Hey, I'm back!

I had a lot of back and forth on how to go about this one, but I think I've struck a good balance and I'm happy with the result.

I may end up putting this story on Wattpad too, just to spread it around a bit.

Nothing of the Pizza Plex in here, promise there's a whole lot of that coming later.

I won't keep you, enjoy!

Songs: Empty (Juice WRLD), Rumors (NEFFEX) Oceans (Jacob Lee)


I've always enjoyed the rundown style of old dive bars. It's like... a different world where the stresses, worries, problems, and discomforts of life just fade away. It's just you and an old, thick, cold glass of whatever cheap beer suits your fancy.

It's on a Monday night, my only night off from the Pizza Plex, that I find myself in a small hole-in-the-wall bar.

Johnny's.

This bar has always caught my fancy. No windows looking out to the street, just the wooden door with the head-level gridded glass.

Though, the only honest reason I'm here is because I emptied the two bottles I had stored in my cupboard.

Most things in the establishment are wooden, bolted by metal bolts or screws or just completely wooden-assembled, presenting a homely rustic atmosphere.

There's a jukebox on the left as soon as you walk in. It's almost always playing an even mix of old, bluesy jazz or old dad rock, a quite welcome combination to reminisce upon old memories with.

Right now, an absolute classic is on. Wicked Game by Chris Isaak.

On one half of the room, there are a few tables, spaced out nicely, round and big enough to seat up to five people comfortably. There's a deck of standard playing cards on every table for card games.

On the other half of the room are two pool tables with a pool cue holder lying between the two, the aged pool cues beholding scratches and slight dings and dents, standing as a testament to the bar's time.

What separates these halves is a stage, against the back wall with each half evenly cutting into both sides of the place. It's nothing grand, just an elevated semi circle slab of wood, a glorified soap box. There's a light above that shines down, powered by a switch on the wall of the stage itself. I've occasionally seen people get a little too far gone in the bottle and put on a performance at that very stage.

I say occasionally. I've been coming here for as long as I've been immortal so I've seen it happen more times than I can count. It just doesn't happen often. But karaoke is welcome here, and those who can sing are rewarded by a cheering crowd with an accepting nature.

The bar counter is actually one of the most unique parts of this place. It's in the shape of an L, the shorter side parallel to and right in front of the entrance, with the long side spanning the tabled half of the room, perpendicular to the door. The counter itself is made up of two pieces of driftwood, sanded and mildly shaped to sit flat and be structurally sound, decorated with a low shine thick coating of wood lacquer.

On the service side of the counter, of course, is a wall of the different types of alcohol served, visible to the customer, as well as a wall of glasses. Underneath the bar, I'm really not sure, but it's where all the different trinkets and primitive machines are that the bartender uses to create his art. The art most of the time being cracking open a beer and sliding it down the counter, but occasionally he'll whip out some mystical shit and surprise the poor saps sitting at the counter.

The bartender himself is a man I've come to look at as the face of the establishment. An older man, probably in his late 40's or early 50's, I still don't know. He'll always tell you, "I'm still in my golden age," though he is in fact well beyond his prime.

That's Johnny. A fairly handsome man, about 5 inch long clean silver-grey hair combed and groomed, always covered by an old yellow and orange plaid hat. He always wears a black light wash button up shirt, sleeves rolled up halfway with the top few buttons unbuttoned, showing a bit of chest hair. He dons a simplistic black belt with dark blue jeans and non-slip boots.

This simplistic, casual, styled 'lazy' outfit is sort of a message to those who enter. It's a statement about the kind of environment it is.

I myself am wearing the extremely fancy, outstandingly fasionable, red flannel and dark jeans with black laced boots.

Extravagant, I know.

The man is always polishing a glass, or wiping down an area he's already cleaned, or fiddling with some kind of equipment he keeps behind the bar.

"It makes people all awkward when the bartender just stands there with his dick in his hand," is what I believe he's told me.

He's an outer city kind of guy, worked with his hands for a long time. You get used to his curt language after a while.

"Want another?" He asks me, wiping the other end of the bar.

