I knew when December came around. Everyone in the county jail suddenly acted on their best behaviour (for the most part), keeping fighting to a minimum and constantly blabbing about family Christmas traditions. That 'holiday spirit' did not reach my cell, for my memories of Christmas were faint. I never had the energy to recall them. Not that I particularly wanted to at the time.
In today's meeting with Abram Watson, we skipped the pleasantries. Right from the start, he was flipping through papers with a pale-faced frown, and seeing my bandaged body unmoving in the wheelchair only exacerbated his frustration.
"What happened?" he asked with an expectant stare.
No 'Happy Holidays' or anything first? I thought. He looked like the type of man to enjoy Christmastime. He didn't appreciate my lack of response.
"You got into a petty fight. Took out the power to the entire fence. Assaulted the chief of police. It-it's almost like you want to stay in here! Look at you. You've sustained more damage. I guess we should have expected this." Dink dink. He tapped on the glass. "Hey, pal. I need you to explain."
I made a small gesture to my throat. I literally can't. Watson furrowed his brow, not understanding. Fine. I attempted to verbalise my thoughts and there sounded the ugly garble. Watson tore the phone from his ear. He stared down the receiver for a moment before looking back at me. He got it.
"No. Now you can't talk?"
I nodded. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing, "This.. is fine. It's fine. It will be fine. You hardly talked anyway." Today, he seemed more frustrated with the fact that I kept flubbing up his objective than concerned for my current overall health. His true colors, perhaps? A minute of disappointment later, he noticed the journal in my other hand.
"Wait. Can you still write?"
I looked up and made a writing motion in the air. The old man watched me without a clue. Once the charades proved useless, I mouthed, "Pencil?"
"I- I don't, uh, understand."
My gaze fell to the Freddy's themed pen in his breast pocket. That works, too. I poked the glass. Mr Watson spotted what I pointed at, though it still took him a second to understand.
"Oh! A pen. Of course."
He slid the pen through a slot under the protective glass.
"Just don't break it. It was a gift from the boss, haha."
A real suck-up, this man.
I pressed the pen down onto the paper. Okay. I wrote out a short summary of the events that unfolded the day before, ensuring to leave out a few personal details. He doesn't need to know about the bug. As I replayed the events in my head and jotted them down as grossly oversimplified bullet points, shame began to creep over me.
All this trouble. It's all my fault.
I kept this to myself, planning to document my emotions later. I slid the paper and pen through to Watson. Disappointment fell over his face again, and I gripped the table edge; but his look shifted into curiosity. He thought about his words before he spoke, and then he sent the paper and pen back to me.
"How exactly did you take out the fence? You didn't say."
I hesitated, staring down at the melted tape and plastic that formed the skin on my hands. Is this what Father expected of me? I don't know, I wrote and held up the paper for Mr Watson to see. An honest answer, it was.
"Hm. Alright."
He scratched his chin and looked off in the distance. I could tell he wanted to pry further, but he held back. After a brief yet dry explanation of how I should conduct myself in court, I was dismissed.
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It was the day of the Purple Guy's sentencing. Mr Watson had done nothing but screw stories into our favor. If the detective found full proof of the murder and assault cases, the Purple Guy was going away to prison for a long time. If he dug deeper, maybe he'd find that the Purple Guy was a stupid kid who made stupid decisions in stupid situations. In the courtroom, officers monitored the doors to control some nosy bystanders from barging through. There was an attempt to keep the room peaceful, perhaps for my sake. Best not to poke the bear.
I listened to all the stories they wound up. No one could tie the Purple Guy to the cases of murder or assault. The evidence wasn't thick enough. They could hardly identify him as a real person. All they had to go by was blurry footage, scattered words, and tall tales spread by the townsfolk. There were, as expected, some indisputable charges agreed upon: destruction of property- a fine that a certain company already agreed to cover- and several counts of assaulting a police officer. That was my bad. The sentence: a few more months here in jail and mental counseling (like that'll do anything). But soon, it wouldn't matter. Because Mr Watson, that determined old bastard, got an idea.
"Okay, listen up. I know this was the best possible outcome considering the charges, but I can- we can do better. I've been thinking about this for a while, and now the timing feels perfect." He paused for dramatic effect, his hands raised and a confident stare on his face. "What I need you to do is play dead."
