Springtrap - Part VI
Crash!
The sound was extremely satisfying to Springtrap's ears. After a while of pounding and hacking and struggling, he'd finally managed to force some of the ceiling panels to cave in. There wasn't much left to do, now. He began to work to create something he could stand on with the dirty boxes lying about. He left the heads of the animatronics in them, despite how much he feared and despised them. They would be able to support his weight where the crate wouldn't have been able to. Pain struck through his entire body with every movement that he made, not only physically, but mentally.
There was a gaping hole in his heart from his new discovery. Now, he was done. He was done with anything and everything in this world. Surely, even Hell couldn't be so terrible. At least, in Hell, there might be someone to scream along with him. He limped to another box, seizing it in his trembling hands, and dragged it after him back to the others. Laboriously, he repeated this action, not giving himself pause. He shook more fervently the longer it went on, as though the spring-coiled suit knew what he was wanting to do. He wouldn't let it stop him. Not this time.
Still, it was hard to keep some of his movements under control. It was difficult to keep himself from ramming his hand into the box instead of grabbing it gently. It was almost impossible to keep his knees from randomly giving out under him. Springtrap didn't have anything to distract himself from the aches that spread throughout him. There was no lust for a kill, no eagerness to force another soul to join his side. If history did repeat itself, it would most certainly be years later, and he wasn't prepared to endure this any longer. Besides, even if he did stick around, the people would take him apart and find out the truth about him. Would they bury him alive, then? He shuddered at the thought.
Even if he wanted to release his soul, now, being pinned down under a tough mound of dirt didn't sound like the way he wanted to spend eternity. Springtrap hissed with agony as one of his knees crumpled under the weight of another step, falling to the ground and barely managing to catch himself with his hands before he hit his face. He stared at the ground and at his fingers, gasping like a fish out of water. His throat and lungs were too crushed and mangled to inhale, but that didn't mean that he didn't try. He had been so used to the motion when he had been human, when he had been alive (it felt like a past life, now), that it was inconceivable to quit trying. To stop breathing while he still moved was to give up whatever kind of humanity he had left, and, despite all of his other wishes, that was something he wasn't prepared for.
Springtrap felt strength tighten in his knee again, and he forced himself to stand. He looked up at the tangles of wires passing through the hole in the ceiling panels, using the sight of them to rejuvenate himself. He continued to drag more boxes. The struggle of lifting one rang through him all the way to his core, but he managed to coerce himself to do so. He had to, in order to be able to reach the top and do what he had decided was right. The pile was almost finished… It was so close.
He hesitated when the last one had been placed, his silver eyes travelling to the right. He turned his head slowly, locking his focus on the bloody, old suit lying stretched by the wall. He could still see some skin poking out, could still see the blood staining the floor from what had seemed to be an everlasting flow. He had never known bodies held that much blood, at least, not until he slaughtered those children and stuffed them in the animatronics. He shook his head vigorously, letting it jerk itself to oblivion in back when he was done with the motion. He had to clear those thoughts away. It wasn't important anymore. It was almost over. Everything was going to be finished, soon.
He turned his head toward the boxes and reached forward, grabbing one and beginning to clamber on top of the pile. Just as he neared the top, however, they bent under his weight and he fell unceremoniously to the ground. "Help!" he cried, and, before he knew it, he ended up staring at the ceiling, flat on his back, and for what may have been a few minutes, perhaps an hour, he didn't move. He stared blankly. Trivial things were trying to stop him. Foolish of them! He would not be stopped. He hadn't been stopped when he had murdered. He wouldn't –no, couldn't- allow himself to slow! He pulled his arms back and pushed himself up into a sitting position. After gathering his feet underneath him, he managed to regain his feet, a wobble almost causing him to tumble back down. He regained his balance and tried to climb again, failing twice more before finally reaching the top.