I haven't even noticed my glass was empty. I've been swirling an imaginary liquid in the glass for... however long I've been thinking for.

"Yeah, why not." I say, setting the glass down and looking in his direction. He shoots me another look and a slight scoff. I simply cannot let it slide.

"What?"

"Nothin', Mike. The same?" He says, setting the rag on the counter and walking over to wall of drinks, already grabbing the typical Honey Jack Daniels I usually go for.

"Thanks. And seriously, what?"

He pours the drink, filling it about halfway.

"It's a wonder you're still the handsome devil you are without an aged face and fat gut, boy." Ouch.

"How do you mean?"

"Most guys comin' in as much as you look like hammered shit. Ya' also drink like a fish and never even get a wobble."

"I haven't drank that much, tonight..." I've had two, maybe three glasses.

"Buddy, this drink was full before you came in." He swishes the bottle he poured.

There's only about a fourth of the bottle remaining. It's a large bottle, too, I think two liters.

I have, in fact, had more than two or three glasses.

"Oh. I... didn't know." He's shocked by my response.

"I'd have cut anybody else off by now. Shit, I should probably cut you off now." Johnny roams to the end of the bar, sensing the conversation's drought and leaving me to mine own.

Fair enough. This is gonna run me a fortune, most likely.

"Y'understand you're payin' way more than what it would cost to just buy the bottle, right?"

"I can pay it."

"You're just full of surprises, kid."

'Kid.'

Buddy, you have no idea how far beyond 'kid' I am at this point.

It offends me to a degree. But at the same time it's almost comforting, hearing an organically older person talk to me as if I'm a young man. He's just one of those people that it's endearing to hear it from.

I am a 50-something year old soul trapped in a 20-something year old's husk.

He's right though. This is going to run me a pretty penny, much more than just buying a bottle at the store.

I'm not hurting for funds, I can manage it.

...

I don't believe I've mentioned that little detail.

After... everything, I discovered that since I am the last living Afton, and the only next one set to inherit the fortunes of my father and Henry.

Last minute, Henry listed me as his next of kin, claiming on the paperwork he was my godfather.

... I wonder if he always suspected I'd survive.

I met with financial advisors, lawyers, investment advisors, etc. I ended up making... hold on to your hats here.

A metric shit load of money.

My net worth was somewhere in the hundred millions. Along with inheriting the lone money the two possessed, I inherited the companies as well.

I can't get into the whole process because I honestly don't even know how it happened, but I worked with a lawyer and we were able to sell the companies for parts, still gaining a ridiculously large profit for the rights of the technology. All the machines and advancements dear old Dad made remained hidden away and forgotten, dissassembled and scattered pieces of business.

I think his name was Mike Ross? Not sure, don't really remember. But damn, was he good.

I've been paying my own accountant to analyze the stock market and move my funds as he sees fit so I constantly stand to gain more and more money.

We have a good relationship, exactly how I want it. He does what he does, and he and I have no contact except for the spare email asking for authorization on a big move.

My life may be in shambles and I may be living in constant sorrow and regret, but at least I'm rich while doing it.

Right?

"Fair enough." I respond to Johnny, effectively ending the conversation. I turn my attention to the 49ers game on the TV in the corner of the room, near the entrance.

...

...

...

I remember when I made my earliest discovery of what my father was truly doing, it was the Funtime animatronics at Baby's. Their blueprints were what tipped me off in the beginning, when I discovered the sound illusion disks, Freddy's stomach hatch with the figure of the child inside, Baby's inner claw to snatch children.

This was back when I first began to suspect my father of being the psychopath nobody could have predicted.

I was going to kill myself that night, if I didn't find anything.

I was in a really dark spot after everything with Evan.

Of course, I found something that catapulted me into the adventure of the fucking century, so I couldn't. It was overshadowed by a sense of duty, an urgency that refused to let me off myself.

I still grieve for the life that could've been.

Who would I have become if I hadn't made that one fateful mistake? Would I have become a police officer? An IT specialist? A fireman? A contractor?

