Mr Watson arrived as usual, not forgetting to bring with him his jovial smile and a new silly Freddy's-themed tie. Apparently, some claims against me were being settled. The detective now believes that the missing teens may have burned alive when Afton's house mysteriously caught fire. The victim of "cannibalism" decided to alter his report; the Purple Guy didn't hurt him- it was some wild bear that had burst through the window after smelling some food. Although the suspect happened to be nearby, he heard the police and ran in fear of being accused. The victim made this change himself, which was unexpected. But lucky.
"Unfortunately for him, the missus is kicking him out now," Watson added in a shrug. "He'll see some papers in his future."
That's my brother, I knew. He took back his report. Why? My throat tightened. He told me he didn't care. So why all of a sudden the change in heart? I asked Mr Watson how he knew all this. Did they convince him? There's no way he switched up on his own. And Mr Watson dodged the question with another lame company quote, and then he changed the subject.
"By the way, how are you doing?"
My gaze flicked away. I wasn't expecting to be questioned.
Exhausted. My body… the old memories coming up… I have never felt more disconnected from humanity. Being here only amplifies that feeling. Who knew that sitting in an empty room alone was bad for your state of mind? This deal I made will obviously go wrong. I kinda miss gum.
I could only glance at the glass separating us. No. He doesn't want to hear all that. He's talking about the tasks.
"I'm… I-I'm doing fine."
I rubbed my collarbone, mildly flustered for breaking my stoic demeanour. That was not smooth. Mr Watson leaned in.
"Are you sure?"
He narrowed his eyes, and I shifted in my seat. Dammit. I'm not doing good enough. I need to put the food away faster. They probably noticed I haven't been to the showers. I nodded after a century.
Thankfully, Mr Watson brought the conversation back to the pending charges. The detective could not tie the Purple Guy, also known as "Mike Schmidt", to either of the missing teens. And since I didn't admit to anything, there was no proof I did anything wrong besides what was witnessed on the camera footage- and the blue bruises I left on those cops, of course.
"You'd get maybe two years if we stopped there. But the big boss wants you out now. The sentencing is soon- everything should work out fine…"
The boss?
I snatched this chance to get some information. "Can… you t-tell me about him?" Mr Watson didn't reply right away, and I gripped the table edge. I'm asking the wrong questions. No… maybe he doesn't trust me? He said he did. I was sure he'd divert the subject again until he spoke.
"Well… he's been CEO since 1983. Your f- uh, the original boss, uh, entrusted him to take on the responsibility of keeping the Freddy Fazbear franchise alive. He's very, uh… hmm… flamboyant, as well as passionate in both his work and what was given to him."
Newspaper headings flickered at the back of my mind. 1983… CEO… is he talking about Henry Emily? I gave the "lawyer" a slow nod as I sank into my thoughts. Why would he watch me? Does he really want to help? My fingers created a rhythm on the tabletop. No. He wants to get me back on the streets. To watch me. Why?
Mr Watson's brow furrowed at my prolonged silence.
I'm not going to ask him that. What else does he know? Something came to mind.
"I have an-other question," I stated simply.
"Sure, go ahead," he nodded after glancing at his watch.
"What happened to… w-hat b-became of… of…"
A weight trapped the words in my throat. My eyes fell away from Mr Watson's inquisitive ones, and the world tripled. I coughed up some different words. "The missing girl's fa-ther… do y-you know how he is doing?"
"Who are you- ah." He paused. "One second." He fumbled through his papers, a strange look deepening his facial wrinkles the longer he read. "Jeffrey Sanderson… shot himself in the face."
That marked the end of this meeting.
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The glowing bug had gotten comfy on my bed during my absence. I frowned. Oh hell no. I slammed my fist down. Its body fluids squished into my palm. When I lifted my hand, my nose wrinkled. The peculiar pest quivered in place before slowly crawling forward. I crushed it again. It wriggled underneath me, its antennas flying around like mad. I scooped the bug into my palm and tossed it out into the hall. The tiny body left my field of vision. I hobbled to the sink and reached for the handles. My reflection in the basin was distorted.
A cockroach that can't be killed… did I do that?
"Hey, P-Man. Let's go."
