Mike always knew his life was screwed up.
His parents sucked- They neglected him and treated him horribly, damaging him to the point where he could no longer confide - so they, the strange uniformed people, put him in foster homes at six years of age. He lived with three different foster families, each one sending him back because of frequent, violent mood swings and fights with their own children. Their attitude damaged Mike's mental state more and more. When he was eight years old, he finally just ran away.
The uniformed people found him of course, and this time they took him to an academy for boys. The other boys at the school avoided him, though, because of his intimidating aura and rebellious attitude. He would talk back to the teachers and not do any work, and was sent to detention ninety-five percent of the time. He hated the school and everyone in it, and he believed everyone hated him back. Late one night, two years later, he ran away from that, too.
This time, when they found him, they took him to juvenile detention. It was more of a hospital, really. The ladies that would try to talk to him- were they psychiatrists?- reminded him of his mother no matter how different they really looked or acted; one would have her eyes, one would have her hair, one would have her stance. Whenever Mike saw the resemblance he would get anxiety and back into the corner of the room. He wouldn't talk to them at all. Sooner than later his imaginary friends were less friends than terrifying voices in his head that would continue to torment him, reminding him of everything negative he'd ever known about himself. This lead him out of bipolar and into depression. One time he actually attempted to listen to a psychiatrist, but everything she said sounded hollow, as if she wasn't actually trying to understand him, only trying to sugarcoat the truth. This was added to the list of things the voices told him.
When the violent behavior finally subsided to defeat, they put him back into foster care. He finished school in less rebellion and more silence.
He was more than grateful to turn eighteen and finally get to live on his own, but bad luck still clung to him and it turned out just plain miserable. He could only afford to live in the ghettos - his school grades were terrible so he couldn't get a good job - and more than once he'd been pinned up against the wall, robbed of anything valuable that happened to be in his jacket pockets. If there wasn't anything, they would get frustrated and hurt him and call him things that gave a lot more damage than they could have realized. Sometimes he'd come home so stressed he'd break something, and sometimes, with those shards... the point was, he was alone, he was faking a smile, he battled the little voices in his head, and nothing even seemed worth the effort.
He went looking for another job, coming across Freddy's by sheer coincidence when burning newspapers in the fireplace and happening to see the ad. The pay was okay and would cover a rare electric bill, and it could be a good distraction for him. Little did he know how horrible that job would be- even the stupid robots wanted him out of their life! But it was quite a distraction, not to mention life-threatening; maybe that was why he even stayed. It made him feel sickeningly good to put his sucky life on the line, to see where the gamble would take him.
And then he met her. Amy Still, who'd been watching her niece play around in the pizzeria's arcade and happened to still be there when Mike arrived for his shift. They talked for a bit, and that alone gave Mike enough energy to get through his fourth night on the job. She came every day since then, around eleven, to talk to Mike before work and finally, he worked up the courage to ask her out. It surprised him when she accepted. For five or six weeks, he was happy. It felt like years. He took Sundays and Saturdays off from Freddy's to spend the whole twenty four hours with his new girlfriend. Then it happened... and it was all taken away.
She was worth the pain.
She was worth every freaking second of it... or so he told himself.
He couldn't stop thinking about it... Couldn't stop thinking about what he'd done wrong... What he'd done to make her leave...
It was the afternoon when she called him. Apparently she couldn't handle saying it to his face. Or she knew he couldn't handle it. He never did tell her how bad his depression really was, just that he had it. Maybe she forgot. She resorted to yelling when he kept asking 'why'; and he added annoying to his list of flaws. He tried to tell himself that break-ups were part of life but it still hurt. Like someone had reached into his chest and ripped out his heart, holding it above their head so he couldn't get it back. And it hurt. Not just the break-up but everything. His past was recolored, and this mixed with the recent events made a hurricane of glass shards and fire so painful he couldn't think straight. It tormented him to the point he couldn't sleep and when he did, he had nightmares- horrible, horrible nightmares.
He wanted the pain to stop.
He wanted it gone.
It wouldn't leave.
When eleven o' clock rolled around, he considered calling in sick, so people could go by that alibi when he never showed up. He had a different plan of course- he had scissors in the kitchen drawer. But when his boss called him instead, to announce some changes in the schedule and some other unimportant features, Mike realized something. The robots at Freddy's attempted to kill him every night. He didn't even have to do the dirty work- they could do it for him. All he had to do was sit and wait, didn't even have to turn on the power. All the time passed, waiting for work, he placed different bets on who would get to him first. In the end, he bet on Bonnie.
When he reached the office, he sat down in the dark, not even touching the lights. He leaned against the desk in his chair and pulled out his ipod to listen to music before... before it happened. He scrolled through the playlists but every song reminded him of Amy. Every. Single. Song. Set It Off, Get Scared, The Used, all skipped, left with the cheesy music she herself had downloaded on his ipod. No way in heck was he listening to that.
Finally, he unplugged the earbuds and stuffed them in his pocket, leaving the ipod on the table, at the screen saver, her picture. It was all her fault. Why did he still love her?
It hurt.
He hurt.
He wanted it to stop.
When Freddy's stupid music played, he was reminded of his bet. Guess I was wrong after all. Wouldn't be the first time.
And for death, he waited.