Would I have found a woman who could love me? Would I be deserving of love? Would I raise a family?

...

Would I have always turned out this way?

Would I have always become this self-loathing pathetic man with no purpose to serve?

Was my story written out in stone by some higher power? Did I piss Him off in some earlier life to deserve this?

...

Would Dad and I go golfing sometimes?

...

Would Mom and I get coffee every now and then?

...

Would Evan have gone to college? Would him and I have gotten drinks on the weekends?

...

Would he have become a 'puppy doctor', like he always talked about?

...

Would I be fighting off the boys chasing Elizabeth?

...

Would Henry be that cool uncle I go fishing with?

...

...

...

My God, where would we all be if I wasn't such a sick fuck who liked to pick on little kids?

...

If I could go back and somehow erase myself from existence if it meant my family could still be here and be happy, live out long and happy lives, I'd take that shot in a heartbeat.

But things didn't go that way, did they?

...

...

...

I'd like to say I grew out of that depression phase, but I honestly never did. The only reason I didn't pull the plug is because it's literally not possible.

...

...

...

I gotta stop thinking about this shit.

...

As for the new place, I haven't found a thing.

I started with the blueprints and schematics for the animatronics. They were about as standard as they come. No mysteriously named parts, no sketchy figures, nothing to suggest any ill achieved materials or hidden features designed to lure in or kill children.

Mind you that these are the schematics to build the animatronics. Anything possibly needed in the creation process would be listed in what I found. But there was nothing.

The only thing I found strange was that Roxanne had a different model design than the others. Her framework and external design was also more intricate, even down to the... genitalia... but she is the most familiar animal, being related to dogs and all, so it makes sense she'd be accurately made.

The whole genitalia thing though... I'd rather not know about that one.

I've made the executive decision that that is not important information.

As for the elephant, their personalities...

I couldn't believe it, but there's no soulplay at work here. No possession, no soul fusion, nothing sketchy.

Turns out this company that created the animatronics, is a leading developer of advanced AI technologies. The animatronics are their best works, and Freddy's bought out four of their endoskeletons for a very expensive, but accurate, price.

Well, no. Freddy's bought three of them. Another difference is that Roxanne didn't come fresh out of the factory like the others did.

But, again, it makes sense a different company would have created her, seeing as she has a different physical build and appearance. One that is unreasonably realistic.

However, as I later discovered, Roxanne wasn't made by another company. She was made by the same robotics developer, only a couple years earlier, and she was made by special request.

But, I couldn't find anything more. I concluded that there was nothing to find and that since Roxanne isn't an animatronic ever seen before, it makes sense that she's got a history outside of Freddy's. I see no reason to dig into it.

So then I looked into the manufacturer closer.

I feared at first that the companies I dissassembled and sold off had been somehow fully re-realized, but that's just not the case.

Each of the companies involved with any production of any property and merchandise here are all trustworthy, verifiable developers and businesses.

When the research of the companies led me nowhere, I did my homework on the owners. Nick and Ryan.

Nick is the man I interviewed with, but Ryan joined in on the interview about midway through. Both are about 40 by the looks of them, good men to talk to.

Their dynamic is obvious. Nick is the CEO, the man upstairs who oversees the legal and business world affairs of the place. He sets up partnerships with other companies, seeks out business ventures and what-not. Ryan is more the inside boss.

I don't mean that in the sense that he's an onsite manager. He just handles internal affairs. Like the upkeep of the place, employee scheduling, customer service and everything like that.

With as much technology as there is there, of course they have a few IT guys working with them. They work more on call than not, as the place is somehow impressively sound in terms of technical security.

Then again that's probably because of the work of those people. I'm not super sure.

The only one I've met was Luis. Seems like a fine guy.

I've checked every backdoor entrance, every supply closet, every dirty corner and every dark room in the place.

There's just... nothing.

...

I should be happy.

I should be goddamn elated, knowing there's no more children going missing. Knowing my father's been put to rest for good.

Well, not put to rest, I guess. That bastard's burning for all the damage he's caused.