The inmate (whose name is Stevens, I've learned) and I ventured down the halls in search of the individual he wanted to "spook". My mind was in a daze all thanks to last night's weird dream about glowing bugs, unborn babies, and heavy rain. It was strange and not very fun to endure.
Days ago, I explained to Stevens what exactly I wanted to gain from this deal: blank paper and something to write with. A notebook was ideal. Stevens laughed it off at first, but then joyfully assumed that my plan was to make a hitlist. I chose to brush this misunderstanding off, too tired to correct him. Not that he'd understand, anyway.
If I can't get my thoughts out, I am going to explode. Maybe a marker will do. I can write all over the walls like prisoners in the movies. And then when I get out here, I can combine my notes. And work on that plan.
"Hey! It's almost lights," a guard stopped Stevens to warn. "You know there are consequences, and they do apply to… you…" His voice faded upon his notice of me. Stevens grinned.
"That's right, man. I got the Purple Man."
The guard's hand met the gun on his hip. He seemed to interpret my stare as hostile- like I was sizing this guard up for a fight. Should I- no, I shouldn't say anything. There's nothing to say. Won't change anything.
"Get to- just get to your cell soon, alright?" he said, doing a terrible job at masking his fear. Stevens's smile remained.
"Yea sure thing."
He continued down the hall with that smug expression and the Purple Man tailing behind him.
I shouldn't have asked anything about Sanderson. I should've known. Why did I bother? Everyone around me… I shut down these thoughts. There was no point in dwelling on it. Stevens gave a childish wave to a nearby inmate, whose frown disappeared when he caught a glimpse of my presence. This happened several more times before we finally reached the cell of interest. It looked just like any other cell- a sad box with grey walls. The target snored peacefully, his large arms hanging off the bed mat. He was just some guy.
"Do your thing, spooky," Stevens whispered and wiggled his fingers. I rolled my eyes.
"Wake up."
The inmate grumbled unintelligibly and sat upright. He rubbed his eyes. It took him a minute to fully awaken.
"What's going on?" he began before noticing me. The colour drained from his face. "Whoa- whoa, I- I don't know you, man, I-"
"Of course y-you do. It's me, the Purple Guy," I quipped. "And I know wha-t you've d-done." A sour taste fell in my mouth. That one was stupid. I ignored it.
"What? What do you mean?"
I closed my fist around his shirt collar. His eyes ballooned.
"Aghh! Whoa, man, I- please, man- I- I didn't do anything to you!"
"Quiet," I said, and he shut his lips promptly. He was terrified to see the Purple Guy standing before him. I could have asked him for anything, and I knew he'd hand it to me. "If you want to keep your head on your neck, stay in your own business." How ironic to say. The man nodded vigorously, though confusion bled through his fear. Behind me, Stevens burst into loud guffawing. Tensing, I dropped the 'target'. Are you serious?
"Ooh, sorry- damn, that was funny!"
His old friend's brow wrinkled even deeper. "This was- this was you?"
"Yeah, so what?" Stevens scoffed. His friend's fear morphed into anger. He stepped around me and replied sharply, "So what? Still mad about that cookie, huh? Do you want a written apology? I told you I didn't mean to." A bitter frown took over Stevens' face.
"I wanna carve it out o' your ass!" he yelled and lunged for him. He whipped out what looked like a sharpened toothbrush. The other guy pushed him back too late. Another swing sent blood flecking across their faces. Stevens raised the makeshift weapon high over his head and slammed it down. Just a few inches away from stabbing an eye. The other inmate exclaimed in pain. I winced.
I should stop them. It's not my place to break this up- I don't know them. I could just leave. My other cane is over there. But if word gets out that I caused this… How do I stop them without-
Stevens grunted as if he could hear my conflicted thoughts, "Do that zappy thing, man!" Good idea. I clutched the broken device under my collar. The men cried out and covered their ears. I grabbed the front of Stevens's jumpsuit to force him aside. Either he resisted, or I lacked the arm strength to move him.
"Hey, let me at 'm!"
"This w-wasn't par-t of th-the deal," I told him.
"We're teaching 'm a lesson!"
Stevens tried to get up, and I jammed the base of a walking aid into his diaphragm. He wheezed. The other guy started to move but stopped at my stare. Footsteps froze all of us. A guard entered the cell with his hands on his hips.
