I was nervous, as would seem was now the norm. Everyone in the waiting room was staring at me. I allowed them to judge me. I was not a human anymore. Just an animatronic. They were right to stare. I glanced over to the door and wondered just when my appointment would-

Er, wait. I'm getting a little ahead of myself again, aren't I? I am. Where was I? The hallucination I had?

Right.

I was bought into the house and questioned for my freakout. I had somehow managed not to show any of the pages containing my child killing confessions and made up more lies considering my hallucination. I told them that I had seen the coat rack as an old animatronic going after me. They were both baffled and started arguing again. The mother wanted to help me and the father only wanted me out. He said that if I was going to continue to have freakouts like that, then I wouldn't be welcome anymore.

Something about terrorizing the children.

What I did that moment? I sat there, fighting for any feelings of challenge to come. It would be so much easier if I became a serial killer again. I would be the most frightening animatronic to ever blight the world. But... no challenge came. Why wasn't it happening!? It did earlier! I wanted to tear their throats out with my bear hands! Bite open their stomachs with my animatronic teeth and pul out their intestines! I wanted red to rain down upon me!

But still no challenge came! My frustration and anxiety grew and I buried my animatronic head in my animatronic hands.

It was then I realized just how much of a mess I was. I knew I fell. I had lost my identity. I had died. Everything was taken away from me... including my urges. Patrick Ameth is completely dead. The only thing that remained was a pathetic, decrepit artifact who should have been destroyed and dismantled thirty years ago.

I don't deserve help. I don't deserve family. I don't even deserve any social interaction. I should have stayed in that warehouse and fully rotted away.

The parents eventually decided on an agreement. They will search for help for me, but I was not to be in the house until they found it. Whatever. I numbly nodded, took the notebook, and exited the house. The mother chased after me, urging me to go somewhere where they would know to find me.

"the warehouse"

Those were my last words to the parents for quite some time. Once again, I was shambling around in broad daylight. However, unlike last time, I was... more aware. People were talking about me. Staring at me. They were treating me as nothing but an object. My fame preceded me wherever I was walking. It was right of them to have treated me this way.

I tried ignoring them as best as I could and went to the warehouse. My stay there was as uneventful as when I was trapped for thirty years. Aside from the hallucinations that I had. Meaningless and haunting hallucinations. I was attacked by the animatronics, haunted by Patrick Ameth before he became me, and the new owner of Fazbear Frights had come to taunt me every once in a while. All of them seemed to push and prod at my guilt. I don't want to feel guilty.

Please... I was in too much pain... Guilt just brings more pain.

Guilt just brings more pain.

...But perhaps... I deserve that pain. I couldn't even kill anyone if I wanted to anymore. I could go on about how pathetic I was further, but I think I'm starting to annoy you. So instead, I'll just continue on with my story.

The parents eventually came back. It might have been months. I was not paying attention... only waiting as I did in that sealed room. Somehow, they told me they convinced a therapist to see me. I motioned that I needed another notebook. It was evidence, but all I would tell them was that I lost it while exploring the warehouse.

After a quick stop to the store to buy a fresh notebook and pencil, they dropped me off at the therapist office. So there I was now. Sitting in the chair and feeling nervous and anxious. I didn't read any of the magazines or write in my notebook or do anything of note. I didn't need to be here. I didn't want to be here. What if the therapist finds out that I killed children?

I would have to not be tricked. Minutes felt like days to me then and there. I was still hoping for challenges to rise up against me so that I may kill. This would be the perfect opportunity for a challenge to come. But none came. They'll never come ever again. I could tear myself apart in my own misery.

Eventually, the door opened and I glanced over. The therapist looked disgruntled.

"Spri- Oh, god, it's real!"

The therapist did not look disgruntled anymore. He looked frightened. I did nothing. Nothing but stare. Silence took over. The therapist looked as if he didn't know what to do.

Ghosts are real, boys and girls. And they're capable of haunting objects.

"i am springtrap and i am ready"

I did not even try to calm him down. I couldn't even if I felt like it. I didn't know how to. And please bear with me for the rest of this part of the story. I will be saying to you exactly what I told the therapist just to smooth things out a little.

"S- so... Uhm... please tell me a little about yourself."

I am Springtrap. An animatronic. I died thirty years ago and was bought at an auction when Fazbear Frights had burned down to the ground.

"Uh... Can- can you please tell me about the notebook your using?"

It hurts to talk. It's easier to write.

"...Okay... um... How... Why am I talking to this? Ugh... How did you... die?"

I was stuffed inside this suit and left to die by other animatronics that were haunted. (Just a little side note to this conversation, the therapist was definitely unsettled at this point.)

"Ahem... Well... the people that talked to me mentioned a hallucination. Can you tell me about that?"

It started I think months ago. Or weeks. I lost track of time. (I should note that the therapist waited for me to continue... multiple times.) The hallucinations come at me and try to attack me and threaten me. They only started recently when I was around the parents' house for much, much longer. They didn't start when I was killed. They didn't start when I was dead for thirty years. They didn't start when I was bought at the auction. They didn't start when I lived at the house for months at end. They had only started when I was trying to escape the suit so I would be able to depart.

"And can you tell me a little more about the suit?"

Golden Bonnie. It used to be called that. It was a hybrid suit. The springlocks in there could be retracted so a person could fit inside of it. When I was fully inside the suit, I tried to escape, but the springlocks went off and killed me.

...Actually, we're going to be here all day if I say everything the conversation had to offer. Let it be said that I tried my best to close myself off and shroud the truth of what lead to my death. The therapist was left asking basic questions about me and my past. Who I was before I was killed, what was going on after I was sold at the auction. I tried keeping it brief, but the therapist simply wanted more and more. This did not help my anxiety. More and more questions were asked and the therapist seemed to get more and more professional about his job.

The worst part about it was... he reassured me and comforted me until I continued. What kind of person has this type of power over people? I needed to get out so he wouldn't coax me into revealing the truth. Therapists and psychologists are evil, torturous beings. I felt like a blur until I was able to escape when the session ended.

I had hoped never to return there. It was only too risky.