But it's been thirty years.

Thirty long years.

I've seen the development of the cellphone, for Christ's sakes.

I'm restless.

I needed something.

I needed there to be something to be changed. Fixed. Freed.

I needed there to be a purpose to my existence. I needed a purpose to simply... be.

But there's just... not.

And any hope I could have had has washed away with every damn glass of whiskey I've drank tonight.

I'm not going to leave the Pizza Plex. I'm always gonna be around.

It's just not...

It's not fair.

...

...

...

Maybe I'll just wallow here for a bit and that'll help.

...

With the brim of my hat pulled over my eyes and my head down, I finish my drink and I sit idly for a while.

I wish I could feel physically tired and be able to sleep this feeling off. But I can't.

Even when I force myself to 'sleep', my mind remains completely active. I don't feel every minute passing, but I feel every thought in my head come and go. It serves me no good.

Tried drinking myself to sleep, too. Unhealthy, I know. But when you're basically real life Cain, it doesn't matter.

Didn't do shit for me, every time I would get a buzz it seemed to dissappear immediately. It's horrible.

Silence makes me reflective, I suppose. Reflective makes me sad.

"Well?"

I jolt in surprise, looking to my left to see who disturbed my mournful silence. It's a woman. One whom I have never seen before, so why she sits with me, I haven't the faintest notion.

"Sorry, didn't notice you there." I say, my head returning to look at the glass I fiddle with in my hands. There's a particular scratch my hand seems to enjoy picking at.

I'm like a toddler sometimes, I swear.

"Yeah, I figured. Saw you from the end of the bar."

"Hmm." Not sure what you're hoping to get out of this conversation here.

"Johnny, let me get a doubleshot of tequila?" The girl asks politely with a higher pitched voice, like a child asking for a cookie from the cookie jar. Johnny nods his head and gathers the components to create the concoction.

Look at me, I'm Dr. Seuss.

I take a closer look at her and my breath hitches for but a moment.

She... she reminds me of Elizabeth.

Light blonde hair, brought back to a ponytail. These emerald eyes that seem to speak to me on a different kind of plane. Sharp facial features only seem to accentuate her eyes even more. As for clothing, she wears a white tanktop underneath a jacket, naturally slightly unzipped to attempt show off her bust. Which is... definitely there.

Unrelated to the Elizabeth thing, she does have vibrant and... somewhat voluptuous curves, not comically so, but definitely an hourglass figure. She's obviously trying to display it, between the jacket and short shorts that look barely finger length. She also wears plain black high top Vans.

A simple style, but I must say the style works for her. She's a pretty girl.

...

Well now I sound like I'm attracted to my sister.

I am not, let me be clear on that.

I think it's... the familiarity of her that draws me in.

...

I'm thinking about how pissed I'd be if Elizabeth ever were dressed like this out in public. It's... a funny thought.

"Am I just that stunning, orrrr..." She asks me.

Shit, she's fully turned to me. She probably asked me something while I've been sitting here like a fool ogling her. I turn to look forward.

"Sorry, didn't mean to be rude."

"I'm kiddin' around, I don't mind." She has an innocent city girl mid-pitch kind of voice, it somehow works with her appearance, I can't explain how.

"What I asked was, do you come around here often?" She takes a sip out of what may be the thinnest straw I've ever seen.

"No, just in the area. Thought I'd stop in." That's a stupid reason to be in a bar, she definitely knows I'm lying.

"Well, I didn't peg you for a liar, mister." She says in an... unnecessarily flirty voice.

"What?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean any offense. Look, I've seen you in here before. What's your story?" You don't understand how heavy that question is.

Oh, how I wish I could say.

...

Nah, I really don't, upon reflection.

"What's yours?" Checkmate.

"Just wanted to go out, I guess. It was either sit inside and watch Gilmore Girls or, well, this."

Shit. Touché.

"So what brings you in?" She reminds me

What 'brings' anyone into the bar?

"I don't have a 'story'."

I lift my glass with my right hand to drain it of final sip of the sweet, smokey Honey Jack Daniels whiskey, I don't notice my sleeve roll down just a bit.