"Alright, what is it this time?" he began dryly and then groaned at the leftover ringing in the air. When he opened his eyes, he saw me. His confidence withered. Typical. He shrank back into the doorway.
"Oh, we're not… killing anybody, are we?"
"No," I began, but Stevens butted in, "Look, man- I wasn't gonna kill 'm- what's with the saint act, anyway? Didn't y' kill some girl-" He gasped as I poked him with the cane again.
"Fuck the sh-shut- shut your mouth," I failed. Wow. Not a good day for comebacks. I didn't let my threatening stance falter. "Y-you're going to get me my paper and pencil- because that's what we agreed on-"
The guard interrupted but didn't even think about intervening, "H-hey, now, you… you did this for art supplies?"
Well, when you word it like that… I gave a single nod, not wanting to waste any energy explaining. The guard scratched his scalp, jostling his jet-black hair. He stepped back into the hall to motion for assistance and muttered something out of earshot. I narrowed my eyes. They think I'm making a hitlist. I'm never getting out of here. Another guard joined the scene. They both stepped around me cautiously, as if being in close proximity would detonate me. One began scolding the men still tangled together on the floor behind me. The other lightly suggested to me that I leave. I averted my eyes from Stevens' nasty scowl to eye this guard for a moment.
I could threaten him- grab him by the collar, demand what I want. I could have threatened anyone. I can do anything. But one look at my misaligned legs filled me with doubt. My eyes couldn't linger on the guard's nervous face. Here I am, sizing him up. I'm really who they say I am. I turned away from this stupid conflict and heard a sigh of relief behind me. My head hung low as I made my way down the hall. Can't believe I got into a stupid fight and for nothing. They could have turned on me. They should have.
The clacking of footsteps behind me slowed my pace. I heard the jangle of a guard's belt and tensed. Leave me alone. The guard seemed to be quietly keeping distance- fear a likely reason for that. When I reached the cell, the guard- the one that was supposed to break up that fight- tapped a fist on the cell bars.
"Uh… paper and pencil, right?"
I blankly stared back. Huh? He repeated himself. I gave him a nod but kept my confused frown.
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Lo and behold, a decently-sized paper booklet and eraserless pencil awaited me by the bed. Woah. I marvelled at the empty pages. Plenty of space to fit my memories and ramblings. I drew a perfect circle in the centre of the first page.
Why did they give me this? I thought about last night, remembering the guard's nervous voice. Could it be that he understood why I needed it? Maybe more like.. they feel it was necessary to keep me in check. Like giving a pacifier to a baby. My hand stopped mid stride. Bad metaphor. At least I didn't get in trouble. Or broken. That was actually pretty lucky. I frowned. Too lucky.
I visited the courtyard in the early morning hours so that few people were around- to minimise my chances of running into that kooky inmate, Stevens, or his enemy. At this time, most inmates began working around the facility, trying to make a few pennies and themselves look good so they don't transfer to the state prison. That wasn't an option for me and my broken body, which was why I spent most of my time in the cell. But today, I didn't feel like doing that.
The electric fence surrounding the courtyard sang a long, low drone. A comforting white noise. I closed my eyes and chewed on the end of the pencil. The outside wind felt thin and cool; the sunlight that peeked over the fence offered a pinch of warmth in between. What nice weather. After a moment of still, I pried my eyes away. No. It's going to snow soon.
Footsteps approached. I shut my new journal and saw what looked like a regular police officer standing beside me. The face was familiar, but I couldn't pin a name to it. Did I ever learn the name and simply forgot? A ray of sun ricocheted off his badge directly into my eye.
"Ah, if it isn't Mike Schmidt, AKA the Purple Guy! Nice to see you again. How you doing? You're looking less purple these days."
That voice belonged to one of the cops that fought to bring me here. He's here to gloat, isn't he? My eyes narrowed for one more reason besides the sunlight.
"Well, I am doing juuust great, thanks for asking- especially since you are in here!" His laugh rivalled that of a horse. "Congrats on the fight, by the way. Another oopsies to add to your file, right along with rule non-compliance. Anything else we should add?" Again, that horrible laugh. My shoulders raising, I swallowed back the urge to throw a fist at him. No stupid fights. You're already damaged enough. I opened the journal back up and searched for where I left off. Seconds later, the cop's shadow darkened my view. No! I snapped the journal shut in one motion. The cop flashed a mock-offended face.