Play dead?
"Listen. You don't have any vital signs. Ones that they'd look for, I mean. If you lay on that floor, still as a boulder, for long enough... they'll realize that the Purple Guy's recent fight caused him some hidden underlying injuries that ultimately resulted in a spontaneous death. Boom."
I had this idea. Maybe now that he's here to help…
I wrote, and then what?
"Uhh, they'll likely bury you in an unmarked grave behind the jail..."
Oh.
The mental image of being buried but still alive gripped my entire body. The pressure of the earth crushing my chest... forever trapped inside my own head, tormented by horrible memories for eternity? I couldn't comprehend what an eternity feels like.
"But don't you worry, I will not let them get that far. All you have to do is be veryy still. You can do that, right?"
I gave a slow nod. Mr Watson leaned in, adding, "Are you absolutely certain? If you feel like you're going to mess this up somehow, speak up now."
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I am NOT going to mess this up. So maybe I messed up everything else, and now we're resorting to this crazy idea. But this is easy. I'm getting out of here. Just like I wanted.
Playing dead wasn't so bad at first. With closed eyes, I began to think about everything. Like, everything.
Where would I be now if I had never taken that job offer? If I had quit on the first day in that underground circus-themed facility? What if I'd moved out after my brother did? Would I be happy? I tried to envision a reality where I lived a domestic life with Sasha. I felt nothing for it. My mind went back further but could hardly picture my life over a year ago. It felt like eons ago that I graduated high school. Who was I? There were already so many blank spaces in my memory before. I tried to focus. Mundane errands… hobby searching… passionate but short-lived relationships, if you could even call them that. I was living on autopilot then- I know this now. Doing what I thought I was expected to and all the while grasping for comfort to cope with the absence of a proper childhood. But I was failing. I was behind. In everything. I always was. God, I should have known I wasn't normal.
And now, there I was, lying motionless on the cold floor of the county jail. Deader than usual. Surely someone passing by ought to notice? Come on, please… I don't want to be here forever. I thought I heard someone approaching. Maybe not.
I was about to fall asleep when a clan of footsteps barged through the door. A finger twitched. Don't move! I fought back the urge to turn my head. Be still. I am nothing. Faceless guards shuffled around me. They whispered among themselves. Silhouetted arms latched onto my frozen extremities and scraped me up off the floor. Something cold enveloped around my body. ZIIIP! The body bag. I had only seen them on TV. The darkness swayed like a nighttime ocean. Suddenly, my limbs felt structureless; I was gelatin, melting on a hot summer day. I was cold. I was burning alive. No. This feeling was one from many nightmares, and now it was real. I couldn't move. I couldn't see. Every sound was muffled and near indistinguishable. And since my ability to smell had weakened, I couldn't gather any olfactory information either. It was just me inside my head. Like I was inside of a box.
No. No no no no no. A breath could not form in my lungs no matter how much I wanted it to. Stop it! I forced some different imagery into my head. Outside. Underneath a tree. A great, big blossomy tree. But my imagination quickly betrayed me. The tree's darkened roots latch onto my limbs and curl my body into the earth. They're going to bury me alive! No! I can't! I have to get out! The urge to scream and wriggle clawed at my insides. But I did not move.
The tree claims me. I am nothing.
ZIIIP! Cool air shocked my face. I felt the hard surface of a table pressing against my spine. I remembered this feeling, too. The morgue. That day was the worst I had thought I could possibly get. Boy, was I wrong. Voices floated above my head. They chattered about me, how non-human my body was. No pulse. Cold skin. Parts held together impossibly by duct tape. They had no idea that this was not new information.
What if I can't move after this? A terrible thought wormed its way into my brain. Oh no. No. I felt sick again. I'm trapped. No no no. I'm not. I have to make sure. No. Why would I move right now?!
The disembodied voices whispered about how I put the police chief in the hospital. I tried to focus on their words against my internal struggle. I can't move. I can't move. I'm trapped! I have to try. I have to… The urge scraped my insides like a throbbing pain. I imagined grabbing ahold of my own bones. Stop. I clenched my jaw. There is no way of knowing if it's safe to move.