The significance of the right hand is that a couple inches of my forearm's underside is visible to her, revealing slashes on my wrist.

I realize with a lifted brow and quick glance to my arm after setting the glass down and smoothly attempt to slide my sleeve back down.

Unfortunately, it seems that she's already noticed and is now looking at me with that damned look of pity I so hate to see. I sheepishly look away.

"It's nothing."

Fantastic fucking excuse, Michael.

She turns her head slightly, relaxing her shoulders as she rests against the back of the barstool.

Did I freak her out?

Maybe she'll leave me alone now.

"Any chance you wanna... talk about it?" She leans a bit closer as if she actually cares.

I respond with a glare telling her what she already knows, that it's a fool's errand trying to get me to open up.

"Think of me as your emotional support stranger. Who better to talk about it to than a stranger in a bar?" She says with a comforting low voice.

"I'm alright."

"Okay."

She took the hint. Shocking. I look at all the different bottles on the shelf in front of us, hoping to distract myself from the insecurities creeping in.

"I'm Vanessa." She turns to face forward, mimicking me.

Let her go, Mike. You don't need anyone knowing you.

...

"Mike." I blurt out.

Well, shit.

"Mike. Figured you'd be a Jim, or a Jake," she pauses, looking all over my face, "well, I guess I kinda see it now."

Alright, I'm not gonna dance around the bush with you.

"What are you trying to do here?"

"What do you mean? It's a bar, I'm getting a drink-"

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

She frowns a bit, and once more, faces forward, placing both her hands on her now empty shot glass.

Her head cocks to my direction just a bit.

"Just trying to make a friend."

"A friend?"

"Yep." Her head faces me once again, and those eyes... they throw me for a loop. It's like she knows that.

"Mhmm."

...

"Guy like you? Figured you'd be better at talking to women." She chuckles, resting her head on her arm with a smile.

I'm... offended?

No. Wait, yes.

...

What the fuck does that mean?

"Hmm?"

I swear to God, Mike, say 'hmm' one more damn time.

"Just... seems like a man like you would have more... experience."

A man like me, eh?

You have bad taste in men.

...

Come on, Vanessa, I'm not worth your time. Please, go do literally anything else.

I came here to delude myself into thinking everything is okay with alcohol, not get hit on by someone who doesn't know what's good for them.

"So this is how you spend your Monday nights? You, what? Go to bars and hit on lonely men?" I ask, looking her in the eyes, gesturing the 'bars' with my hand.

"Lonely?" She asks, baiting a response.

"."

Nuh-uh. You're not about to play therapist with me.

I don't respond.

"You just... I've seen you in here before, you're always alone, here before and after I'm gone."

"You're here that much?"

"No. That's my point."

Fair, I suppose.

"You don't need to know who I am." I look the other way, avoiding eye contact.

"No, you're right. I don't."

...

"But who says I can't?"

"You can't."

"Why, you 'dangerous' or something?" She nudges my shoulder with a giggle.

"Not in the way you think."

"Ooooo, mysterious, do tell!" She leans in to show she's interested.

"That should not interest you." I can't help but think she's a little endearing.

"Probably not." She agrees.

"I could be some kind of creep or something."

"And the fact you care enough to warn me about something like that tells me all you're one of the good ones."

...

That feels... really good to hear.

Too bad it's not true.

...

"Look, your wary of me, I can see that."

"Mhm."

"You don't have to be."

"I'm not... I just-"

"Can't talk to women?"

Hardy har, Vanessa.

"Hah hah." I sarcastically retort, like a child.

...

"How 'bout we go back to mine tonight?" She says.

And there it is. I chuckle and nod my head.

"What're you laughin' at?" She chuckles with me, crossing her arms, fulling rotating in her chair to face me.

"The last thing I expected tonight was this."

"How come?"

"I'm not the kind of guy girls approach, Vanessa."

"Yeah, okay." She snorts with sarcasm.

Go through my contacts then, woman. You won't find one.

"Soooooo?"