"Well excuuuze me. I didn't know the Purple Guy was an artist."
We both locked into a skull-drilling stare. His eyes flicked down at my journal for a nanosecond. I couldn't react fast enough.
"HEY! G-give that ba-ack!"
He'd snatched the journal right out of my hands.
"Oh, you can talk now. I was wondering what happened to your voice," the cop snarked. He opened the paper pad. "Now let's see here-" I pushed myself off the bench and tried to swipe the papers back. Okay, this is NOT happening again! The cop jumped away.
"Whoops!"
He pushed me aside. I stumbled back, unable to stop the fall. The ground hit my spine, and the walking aids flew out of my reach. The cop leaned over.
"The infamous Purple Guy- lame and crippled," he laughed. He looked back down at the journal, swiftly flipping the pages. No no no! I tried to activate the frequency glitch.
"Nope. I came prepared for your little trick," the cop grinned and motioned to the plugs in his ears. "You're not gonna catch me hurling again." I clenched my fragmented teeth. The officer paid me no mind as he finally eyed a page.
"Oh. Beautiful abstract art. What do all these rectangles mean?"
He rotated the journal a couple times, then chuckled. "Hm. Bern'll get a kick outta this." And then he ripped out the page. I covered my mouth too early to stifle my cry of alarm. The paper fluttered down into the dirt before the wind swept it away. It wasn't an important page, but it could have been. An evil grin stretched across this officer's face. Next page. He skimmed over the words.
"Awh, the Purple Guy was feeling lonely."
He teasingly gripped the paper's edge. The paper wrinkled in his grasp. NO! I rolled over and reached for my walking aids. My fingers closed around one handle. Yes! I got to my feet. The officer forced a hand out to push me again. I flicked the metal rod out in front of me and shoved his palm back. He caught himself on his heel.
"Ah-hah," he forced a laugh. SLAM! The back of the journal was shoved into my face. This time, the crutches stopped my fall. I didn't let myself think. I threw myself into the cop's body. We toppled into the grass after he stumbled backwards. The journal bounced a little ways away. I threw a punch, and the cop's forearm twisted mine backwards. No, not now!
"Trying to fight back again, are we?" the cop scoffed through a grunt. For a single second, I hesitated. I shouldn't be doing this. He rolled me over and locked me down with his knees. A pistol barrel pressed into my forehead.
"Let's see you get up from a point-blank bullet to the brain."
Getting my skull shattered is a little counter-productive.
Slowly, I brought out my hands to signal my surrender. The officer stood but didn't lower his aim. He ordered, "Get up." He kicked the walking aids my way and watched me wobble to my feet without a single thought of helping.
"Now. You're going to go back to your cell."
My vision flashed white and locked on the journal tucked underneath the officer's arm. No. Another officer- a young, curly-haired woman- approached.
"Chet, what the heck? This is the Purple Guy."
He turned to reply sharply, though still pointing the gun in my general direction, "First of all, that's Chief Keller to you-"
"I am not calling you that-"
"Second, who cares? We have him powerless, and it's all thanks to me! Why, without me here, all of you would never get anything done…"
Moving with the carefulness of a weak-legged acrobat, I inched away from the officers until my back hit the courtyard wall. The buzzing of the electric fence tickled my ears. And then an idea popped into my head: Powerless. Right. A small part of me panged with guilt. What if it kills him- I faced the wall. Doesn't matter. Get it back. Now.
"...and just yesterday I…" the chief officer continued on about his daily achievements to make himself seem like such an accomplished person. How convenient. I focused all my energy into scaling the fence. My arms shook under the weight of my dangling body. Something shifted in my sleeve. No. Stay intact. If this gets me locked in confinement, then so be it. If this kills me, so be it. But it won't.
"Hey, don't touch that!"
They finally noticed me.