I waited. The voices quieted after some time- likely a lull in the conversation.
Did they leave? Or maybe this is a test. They could be standing still, pretending. Waiting to catch me. HA! You're so stupid for thinking this could work. And stupider for trusting that guy!
Speak of the devil. The voice of Mr Watson entered the other side of the room, and soon the others chimed in to birth another conversation. Something about next of kin. The Purple Guy had none. How depressing.
Maybe they won't notice me. Just a little tiny wiggle won't hurt anything right? They're probably not looking anymore. They know I won't move while they're talking. That would be stupid.
I moved my arm. I slid it away from my side just a little bit. I can move. My arm slipped off the table, and its lower half disconnected from the upper. THUNK. The conversation halted, immediately filling the room with a deafening quiet. I wanted to shrivel up like a dead, half-squashed spider.
It's over, they caught me, they know, my brain lamented, and then I shut it down in fear that my thoughts were echoing out of my skull. I heard the clacking of footsteps, the sounds clear enough to determine the kind of shoe that produced them.
"A fault of gravity, I'm sure," someone said. Someone else may have nodded in response. No one suspected a thing. No one knew that I could suddenly feel the icy tiled floor against the palm of my disconnected arm. That's new. I wanted to try moving it again, but the grip of a gloved hand stopped me. Trembling, unsure fingers closed around the circumference of my wrist. They placed the base of my broken arm up to the rest of me, and it reattached with little difficulty. Oh.
And back in the bag I went. ZIIP!
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"Rise and shine, my client! I said I'd get you out of here!"
For a length of time that felt like a free trial of eternity, I swam in my own head. I was in the back of a moving car for a while, I knew. My body could not keep still on the rumbling seats. The chatter of traffic ambience surrounded me. Sometimes I heard my father's voice calling my name. I don't think that was real. I tried not to dwell on the things that didn't seem real. There is no tree. It is only me here. Traffic clamour faded into the chirping of birds.
Mr Watson's voice partially stirred me from the void-induced trance.
What? You're still here? Where are you? Where am I? Why can't I-
ZIIIP! Crisp white daylight beamed into my eyelids. Ow! I instinctively threw my arms up, curling to the side to shield my face. My body moved the same as before, but it was heavy.
I stood awkwardly in the parking lot with some new clothes on my back, courtesy of my "lawyer" from Fazbear Entertainment. A clean t-shirt, a black hoodie, plain pants, and slip-on shoes. I didn't bother objecting to the simple style, nor to Watson helping me into it. At least he'd held onto the walking sticks for me. I clung onto the handles desperately to keep my legs from buckling inwards.
The plan worked, I thought. I'm out. But I was getting out with even more damage. And the idea of living eternally in this way was absolutely mortifying. I'm still falling apart. Worse. I stared down at the asphalt beneath my feet. I'm back on the streets. With no one to stop me if I experiment with my life again.
"Is that… a glowing bug on your shoulder?"
Mr Watson snapped me out of my head. Indeed, the peculiar roach from before sat beside my neck. I nodded, not thinking about the fact that this was a weird sight. Did it hitch a ride out of here in the body bag?
"You made it do that, didn't you? Can I ask how?" Watson's tone dripped with curiosity. He tilted forward, his eyes locked in place. I stepped back. My lips thinned as I shook my head. I don't know. Mr Watson paid my gesture no attention. His hands crept upwards but stopped halfway towards my neck. He hesitated. Clearly, he wanted the bug but didn't want to touch it.
What are you doing this for?
"He-he'd want to take a look at this," he muttered under his breath. He pried his gaze away to retrieve a small bag and pincers from his briefcase in the passenger seat of his car.
"Can I take that?"
I leaned away. He finally blinked. There was an awkward pause, and Mr Watson's strange demeanor shrank back.
"Look, I-I'm sure it's been... persistent. Let me take care of it for you."
Well he's not wrong, I guess. It's just a bug anyway. I don't care.
It felt wrong, somehow, to give up the creature clinging to my shoulder. It was kind of like my cellmate, wasn't it? I leaned forward to allow Watson to pluck the roach off my shirt and tuck it inside the little bag. He watched it wriggle in the plastic, his nose wrinkling by the second. I turned my head. My gaze shifted to distant buildings, their outlines wavering in the sun.