I look at her skeptically.

...

"Jesus Christ, look, I'm not trying to marry you here. Let's go have some fun, that's all I'm saying. God knows you seem like you could use it."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

All she does is look at me like I'm stupid.

...

Well, I suppose she... put it together.

I still don't respond.

She sighs and stands to leave.

"Alright, well I'm leaving. When I walk out that door, the offer expires." She puts her hand on my upper arm, feeling it up and down. Then, she leans into my ear.

"I think you deserve a reward, I suggest you claim it." She says seductively, with a breath into my ear that sent a chill down my back.

I have this sixth sense o' mine telling me this is something I'm going to regret dearly in the future, but...

How long has it been since I took a night away from just being fucking miserable?

Here is a beautiful woman who is hitting on me.

Me.

I know there are about a thousand ways this could bite me in the ass somehow...

Fuck it. I haven't stopped and had fun in years. And she's right, after striking out like I have with Freddy's, I could use it.

"Wait."

She turns around with a devilish smile on her face.

"I'll drive. You've been drinking..." Not looking to be party to an accident if I can stop it.

"All I've had was a beer an hour ago and that one double shot. I can hold my liquor, dad."

I hold the urge to correct her and say 'daddy'.

...

Well now I really want to kill myself.

"... If you say so."

"Good boy." She says when I'm close enough to whisper to me.

Ooooooooooooohhhh yeah.

The Michael gets to take a night off.


...

...

...

"Michael, don't leave me here!"

"MICHAEL!"

"MICHAEL!"

I shoot awake with a sharp inhale in a panic, rising to a hunch with sweat caking my forehead.

Jesus, it takes a pretty bad one to get me sweating and out of breath.

I look around immediately, hoping I'm out of that God forsaken place, a sigh of relief escaping me once I realize I'm in the clear.

It was... another one, about the Fazbear Frights fire, this time.

My 'sleeps' are usually unpleasant, I suppose. This isn't really breaking the mold.

...

Alright.

I take a moment to recuperate and recount where I am, what happened and how it happened. Although, with one quick at the clothes scattered across the room, loose shirts and... it would appear the undergarments of both mine and Vanessa's.

...

Shit, that's right. I'm at Vanessa's.

The woman in question is miraculously not stirred by my little freakout, which means I have a chance to leave unnoticed. I need to take it.

I take a closer look at her to make sure she is definitely asleep.

She's facing me, body covered underneath the covers except for her head. Her hair is... understandably frizzled.

After we returned from the bar last night, things were kind of a blur.

A lot of moving around and crashing into things, you know?

It definitely seemed like Vanessa needed the night to happen, too.

I mean it was obvious at the bar, but I suppose it was a whole different deal when we got here.

She was... kind of an animal.

...

I shudder thinking about it.

Alright, let's go.

Getting out from under the covers with careful precision so as to not rock the bed too much, I stand on my feet, completely naked.

Objective 1, find my damn clothes.

I scour the dark room, being careful so as to not bump into anything and cause noise. Luckily, the room itself is fairly small, so I doubt I have much to sift through. I also have some lighting to help me out, as Vanessa is a woman in her early 20's.

By that I mean she has one of those light strip sets that are all the rage anymore, I have no idea why.

Actually, that red that it's currently lit up with sort of did help set the vibe.

Starting with the watch I find on the nightstand next to me, I check the luminescent hands and notches to identify the time.

3:15.

That's kinda funny.

Well, like Amityville funny.

No?

Okay.

...

Anyways, I scour the room, finding my pants on Vanessa's side of the bed, one of my socks in the corner of the room and the other on the literal complete other side hanging on the door to her wardrobe closet.

Don't ask me how, I couldn't tell you.

I pick it up off the knob and move to-

...

Hmm, that's... interesting.

There's... a head to a costume of some kind. It looks like a work in progress.

There are a few key details about it I can pick out. It's obviously homemade, indicated by sloppy stitching holding different pieces of what seem to be entirely different kinds of fabric. One velvet piece, the other some kind of fleece. It's colored white, some patches grey, even, due to the whole different fabrics thing.