"Aw, let him," Chief Keller wasn't worried in the slightest. "That's over 100,000 volts." I clenched the barbed wire. A violently painful current wriggled down into my arm. My throat couldn't form a single sound. I let go of the wire immediately. The energy in my core shook my entire body. Hold it! I felt like I was going to implode. Smoke burned my nose, and something dripped from my blackened sleeve. The artificial skin and duct tape had melted together. I blinked white-hot tears out of my eyes. Hold it together! You won't die! As quickly as I dropped from the fence, I rose.
"He just- he-" the other officer crept back, her arms raised defensively. "He's still alive?!" A few inmates had gathered around in curiosity. Chief Keller kept his gun raised, but now there was sweat on his furrowed brow. There's that face I know. Like the others.
"Neat trick," he bluffed, "but what now?" I took a lurching step with my hand out.
"Give... it... b-b-back…"
He raised the journal, his eyes narrowing.
"You- you've got valuable evidence in here. It's a diary, isn't it? We'll find out who you really are. How you possess these- these arcane powers. And what horrors you're trying to get away with."
Absolutely not.
I took another step. Only to miscalculate the distance and stumble chin-first into the ground. The impact numbed my body.
"Hah. Look at you now," taunted Keller. His eyes darkened with his smirk. I looked away. The crowd shrank back as if disappointed in me. Dammit! This isn't over! No! Beyond the chief, I spotted some inmates eyeing the now powerless fence. I raised my head. The inmates began to clamber over each other.
Wait.. yes!
"No!" the curly-haired officer yelled. Chief Keller whirled around in alarm.
"Whuh?! Stop! Stop, all of you! I'll shoot!"
Distracted by the commotion, the chief had no idea my twitching frame was rising from the dirt like Frankenstein's monster. GO! I lunged right for the chief's back, releasing all that voltage right through his nervous system. He gasped and convulsed under me. I snatched the journal from a limp hand. The crowd of non-escapees circled once more, surrounding me with whispers. Guards pushed through, trying to grab me, but they quickly jerked back. My body was prickly to the touch. I grabbed the chief's gun next and waved it around. Let it be known that I had no idea how to fire it.
"B-BACK OFF!"
The crowd expanded. I stood with the crutches in my hands, gun in three fingers, and the journal tucked in my armpit. Exhaustion weighed down every inch of my body. I just wanted to go back to my cell. Too bad a guard clocked me from behind with a nightstick. Dammit! Cuffs dug into my wrists. The ground pounded as guards and officers scrambled about. Their voices soon faded in my ears. The people morphed into blurry silhouettes.
Don't pass out, I told myself. I closed my eyes and focused all my remaining energy into my hands and with a grunt, snapped off the handcuffs. I scanned the area. All the guards and police had shifted their attention to the aggressive fence climbers. Chief Keller still kissed the dirt. He was still breathing. I frowned away the pang of relief that washed over me. Doesn't matter. The journal went back under my arm and the walking canes in my grasp.
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Due to the electric fence malfunctioning, the jail was now in total lockdown. All doors were locked, and guards patrolled the dark halls. With heavy limbs and eyelids, I tried to stay focused on writing. No sleep. I'm not taking this thing out of my sight.
The clamour of whispery gossip outside the cell was hard to ignore. Some were pissed about the lockdown, while others admired me. I never thought I could do things like that either. There was the ER, but that was the Funtimes. Unless it wasn't them at all? If I did that myself... I have more power than I thought. I looked down at my hands and then brought them close to my chest.
I wish they were here with me. That's a crazy thought. I scoffed at myself. Funtime Freddy would crack some dumb joke about being behind bars, and everyone would tell him to shut up- and Foxy would say something about being too gorgeous to rot here, and Ballora would... well, she wouldn't say much of anything, really. And Baby... where is she now? She joined Father... because of Elizabeth. I couldn't quite form the shape of her face in my drawings.
She told me that I was the good one. Despite everything we'd already done. She wasn't bad, she was hurting. I wish I could remember her better. I shook my head at those thoughts. She wasn't with him at Freddy's. And my brain made a connection. Wait. The creature following him... I scribbled a quick sketch of Circus Baby. Was that her? What happened to her? She didn't go behind the wall. She said that I'd end up in jail if I didn't join her, and she was right.