"Hmm," Watson spoke. "I will... dispose of it properly. You're welcome! Anyway..." He jutted out his hand and put on that company-issued smile. "Farewell?"
Wait, now? Already?
I took out my journal and quickly formed the words, You're leaving now?
"Why, yes. My job is, uh, finished here. Hey, we did it! Crazy, right?"
I have nowhere to go. What do I do?
"There's not much more I can do for you, pal. You stay out of trouble is what you can do."
I don't know about that. I hovered the pen over the paper. My plan returned to the forefront of my memory. Maybe he can help somehow? I pushed away my hesitation.
I'm going to get my father's car.
Watson's eyes seemed to bulge for half a second. "Ah, don't do that! It's probably not there. You'd waste your time."
I squinted. Why are you acting like that?
"Why not go back to making those nice cardboard shelters-"
Is the car still there?
"No. We, uh, got it towed. Why do you even want it?"
He changed his answer. He doesn't want me to go back. Was he the man in the tape? What is he hiding from me?
"Sir," I attempted, but the word was incomprehensible. It still caught Watson's attention. I started writing.
"If you ever want to contact me, uh, I think there's a card in one of those pockets, okay?"
I have a question.
"Fine, fine, just one question!" He kept checking his watch.
Your company has eyes on everything to do with me.
"Well, yes, I already mentioned- I did say that, didn't I? But they, uh- they do this with all their esteemed employees, so... haha..."
It was hard to write out. My fingers trembled over the letters. I have to try this time. He may not know anything, but I have to try.
What became of Mabel Sanderson?
Watson's face morphed into something grim, devoid of all the joy it's usually radiating.
"I'm not allowed to answer this question."
My eyes widened. I couldn't form any words in the screech my throat sounded out. I'm not sure what I was trying to say, anyway.
"Look, I'm sorry, but-"
I grabbed Mr Watson's arm and gave him a persistent stare.
"H-hey!"
Please.
His brow softened the longer I stared. He sighed.
"Okay, okay. I, uh… Fine. Before you were incarcerated, something was noticed in your old neighborhood. A large humanoid with eyes that glow like yours. And they, uh, ruled out that it wasn't one of those abandoned circus characters because it wandered around the Sanderson's for several days-"
My grip got tighter. With my other hand, I scrambled to write: WHERE IS SHE
"Ow, easy- easy! I don't know where she is now!"
My body shook. How could you keep that from me? She's been out there the whole time?! I slammed the pen down on the bench ledge, and it snapped under my force. I should've been out there!
"AGH- I- I swear, that's all I know! But that could've been something else! It's just speculation!"
He wriggled his way out of my grasp.
"And you broke my pen! Look, I was just told to tell you to stop looking for, uh, a-anyone! So- so don't do it. Got it? Enjoy your new freedom- we got really lucky here. Don't go back to Freddy's. Find some place to squat, avoid the police, keep yourself intact. No more magic tricks."
I couldn't look up. I should've been out there.
"Look at me. You need to forget about it." Mr Watson took the broken pen piece from my fingers to replace it with another Fazbear-themed pen. "Don't go back to Freddy's."
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I immediately set on going back to Freddy's. Written in thick black marker were the words CLOSED TEMPORARILY on a piece of paper flapping against the pizzeria doors. I assumed it had something to do with the way I left Freddy and the gang. That's my fault. But maybe that's for the best?
Father's car still sat in the parking lot. He lied to me. An envelope was tucked underneath the windshield wiper. I took it. It was addressed to Mike Schmidt with a silly Freddy sticker in place of a stamp. My frown faded when I opened the envelope. Money. I didn't bother to count the wad of bills.
I moved to open the driver door but learned that it was locked. Oh, keys, keys- they're... I had them- in my hands... I found them... in a little white box. In my bag. Which is inside. That building. A cold chill slithered up my neck. I whirled to face the rest of the parking lot. When I turned back to the building, I could've sworn I saw eyes soaking through the glass.
I can't go back in there.