It almost looks like a... chipmunk? Maybe?

No, that's...

"Michael!"

...

Oh God, a headache's starting to set in.

...

That's a bunny.

...

...

Goddamn it, I just had a fucking dream about him, too...

...

"Michael!" I can hear him in the back of my head...

...

NO.

...

...

Get out of my head, father...

...

*Exhale*

Alright. I'm good. I'm... I'm good.

I snap out of it, opening my eyes to find my fists clenching the head of the... bunny mask, in front of me.

This has literally nothing to do with those days.

It won't happen again. There's no way.

It's probably just some furry convention suit, or... something like that. Not my business.

...

I put it back where I found it and pick up my clothes.

I check on Vanessa once again, she's out cold still.

Fortunately, my shirt, hat, and boots are not in the room so that means that I'm done in here.

Like the silent ninja of the night, I expertly turn the knob slowly, making no sound at all, and exit the room, closing the door behind me.

Outside the door, I take the chance to throw what clothes I have back on. Underwear, jeans, belt, socks.

Huh, the whole place is kinda quaint, isn't it?

I'm not clowning. I enjoy the atmosphere, small and confined. It's just one person, how much space do you need anyhow?

...

As much as I want to, I've invaded her privacy enough, I'm not about to go peeping through her entire home.

I find my shirt hung up over a chair at her kitchen island, along with my phone and wallet on the countertop, unfolding the latter to make sure all my funds are still in the confines.

You never know. Not that I need it... more about the principle.

After determining my wallet is in fact left unchecked, I take a brief scan of the room, looking for my hat.

...And there it is, on top of...

Heh, well what do you know.

That'd be a white rabbit's cage.

I grab my hat of the top and slap it on my head, feeling more at home at the very same time.

I take a sigh of relief. The rabbit helps explain the costume in the room.

The rabbit still deeply unsettles me, however.

If you'll recall, remember that I spent many years hunting the animatronic creation based on this animal.

Yeahhhh, on second thought, fuck rabbits in general.

...

I do a quick pat down of myself and ensure that I have all my belongings. I in fact, do, and with that, I can leave.

I put on and tie my shoes, taking a final look at the place.

Now, I leave, closing the door quietly behind and ensuring the doorknob lock is enabled before I leave.

Don't want Vanessa getting robbed now, do we?

...

The hallway's appearance gives me a pretty good idea of what kind of place this apartment building is.

The hallway is extensive, but not wide. A single hall of doors across from eachother, white walls and dark brown flooring. There's a slight stench that catches my nose, nothing really in particular, more of a stagnant air/dirty laundry kind of aroma.

The lights flicker every now and then, and while the walls are white, they definitely have signs of wear and tear.

Vanessa's apartment seemed clean enough, though dated, as the building is likely many decades old, as indicated by the poor quality wiring.

Generally I'm getting the hint that both the cost and quality of living is fairly low, fitting for a younger person new to venturing out on their own.

...

I remember when I first began to look passable as a human being after Ennard finished puppeteering me, I was homeless for a brief bit.

I couldn't go back home, I never would. I'd ruined my family's home enough.

I was digging in trash cans to find edible food to survive, I made my home a literal box in an alley.

When I eventually made my 'God given' recovery and my skin turned from purple to a more pale and normal skin tone, I needed to get my life back on track enough to where I could focus my efforts on my father.

I had to start from scratch. No house, no family to help me, no job, no car, no money. Literally from nothing.

I broke into a small, local store by picking the backdoor lock afterhours, robbing the cash register of what little funds it had. I can't remember how much I ended up getting, but it was enough for me to afford a change of somewhat presentable clothes and stay in a motel and clean myself up.

From there, I got a job at a local gas station, working 84 hours a week.

Yep. Vengeance gives you a certain kind of overdrive, I guess. My first check was nice enough to get me a small, dirty apartment on the edge of town.

Living cheap and scraping by gets easier when you're doing it out of pure spite.

I still remember the pure anger, fright, and dread I felt at every second of every day, every second spent planning my father's demise.