I tried to remember that tape creature's appearance. The doodles didn't match up. Circus Baby was freakishly tall, unable to fit through doorways easily. The robot in the tape wasn't that tall, though its exact height was hard to make out in the camera's perspective. Did Father put her back together but differently? An upgrade? I wasn't sure. The other Funtimes? They wouldn't dare follow him. Not them. Not Ballora, either. I'm forgetting something... I shook my head. I'm still forgetting things. There are pieces- moments that I don't have. What were those faces in the tape... the ones that sealed father behind the wall? Were they Fazbear Entertainment people, maybe trying to cover their asses from legal action-
A glowing bug scuttled across my hand.
"A-agh!"
The journal and pencil flew out of my grasp, the latter rolling right under the cell door. No! I dropped to the floor and belly crawled forward. I peered through the bars, squinting through the dim light. There! I spotted the pencil right in the middle of the hallway. A guard passed by, and I shrunk into the floor. I scanned both directions. When I couldn't see anyone, I slid an arm through the bars and used my other hand to hold it in place. C'mon… I reached out as far as I could, wincing as his muscles stretched beyond their limit. My fingers grazed the now cold pencil. Yes! That's when I noticed my arm wasn't attached to me anymore. And there was the roach again, sitting right on the tip of the pencil.
"G-go! Shoo!" I hissed. It didn't budge. Little shit! I tried to blow it but forgot about the state of my lungs and spluttered. "A-ahck!" By the time I noticed the footsteps nearing, it was too late to move. A silhouette snatched the pencil out of my hand. No! I reeled my numb arm back into the cell and brought up my gaze to meet the bulging face of Chief Keller.
"You have got to be more careful with your things, Mr Guy."
He snapped the pencil in half. The pieces clinked against the floor pathetically. How dare you. Ignoring my frustrated stare, Chief Keller unlocked the door.
"You got a visit," he said. "I thought I'd escort you." A sharp, bitter edge panged in his voice. My eyebrows lowered. Visitation. In the lockdown. That doesn't seem right.
"Well, get up, cyborg."
Cyborg. That's a new- wait, nevermind. It doesn't even make sense. You don't know what I am-
Keller snatched up the back of my jumpsuit like it was the scruff of a cat. He tossed me down into the wheelchair he had waiting in the hallway and swiftly fastened my arms to the handles. His eyes did not meet mine.
This is a trap. He's getting revenge. My head swam. We passed the way to the visitation area. That confirmed my suspicions. Oh no. No, what can I do? I finally took notice of my restraints: he used three pairs of handcuffs. Shit.
Keller turned a corner and stopped there. The faint glow of a vending machine served as the only light source in this area. It was a blind spot. Someone stepped out of the shadows- a small figure in a jumpsuit.
"Woah. I didn't think y'd actually come through with it."
"Get on with it, Stevens."
Oh. Of course. My luck had ran out.
"Sup, P Man? Remember when y' crossed me?"
Steven's fist struck my cheekbone. "All for some art supplies, right?" I was disoriented but quiet. The pain was nothing. They made their own little deal. Everyone's really out to get me. Another punch. I remained still. Proving themselves by destroying me. I get it. Steven's face twisted with rage more and more by the second. He wants me to react.
"Ple-ease... stop. I'm s-sorry," I decided to play along if it meant this pipsqueak could stop damaging my facial structure. Stevens couldn't hold back a grin.
"Ooh. Beg some more."
Keller shoved him back immediately. "Okay, that's enough."
"But-"
"Pay up."
Stevens groaned and fished out a wad of cash. Keller took it, slanting away from him, and ordered him to leave. Stevens smiled at me with one last snicker, "That was YOUR lesson, freak! All that power, and you're still weak-"
"I said, go."
The inmate did as he was told. Chief Keller pocketed his money and fastened his gloves with a slow, steady breath. It was his turn next.
"I have to admit- you've made things so much more interesting in this podunk town," he began, grabbing the wheelchair handles. "I don't know who or what you are, but I know that you are evil. You murdered innocent people- terrorized neighbourhoods. You don't belong here in this rinky-dink jail." Veins bulged from his neck "No. You belong in a federal prison, strapped to a wall, locked away deep down where sunlight will never touch you." He leaned back. "But... you're here." BAM! He struck the first blow, immediately proving himself to be ten times stronger than the grudge-holding inmate. "Doing your little tricks-" BAM! "-making me look like a FOOL!" BAM! Half my jaw split and dangled at my neck. My face was falling apart.