Springtrap struggled to keep his balance on the apex, gripping the edge of the box with iron fists. He stared down at the ground, terrified that the pile would collapse underneath him. He tried to push away his fear, but it remained prevalent, like it was melded with his very soul. He looked up above himself, leaning back, at the wires. They were so close… If he could just… He slowly began to stand up, releasing his grip on the edge of the box. His knees trembled with his worries as the pile shuddered under his weight, the items within the box he stood upon threatening to shift and topple him. He reached up and snatched the edge of the ceiling panel, using it to steady himself. For a precarious moment, the boxes threatened to give in, but, at last, his weight was secure.
"It's… over…" he told himself softly, what remained of his throat clenching up. He shot down the panic as it came. There was no way for him to choke anymore. There was no use in freaking out over something that was impossible! He chastised himself silently, keeping one hand gripping the panel and stretching the other to grab hold of the wires. He groped for a minute or two before he sensed his hand touch them. Snagging hold, he looked down at his feet. He braced himself for the pain that would follow this motion, knowing he could even end up ruining his shoulder doing this. He lifted himself up somewhat and kicked the boxes out from under himself, beginning to fall. His hand still held the wires, so he swung limply above the ground for what seemed like hardly the blink of an eye. Then, much to his pleasure (at least when it was over), they snapped, and he fell to the ground, his fingers slipping away from them.
He landed to the ground with a dull thud, the pain of it making his vision obscure. He strained to use his diaphragm so his lungs would swell with air, quite in vain. Sparks showered down around him like small drops of fire, and when his vision was clear enough to catch them, they reminded him of rain. Oh, how he missed rain. He missed the feeling of water running over him, drenching him entirely, until he was shivering with cold. However, after he got so cold, he would go back inside, into the dryness, and warm himself up if he could. Perhaps even with a cup of coffee. That he missed, too. When he had been able to move fluidly without worry of causing himself pain in every blink of his eye, he had also enjoyed drinking and eating until he was content. Even in prison, they had served him food and water. He also remembered how much he had hated the prison. Now, he would much rather return to it than be laying here, crumpled on the floor, stuffed and compressed in a spring-locked suit.
He longed for all of these things so much, but he now knew he would never be able to meet them again. Never would he be able to sleep in a comfortable, warm bed. Never again would he be able to feel rain showering upon himself or eat or drink like a human must do. Never again would he be able to move without pain striking through his limbs. Never again would he be able to control his motions in such elaborate ways. How could he have taken all of these things for granted? How could he have ignored how much good he had? He felt a rush of hate toward who he had been. If he had taken these things into account, perhaps he wouldn't be in the midst of this mess. He certainly wouldn't have killed those children. He wouldn't have had to meet them face-to-face once more as their spirits rose to teach him of all that he had done. Now, he understood. He knew why they had done this to him.
Only fear and remorse were left, now.
He had to get moving. He had to get back to what he had been doing. He floundered for a while, unable to get up, until he managed to push himself up. He was amazed that his shoulder had not snapped under the weight of himself, though it ached even when he didn't move it. Perhaps this was what he was meant to do. Springtrap looked up at the wires, which were still leaking sparks here and there. Bright flashes of light appeared from time to time, like he had created a small cloud of lightning within the room. His gaze traveled to the bloody suit laying against the wall, but new resolve flashed through him. Grimly, he turned his back on it, limping to the opposing side and grabbing a lighter he'd discovered on the corpse of the murdered. The sparks would need a bit of help. He carried the lighter to the boxes, which he then dragged underneath the sparks with his good arm. All of the equipment was flammable. All he needed to do was encourage it along the way.
Springtrap pressed his thumb against the switch of the lighter, bracing himself for frustration. This subtle movement wasn't going to be easy for his shaking fingers. He worked to activate the spark and the gas within the lighter, praying it not be faulty. Time was passing by as he worked. Six was ever-nearing. When it arrived, he wouldn't have the strength to stay standing after all of the toil he had put himself through in this sixth night. That meant every second, every minute, and every hour were of the essence. A bright flame flickered out from the lighter, and Springtrap made certain to keep it fueled, feeling a rush of wonder at the sight of it. Like a cat, he mused at it. He hadn't seen fire in a long time, either. Well, now, he was going to witness plenty of it! He shoved away his excitement. This wasn't the time for it.