From there...

Well, you know the rest.

...

Now I feel like shit. That's just great...

Anyway, I've made it out the front door of the apartment building now.

I check my phone, it's now 3:35. And I'm not entirely sure where we are.

I know we didn't go far from the bar, maybe a 5 minute drive at most. I only walked about 15 minutes from my house, myself.

Opening my navigator, classic Google Maps, I determine that I'm only about a 20 minute walk from home.

However, it's a beautiful night. A full moon, with a sea of stars visible in the endless sky behind it.

And when I see a bench by a pond about 5 minutes into my walk, I can't resist the urge to have a seat and just... reflect.

You know for someone to claim to hate it as much as I do, I sure as shit do it a lot.

...

I really thought that last night would be some kind of relief from the chaos of my mind. Some kind of break, that I would be magically happier afterwards.

But, I'm left with no relief, as usual.

At least Vanessa got something out of it, I guess.

Or maybe she didn't, I don't know.

The point is, the night did nothing for me.

...

God, the sky is beautiful tonight.

...

I wonder if my soul can, I don't know, 'burn out', or something of the like.

I just... I can't fathom the idea that I will be here forever. Immortality is such a constant concept to grasp for the average person.

You look at figments of fiction like Wolverine or Deadpool, or any other immortal superhero of the like, and it's exciting. Because they always have a valiant purpose. Because when they die and come back to life, they have a purpose and glory waiting for them at the end of the tunnel.

I don't.

I have sadness and misfortune waiting for me.

People oftentimes count their days. Have goals for their lives, hope to leave behind a legacy after their long, but surely limited time in life.

I don't have that luxury.

I still fool myself into thinking that one day, there will be a final day.

...

Am I here because my soul wasn't welcomed?

Am I just that unwanted?

I'd even accept Hell over this... I'm not entirely convinced I'm not in Hell right now, actually.

I mean, I figured out that mine and my father's soul remnants combined and fell back into my own form, but I was more soul than just remnant in comparison to my father.

Was I... rejected? Rejected from both Heaven and Hell? Simply denied access?

Is it possible souls exist without the existence of such realms?

...

Am I alone just that hated?

...

Just how long will I be around?

I mean, I understand the immortality thing... but there has to be some sort of timer, right? If not on my body, then on my soul, right?

It's like a law of the universe, or something. Everything must have an ending.

Maybe instead of just under a century, my soul will burn out in a couple centuries.

Or 1,000 years?

Or 10,000 years?

...

Fuck...

How long am I going to be here? Will I ever truly leave?

Will I see some kind of extinction event?

Will I see World Wars?

Will I see stars explode?

Will I see the Earth fall out of orbit and float off into space or into the Sun? Would... would that even kill me?

God... what if I'm around long enough to see our Sun burn out?

...

It's sickeningly poetic, how immortality was granted to the one person that wants to die more than anything else.

...

I have a dumb idea.

I put my elbows on my knees, clasp my hands and place them against my forehead, and close my eyes.

...

"Don't know if you can hear me. Don't know if you care. But I just... I don't know."

I wait to hear a response, as if He will talk back to me, as if He ever has before.

"Fuck you."

...

"I thought that with this new location, you were giving me a purpose. Giving me a break. Cutting me some slack of some kind."

My hands tighten.

"How foolish of me."

My feet plant harder to the ground.

"Do you just enjoy tormenting me?"

"Am I some game to you?"

...

"I... I hope Evan is in better hands than yours, up there."

I look up to the sky, as if I'm going to get some kind of answer, a rebuttal, a spiritual message.

I don't.

"I don't know how long this sick joke is going to entertain you, but I assure you that I accept death whenever you feel generous enough to grant it..."

"Amen."

I take my hands off my knees and let out a sigh of remorse.

Relief just never comes, I guess.

...

I know it in my heart that I deserve this, that this is my due.

Being pissed off at everything helps, though.

...

I've done far too much overthinking over the course of this night.

Whatever, tomorrow's another night at the Pizza Plex.