Chapter Text
Michael retreated miserably to his bedroom, just as he had done the past month, unwilling to listen to his parents argue. He had settled with the idea that he didn't have the energy to, and what's more, he really wasn't up to hearing the whole 'we never have any fun' shtick again—it was recurrent. Childish.
The first few skirmishes taught him there wasn't any way to be rid of it. Nothing worked in the slightest, not even to muffle it. A few times, he'd considered confronting them and asking them to go outside until it ended, but as soon as he stepped into the hallway, he would turn back, thinking he'd be better off without a lamp-shaped bruise printed onto his face.
Over time, the simplest disagreements had morphed into physical, violent assaults audible throughout the entire house. Bottles of mead and bourbon were smashed, the dented lamp used as a projectile once again, a window often acquired another crack... the list goes on. Mother would always win, leaving Father unconscious on the floor, suffering from various cuts and bruises all over his body.
Michael always considered helping him up and tending to his injuries, maybe fighting alongside him, out of pity. He could do it, but he never felt the part. After everything his father had and hadn't done, he'd always think twice about taking sides. However, he was much closer to his father than anyone else he'd met so far, and that's saying something. His mother offered no support to either of them. She posed a huge threat, being at the top of the hierarchy she forced onto them.
Michael knows relatively well whom to avoid, however he has no clue whom he should trust.
His mother, Evangeline, had made quite the name for herself. She built up a reputation even Father wouldn't risk mentioning. His father, William, tries desperately to hide everything from his family through circumlocution and denial, only to have Evangeline push him to share anyway. He knows he can't do anything of his own volition without the risk of falling down, and never getting back up.
People would say it's a sad reality to live in; Michael responds with 'that's life.' He always copes, one way or another.
A few months back, he had the smallest glimmer of hope that he'll live to see freedom in all of its glory—that thought had been extinguished almost as fast as it materialised. A new toy wrenched right out of your hands on christmas eve; a young rabbit crushed in its own home after poking its nose out for the first time... a little boy killed by his favourite thing, on what was supposed to be his happiest day...
Michael found himself staring into the eyes of his favourite fox mask. He smiled ruefully and walked up to it. He picked it up, holding it near his chest. Foxy the Pirate, his favourite animatronic from his father's restaurant: Fredbear's family Diner. He put it on, feeling like he was hit by a car. Nostalgic. He stepped over to his bed, sitting on the end closest to the wall. He watched the clouds move over the moon through the window, remembering his late brother.
The poor boy was terrified of everything, and Michael felt it had to do with him. He could see how his mask could spook a kid like that. The boy was pure, that much was for sure.
There was an accident—a malfunction—on the twins' birthday. He and Charlotte were turning seven. They got to visit where their father worked for the first time, as a birthday present from father and his business partner, Henry. It was a rather long flight: about ten hours from England to Utah.
Michael was invited to hang out with a few other kids his age. They each donned masks—the faces of the other Fredbear and Friends characters. Michael played Foxy. One of the boys pointed out Michael's brother by himself, checking out Fredbear on stage. The girl said he wanted to give Fredbear a kiss. Michael played along, thinking nothing bad of it. It was a harmless joke, wasn't it?
He helped lift up his brother to Fredbear's head, feeling someone staring into his back. He didn't want to turn around, hoping it would go away if he didn't pay any attention to it. He shivered uncomfortably, realising he had brought his brother too close to Fredbear's mouth. His brother's head was wedged into the robot's jaw, and he couldn't come out. He slowly let go, and watched in horror as his brother flailed around, stuck in the robot's large mouth. The other kids were yelling at him, saying he was going too far. He assured them he wasn't doing anything.
Fredbear had stopped moving, making mechanical groaning noises instead of his happy music box. Michael glanced around nervously. Nobody was looking, but there was still a dark presence bearing down on him. He turned to look at his brother again.
His brother was screaming, he recalled very clearly. He couldn't make out what he was saying, but he remembered laughing from right beside him. Who else was there? That part of the memory had clouded. Fredbear had suddenly stopped everything. Then, with a big heave, Fredbear had started right up again, crushing his brother's skull right then and there.
His music box resumed as if nothing had happened.
The screaming stopped.