Next, he approached the boxes with the lit lighter, and dropped the flame into them. He stepped away quickly on instinct as orange light began to flare, the time speeding away at him. He stared as flames began to jump out, ignited by sparks and the lighter itself. The faces of Bonnie, Chica, and Freddy stared at him like the ghosts were back, and he felt fear rush through every fiber of his being. It took all of his might not to turn tail and flee from the site. His attempts to breathe quickened, and if he was capable, he was sure his heart would be pounding in his ears at this point. He worked to push down the emotions that ravaged him. This was no time for petty feelings! Nothing would stop him! He forced himself to keep watching the fire that would soon be the death of him, as he was certain. He ran out of willpower and limped toward the back room, where he usually hid himself when morning arrived. Strength began to pour out of his body like milk spilling from a fallen cup. Six.
Springtrap came before the door of his small haven, feeling the heat of the flame on his back. The smoke began to pour around him, clouding his head, but he stared at the door that demanded for all approaching to keep out, trying all he could to reach out and grab it. Just before he did, the ceiling caved in, and flames fell all around him. He watched as they jumped up to somewhat block his sight of the door, red and orange and yellow lighting him and all the things surrounding. Ash flaked on the ground like snow, beginning to collect in heaps. This was the end. This was the end of it all! Should he not be rejoicing? Once more, he chastised himself. Once more, he faced the reality of his current situation.
Once more, he felt a bit of humanity.
He was surrounded. There was no place to go, no way to get out. At least, that was what he believed. Now, he began to feel hate toward the grin that stayed upon his face. How misplaced it was! When he had been striving toward the kill, it had been perfectly appropriate, but even then, he knew he rarely smiled in his life before this. He had always felt the strain of a smile, yet a frown felt unlabored. This was only because his smile felt completely unnatural. He knew frowns took more muscles than a smile to conjure, and yet he always scowled, rarely smiled, and always felt as though a smile took more. It never did. How many times had he been so misconceived? His mind wandered to his family. Had they ever known of what was to come, from the moment he had been born to the time he had murdered the children? Surely, they had not. He wouldn't have known, either, in their place. He would've thought that only happiness was headed his way upon the birth of a child, but it would only come out to pain and suffering.
Why did he think of this? Why was he considering these thoughts? It was pointless! He felt flames singe his spine and staggered away. Now, the reality was bearing itself upon his shoulders and upon his throat. He had to get out of here! Self-preservation surged itself into him, and he stumbled about blindly, trying to find a way out of the lights and the heat and the harm. Pain stabbed through him from all angles, and he heard a creaking above his head. He looked up just in time to see more of the ceiling cave in. He attempted to jump back, only to end up pinned down by the legs. He tried to move them, but to no avail. Panic strived its way forward as he realized he couldn't move his legs at all. Agony jumped up to join the other emotions as the flames began to engulf him further. Then… he felt a droplet hit his bare throat. He cast his silver eyes upward to cloudy, indigo sky far above his head, through the smoke, the flame, and the ceiling. The sky… he had almost forgotten what it looked like.
It was raining. At first, in a few sprinkles, then in a shower. The flames were still eating away at him, slowly. His legs were still incapable of movement, but now the showers were rushing over him. He imagined they cleansed his soul, but it was only a fantasy. Of course, rain was incapable of such things. His hopes were ripped away from him by his logical mind, but he began to feel a kind of peace come over him. Perhaps, now, he could finally sleep? He stared at the sky, trying to imprint in his head. His arms were sprawled at his sides, pieces of the suit he wore torn from the stress of the clutter and the flame. Slowly, but surely, he became more and more dormant, until, at last, he felt sleep take him over. It was a miraculous feeling, he realized, as he began to fall into it.
Sleep. He had missed it, too.