I can't be broken here- I can't be broken here, my brain repeated. The tripled handcuffs dug into my skin the more I wriggled in them. Chief Keller's breath now came out in short, harsh bursts.
I have to do something. I can't be broken here. A pile of scrap metal on the floor. I can't. I deserve this pain, for them- but I can't be broken here like this.
"HE-ELP!" I cried out, but I knew it wouldn't work. The chief's eyes bulged.
"SHUT UP! You know what you've done!" he yelled back, jostling me by the collar. I stopped struggling. His fist scrunched into my throat. He tore open my jumpsuit and snagged his fingers on that broken device in my chest. Colours exploded into my vision; I squeezed shut my eyes. He stretched out the wires- wrenching the muscles they clung to. But the device refused to detach from my body. He let go. It swung down to my stomach like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. Keller grabbed the wheelchair next. In one fierce motion, he'd flipped it over. The side of my head knocked the floor. Dots spiralled on the ceiling, and my ears rang with an incomprehensible song. My body threatened to shut down.
No. The Purple Guy doesn't pass out. I squinted upwards, noticing the sudden lack in violence. What, a change in heart? Something glowed on the chief's hand. Something… roach-shaped. He was petrified, refusing to make any movement. The bug shot up his sleeve.
"AGHHH! GODFORSAKEN CREATURE!"
By the time he'd finally flung the thing out of sight, he'd already alerted someone nearby: "What is going on over here?" It was the curly-haired officer from the courtyard. Slack-jawed, she looked at me and then at the chief. "D-did you just…"
"You're not supposed to be here," Keller gruffed. She stepped forward, though her intimidated demeanour did not change.
"I heard… screaming. I'm- I'm doing my job. If you killed Mike Schmidt-"
"I AM THE CHIEF OF POLICE-"
"If you killed him, we won't get the money-"
"AND YOU WILL-"
That cut his rage short. He stood there illuminated by this officer's flashlight beam, frozen like a deer in headlights. The sweat speckling his face glimmered. What seemed like minutes later, he found an ounce of composure. "What... what money?"
"Freddy's, the whole fricking franchise. If the charges drop and we release him, they're-"
The chief raised a hand to stop the young officer's nervous babbling and curled a lip down at me with a beet-red face. I could do nothing but stare back while the words of the officer cycled in my head. Money? That's what their plan is? Out of nowhere, the chief bellowed a cry of anger and threw a steel-toed kick. My gut pressed into my spine. A small part of me wished I had actually killed him.
The officer fussed, "Did you even comprehend what I-" but another fierce yell from the chief shut her up.
"This man- this-this thing is guilty! What kind of messed up j-joke is- is the fact that the very company he attacked-" He paused to grasp his chest, which now heaved rapidly. "-is supporting.. him... gugh…" He let out a pained moan, his breath growing even shorter. His red face had suddenly turned deathly white. He stumbled into the wall and looked up at the officer to yell through his teeth, "Well, h-help me, darnit! I'm having a heart attack!" The officer gave him a steely stare before radioing for assistance. She then looked down at me again. I remained motionless, watching in a blurry daze. What is she doing? What I read as fearful concern furrowed the officer's brow.
My eyes must not be glowing. I look dead. I could stay like this. I could be thrown out. The idea wasted quickly. No. I can't risk being broken again. The officer lifted her radio, presumably to report the death of the Purple Guy. I heaved up my leaden head. She recoiled at the sight.
"You're still… alive…"
"Of course it is," Keller grunted from the floor. The officer set the wheelchair upright and set me back into it. Other officers joined the scene, rushing to help the red-faced police chief off the floor. And the curly-haired officer wheeled me back to the only place I felt safe. Once inside, the guard helped me onto the bed, removed my cuffs, and left with the wheelchair. She only returned to securely lock the cell door.
I was alone again. Without a pencil to write nor the energy to. A faint silver-blue glow crept closer to me in my peripheral vision. My half-closed eyes watched it climb onto my hand.
I guess I should thank you, I opened my mouth to say. But the syllables did not form. The noise that left my lips was mechanical and choppy, sounding like the mere idea of human chatter only distorted to an uncanny degree. I had lost my ability to speak.