I looked down at the envelope. If only the keys appeared inside. I need to get my bag back. I tightened my grip on my walking aids and swallowed back rising worries. The animatronics are broken. They can't tear me apart if they are nonfunctional. I slunk around to the back of the building, and a large vent by a pile of garbage caught my attention. The metal glinted in the sun. It was new. They fixed it. A series of tiny shrieks emanated from the grating as I undid two of the screws.
'Forget about it.' Why the fuck would I do that? You tell me there's a chance that one of my only real friends is alive out there, and then say to forget about it? Bastard. Lousy liar. That probably wasn't his real name, either.
"Michael?"
A familiar voice froze me in place. Biddy, Bitey, and Chelsea. The Bidybabs. They're alive. I couldn't look.
"You are very broken," one of them pointed out with a sad tone. I tried to focus on the bottom left vent screw. It fell and disappeared into the gravel.
"We saw that you went to a bad place. On the screens. Why did you come back?"
I tried to reply, "I can't answer you," and broken, human-adjacent noises left my mouth.
"I don't understand you," a Bidybab said.
"Were you looking for us?"
I stopped. With a slow, painful pivot, I finally turned to face the broken child-like robots. Streaks of mud coated their plastic skin. The damages they'd sustained before, reminders of my mistakes, didn't look any better. I nodded. A lie.
They could have returned to Circus Baby. Found help. Fixed themselves. But they were probably looking for me all this time. Waiting for me to come back. That's cute.
The vent cover snapped off the building as the last screw came undone. Confused and intrigued, the Babs stared with open mouths. Oh. They don't know why I'm here. I took my journal out from underneath my armpit. I stared at the pen, a bit annoyed at the tiny smiling Freddy on its top.
I left something important inside.
I showed the words to the Babs. They squinted. Their eyes traced over every letter with intense focus. One by one, they looked back up at me.
"We can't read."
I tore out the page. Okay, well, shit. I held up a finger, trying to motion that they don't follow me inside.
"Can we come with you? I promise we'll be good."
No! I turned to shake my head but hesitated. Wait. By now, there's going to be a new security guard in there. If I'm caught, I could get in trouble again… I looked back at the bidybabs. Mr Watson didn't account for them. I stretched my arm down into my stomach and fetched the key I'd stowed away. Against my expectations, my arm came back wet and grimy. Gross. At least it was still there.
"You got that idea from me," Chelsea remarked, while she and the others stared with fascinated grins. I hastily drew up a series of pictures that illustrated these instructions: Use the key on the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. Take the bag. The Babs snapped back into their blank stares.
"You are very good at drawing."
I tapped the paper impatiently.
"Oh. Do you want us to do this?"
I nodded. Yes. Please.
"Then will you let us stay with you? We promise to be good."
I stared. The cracks on Chelsea's plastic face sank a hole in my stomach. Why do they still trust me? After everything? Electrobab's dead eyes infiltrated my thoughts, burning through my attempts to push the memory back down. They don't even know I hurt him- what if I hurt them, too?
There was a moment of silence and longing puppy-dog eyes.
Getting that bag myself will be tough, I figured. Maybe not going back inside that building- where a certain yellow bear and possibly my father still remained- was a good idea after all. I gave them a nod. The Babs clapped their hands in glee. I planted my gaze back to the conveniently-man-sized vent opening.
"Wait, how do we know that we got the correct thing?"
It's a bag. That's the only bag in there, there's no mistaking it. If only I could verbalize this. What do they expect me to do? I can't just- That's when the second crazy idea of the day reared its head. Sure, why not. I removed my loose forearm and lowered it to the ground. The Babs looked up in unison.
"Oh."
"You want us to use this?"
I nodded. I can remember what the bag feels like. Maybe. I tried not to think too hard about my detached arm.
"Okay."
The little robots entered the vent, and I soon shimmied in after them. The metal walls hugged my body and clung tight to my clothes, threatening to squeeze tighter. Not a pleasant memory. I tried to remain focused.
The Bidybabs gathered at the end of the vent tunnel and peered through the grating. I followed suit, trying to make out what I could from here.
A thin man snored away in the office chair, his head cocked back so far he was in danger of losing it, and his ears covered by expensive looking headphones. They got a new night guard. And he's sleeping on the job?
