hardened until he felt something else in his left hand. Another page grazed the tips of his right index and middle fingers, before the sheet pressed into his palm, sticking firmly to it.
Mike tried to let go of the first paper to try to pry the other one away, but found his hand stuck tightly. The texture felt familiar in his grip. His thumb found the top, and he heard the familiar click of a button.
An arcade joystick.
The remaining papers formed an arcade game before him. On either side of it Mike saw more papers form walls, speckled gray with a checkerboard pattern horizontally splitting them in two. The last few papers tacked themselves to the walls, becoming children's sketches. The yellow paper was old and brittle, and their subjects lacked the innocence he was used to. Mike picked out a few animatronics with black mouths and eyes, their smiles stretching and distorting into a mockery of what they should be. Silver stars hung from the ceiling.
All around him, he heard faint whispers. Mike tried to pick out individual words. All he could determine was the voices sounded...young.
Mike pulled away again. Once more, he found his left hand practically glued to the joystick, one he now noticed was orange with a green button on top, like a carrot. The other page that stuck to his hand become the rest of the panel, with his fingers stuck on two purple buttons and his palm fused just below them. He immediately realized which game he now stood before.
Without thinking, Mike pressed down on the green joystick button.
The screen flickered, before Bonnie's head and upper torso covered the screen. Every pixel detailed the animatronic's face, particularly the ears and eyes. Even the red bowtie had subtle animation. Bonnie waved, and the tops of his ears flipped up and then back down. An uneasy familiarity overcame Mike as he watched the simple, jerky game animation in a macabre mix of nostalgia and nightmare. He kicked the cabinet, desperate to make it let him go. The machine made a noise, and Bonnie's face glared. The pixel art captured the actual animatronic's creepiness only too well.
Mike ignored Bonnie and pressed his foot against the cabinet. He tried to leverage his body backwards to free himself. Neither hand budged. All he accomplished was the painful sensation of tearing at his skin.
Giving up, Mike looked back to the screen. The digital Bonnie's red eyes, even pixelated, somehow appeared...hollow. Drained. The once smiling face now gave way to a frown. The screen glitched a few times, gradually switching from the pixelated art to a real image of the animatronic.
The sides of the cabinet slowly dripped with red. Mike tried again to pull away, but could do nothing but helplessly watch as the flickering image before him changed. The animatronic now took more prominence over the pixel art. Bonnie's face distorted. Sometimes, his eyes turned black with white pinpricks, and sometimes his head jolted like it did the previous night.
Forced to watch, Mike noticed the color on the screen slowly faded with each flicker, draining away until it resembled the gray tones of an old horror movie. The pixel art no longer appeared, only the animatronic.
He never realized the glass screen faded away, or that Bonnie slowly leaned closer, just beyond the screen's limit.
Bonnie's eyes locked onto Mike's. The white pinpricks faded away, leaving only empty sockets. The face itself changed, sometimes showing the Bonnie he knew, and...Bonnie, but with something off. Parts of his plush face now contained tears and fraying. Loose wires poked from the old cloth. Part of one ear was missing at the bisect. The empty sockets kept him hypnotized, drawn to them as the flickering face came closer.
Only now did Mike realize that two large, plush hands gently touched his cheeks. The trance the empty eyes kept him in broke as Bonnie now leaned halfway out of the video cabinet, his face, his hands, his posture all begging.
Pleading.
The animatronic flickered back and forth like a warped video image, shifting between the Bonnie that terrorized him every night, and the broken Bonnie. With the shattered illusion, traces of color came back, showing the broken Bonnie was not purple, like the one he knew…
...But gold.
His eyes shot open, a choked, startled scream burning his throat. Mike reached a hand up to the bruised area and tenderly stroked it to ease the pain. His eyes adjusted to the apartment. He picking out the paint strokes on his bedroom ceiling and felt stiff carpet fibers against his bare back. For a brief second, he swore he saw the flickering Bonnie. A few blinks washed away all traces of imagination.
For a long while, Mike lay there, letting his mind go blank for a moment. His heartbeat normalized as he listened to the stillness of his apartment. The dull drone of the heater nearly drowned out the smaller sounds. Faintly, he picked out a gentle humming sound just below him, electricity running to power his downstairs' neighbor's light. If he concentrated, he could pick out the slow ticks of the living room clock.
Despite attempts to push it back, Mike still felt the plush hands on his cheeks and the lingering pain in his fingers and palms from trying to rip his hands away from the video game cabinet.
Like he had physically been there.
He slowly pushed himself up. His back ached despite lying on the soft carpet. A glance to his watch read 7:27am. Just beyond his wrist, he noticed something brown and square sitting on the floor beside him.
The journal.
Flashes of swirling pages crossed his vision. Soft wisps kissed his face from the fluttering paper. The smell of ink filled his nose.
Mike scooped up the journal and shoved it back in the box, before he set Chica on top of it to hide it.
He knew better than to try to read it again.
The closet door slammed shut to hide the box again. Mike stared at it for a moment. He took another long breath and winced at the pain in his throat before he glanced over at his bed.
Just get some rest, he told himself. You're just still freaked out from what happened this morning.
He stepped towards it and stopped. The bed no longer looked inviting, nor did he want to be in here. Mike moved a hand to his neck to again to soothe it. He swallowed hard, winced, and turned to leave. He hated the relief that washed through him as he stepped back into the living room.
Mike wandered into the kitchen and threw open the freezer door to get some ice cubes. The frozen shock made him notice the fatigue that still gripped him. He grabbed the ice and shut the door, before he quickly searched the cupboards for plastic bags and a hand towel for a makeshift ice pack.
His temporary relief acquired, Mike dragged himself to his couch and sank into it almost immediately. He grabbed the old throw that was spread haphazardly over the back of the couch and curled up under it. He shuddered as he draped the ice pack over his neck. The cold bit into the pain. Mike shifted to get comfortable, then laid there in silence. He closed his eyes again and willed himself to sleep. He needed to sleep, if he was going to go back tonight.
No. He couldn't go back.
It was suicide.
The painful cold at his neck reminded him quite clearly, yet he had so many thoughts, so many nagging questions that refused to leave.
Mike felt for the remote on the coffee table. His fingers barely gripped it. His thumb fumbled for the power button. The morning news at a dull volume forced him to focus on it, to listen. To just...ignore everything else for a moment to try to lull himself into slumber.
But every time he started to drift off, thoughts of his nightmare forced him awake again.