Bitey motioned at the vent cover. She bared her teeth. I understood the gesture and gave her a firm nod. Yes, perfect! She smiled before she got to work gnawing at the metal, chewing around the perimeter of the cover. Once there was a suitable opening, she and Chelsea worked together to carefully lower Biddy over the lockers and down onto the floor. She kept the key in her mouth and my arm in her grasp.
Once more, though my arm was not attached to me, I could feel what its appendages were touching. I felt my knuckles scrape the tile floor, involuntarily sweeping up the grime. I grit my back teeth. Another new body feature. Gotta get used to it.
I heard the quiet clicking of the filing cabinet being unlocked. The sleeping night guard didn't flinch. I squinted past him, trying to get a view of the computer screen. The camera footage appeared empty. Not one animatronic character in sight. A pang of sadness curled in my gut.
They didn't bother to fix them? Are they just in a pile of broken pieces somewhere? Where are they?
I stretched out my fingers and began to feel around for a familiar texture inside the cabinet drawer, like blindly searching for a lost object underneath a couch. My hand brushed against a leather bag handle. Oh, that's it! I tried to form a thumbs up but it proved to be a very difficult action. I needed to get used to simple sensations before I could easily perform a complex motor function such as that. Nevertheless, Biddy seemed to get it. She pulled on my arm. The bag hardly moved. It seemed to be stuck on the drawer mechanism inside. She grabbed the top of my arm, preparing to give it a good tug.
"Wait, don't-" Chelsea warned in a whisper, seconds too late. The drawer shrieked as it popped open. My hand slammed against the floor, and so did Biddy. The guard startled upright in his chair.
"Huh? Who's there?" he yelped in a rasp, his vocal chords clearly not awake yet. Biddy scrambled up over the locker and into the vent opening. She shoved my arm back, hissing, "Go!" A U-turn in this vent was impossible. I pressed down my palms and pushed backwards. All the Babs rushed to wriggle their way past me. I didn't have a strong sense of urgency for the lousy night guard. He's no cop or killer animatronic.
"Wh-what the heck was that?" the confused new guard cried from the office. But we were already on our way out. We all toppled out of the vent. The gravel flew everywhere, crunching beneath our feet. I struggled to pick myself up with the aid of the brick building and the walking sticks. The Bidybabs weaved between my legs. They hurried like a dysfunctional train about to wreck, throwing themselves onto the car. One of them giggled.
"We made it!"
Not yet, I thought pensively. I began to fish through the newly-obtained handbag for a little gift box. There! I shook the box, and its contents jangled inside. I popped off the tiny lid. Father's keys sat in the box, glinting in the sun like the prize that it was- that we won. We did it. I unlocked the driver door. The Babs clambered over my legs to pile into the backseat of the car. I sat down in the driver's seat. My hands slid over the steering wheel.
Okay. Got the car. Got the bag. I scanned every surface in the vehicle. It's real. I'm in the car. I got the car. It was hard to believe. I got out. I got the car! A random violent cough shuddered my body. I gripped the seat, trying to steady myself. I'm still breaking apart. Focus. Got the car.. now... what? The plan. It was... Another horrid cough rattled me. I fetched some of my papers from the bag.
"Now what, Michael?" a Bidybab asked from the backseat.
Working on that.
I sank into my thoughts and replayed the chain of events that occurred today. Thank God that "Abram Watson" couldn't keep his mouth shut. The newfound information- real or not- fueled me, and suddenly I wasn't thinking up creative methods for suicide but rather formulating that fragmented plan I'd kept in my mind since before the jail-rotting.
Next step: find Henry Emily. Ask him to put me back together. If he's the CEO of Fazbear Entertainment, then he knows exactly why I need his help. We can find Mabel. Maybe find a way to really save those kids, too. And when my father gets out, if he hasn't already, we'll stop him. I'll have to convince the company that this is a good plan for their reputation or something. I pulled the road map I'd stowed away in the bag and marked where Henry Emily's house is, cringing a little at this idea of heroism. That's not gonna work.
A Bab clinged to the back of the headrest. "What's that?"
It's the plan.
I took out a blank page of paper and tried to illustrate some of the steps. I go to his house. He puts me back together. I drew a modest smile across the final figure's face. And… I am happy.