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Michael was at a low point in his life when he grab the big knife from the kitchen.
It wasn't for him, because killing himself wasn't punishment enough for what he did. It wasn't for his father either, because he can't say he hates his father. Not even after finding out about what he did, what he is still doing.
He laughed uncontrollably when he found out because his mind would always repeat his father's words of that day. How dare he call him a killer when what he did was an accident? When he didn't mean to. When he didn't use his own hands to take away a life. But he sees himself in the reflection of the knife. He was planning to use it the same way his father would, just to make him stop. Those cold and hateful looks. Those bitter words, and those hard hits and punches.
His hand grabbing the knife trembles, but he doesn't want to let go.
What if he does it? What if he does what his father does? Would that made his father care for him? Would his father love him if he shows him how similar they are apart from looks?
(At 5 years old, his father was his hero. At 10 years old, he dream to be just like him when he grows up. At 15, even with him looking like the mirror image of his father, he was nothing like him... And even if he knows he shouldn't wish to be like him, he wants to.)
He stays on the kitchen until his father comes home, smelling at cleaning products that doesn't cover the smell of blood enough. Or maybe the smell of blood is coming from him, from his palm that is bleeding for grabbing the blade of the knife.
"Michael," his father says.
He is in the middle of the kitchen still, but the knife is behind his back, still cutting. Still making his hand bleed.
"Father"
"What are you doing?" And his father is mad, he is always mad.
He doesn't flinch because he is concentrating on the pain on his palm, on the feeling of the blood dripping to the floor.
"Nothing." He says, looking down at the floor, to walk out of the kitchen, maintain a fair distance from his father. He doesn't want his father to notice the knife to grab him so he could throw him against the cabinets again.
William sees his son go, feeling distaste but curiosity, after he looks at the place where his son was, noticing the little drops of blood on the dirty floor of the kitchen.
"Huh."
+
He cries cleaning his hand with alcohol. It burns and it makes him want to scream, but he continues putting alcohol.
He has cure his wounds and cuts before. That's what happens when you decide to mess with older boys than you. When you skateboard and fall on the pavement or the road full of rocks. He never cried because he had to be the big brother that wasn't scared of anything, that nothing could hurt him. But his siblings where dead, and his dad didn't see him as a good big brother, neither as a good son.
Pathetic little brat, he called him before, making him remember how he called his little brother something similar. Pathetic crybaby
He looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes are all red and puffy. His face is dirty with dry tears and snot.
Who is the crybaby now?
He thinks with a good impersonation of his father's voice.
The knife is on his backpack when he goes to school.
His hand is covered in bandages but the long sleeve of his sweatshirt covers it. Not that anyone would ask.
He has no friends not anymore, and the teachers don't care. Not about someone like him.
He thinks of running away once.
He has a bag full of clothes, and money that he saved for years. Evan's plushie, Elizabeth's favorite ribbon, the only picture of his mom. It's under his bed, next to his skateboard.
It was 3am when he grabs a lantern and he was trying to open his window without making so many noise. But the lights of his dad's car covers the house moments later. He throws himself at the floor, noticing the light enter from his windows illuminating his room for a moment before being in darkness again.
His dad was out. His dad was out doing exactly what he knows he does at night. If he can kill children, who say he wouldn't kill you? That should be enough motivation to grab his bag and run. Get away from his father but- He wouldn't kill his own son. As if he hadn't caused his own daughter's death.
He goes back to bed, looking at the ceiling while hearing his dad move around the house at 3:30 am.
He sees the missing posters the next week.
The knife is on his backpack when he walks back home through the woods.
He is looking at the floor, at the dirt under his shoes. There is a silence that shouldn't be there. There is always a chirping sound of a bird or an annoying insect, at least, but this time there is nothing. He continues walking until he crashes with something or really, someone.
He flinch looking up and noticing a old man looking at him weird.
"You shouldn't be here," he blinks because what does that even mean-?
He hears a cry near, and he looks around before the man grabs him. He throws him to the floor. It's familiar, so familiar that he freezes. Doesn't stop the old man that is already putting his hands around his neck.
There is still someone crying near them.
"I said shut up-!"
It's a kid, a younger kid. He knows because that's how Evan sounded.
He focus his sight on the guy thinking: what did you do to them, because an old man with a crying child on the woods looks bad, more than just bad. He is just a sick fuck that hurts a kid-
Something catch his eye. His backpack fell when the guy throw him to the floor. It was already broken so his things are all over the floor and he sees it. He can't breath but he is good in holding his breathing when he wants to disappear when his dad gets home (if he doesn't make any sound, not even by breathing, he would forget about him on a bad day. He doesn't want his dad to forget about him but, that's better than the punches).
The guy isn't doing a good job. He doesn't have enough strength on his neck to really block the oxygen in fulling his lungs. He couldn't kill him if he continues like that. It's not like he has a knife to do it faster, his father's voice says and he grabs it.
There is blood on the blade after he slash the man on the side. The man is already getting away from him, he thinks he is gonna run but he steps on his face. His nose is broken, he knows how it feels when it happens, but he doesn't make a sound before slashing again. It's right under the man's knee, making jim fall to the floor.
He moves fast, putting himself over the old man, with the knife shining with the sun.
"Wait-!
He lets the knife fall on the old man's guts, and he screams and trash and he stabs him, again and again. He doesn't know what he is doing until his hand hurts. He lets the knife fall to the floor, and sees the dead body.
And like a switch, he throws up right next to it. He gets up, feeling numb, having his mind blank. He isn't really paying attention of what he is doing but the kid. There is a kid still crying. When he finds them, the kid is on the floor, hugging his knees.
"Hey," his voice sounds wrong, but he doesn't care enough to pay attention. The kid looks at him, a little boy with green eyes and black hair. "Let's get you home."
The kid blinks, with his eyes still full of tears. "What about daddy?"
Daddy, he says. He thinks in his father, dad, daddy and how he could be worse, just look how he could be worse.
"He is gonna stay here," the kid looks relieved, maybe knowing what happened, maybe not. He doesn't have to find out.
He lets the kid go when they get out of the woods. He goes back home, to just get to his room and lay on his bed.
Nothing happens.
He expected of him to feel something, but he doesn't even feel like himself at the moment.
+
There is a knock on his door, and his eyes opens at that.
His room is in darkness, and the knock was soft enough that doesn't know if he should get up off the bed.
"Michael?" He holds his breath thinking how could he black out almost all day. "I'm coming in." The door opens, the lights turns on and he flinch. "Oh, Michael." His dad says in a tone that he hasn't heard for so long. When he can see clearly again, his dad is sitting in front of him. "How are you feeling, son?" There is a hand on his shoulder, he blinks at his father, that is looking at him with a weird shine on his eyes.
He wants to say how he feels numb, tired- "Normal" because that is normal. Him, cover in blood with the knife stuck still on his hand is not gonna change that.
"Huh," his dad says, messing his hair. "Mister Pitch sends her thanks" He blinks again. "I saw what you did," and he freeze because... He shouldn't- it wasn't- it was messy. It was impulsive. It was a mistake. He was supposed to kill the kid, not the adult.
"For your first time, it wasn't so bad," and he looks up, at his father's face. There is a smile there, and some kind of warmth in his eyes.
"I can be better." And his father chuckled.
His father is happy.
"When someone gives you a compliment you say thank you."
"Thank you, father."
"And I know you can, be better that is." He feels his eyes burn, he is not gonna cry. "I'm happy, Michael. You did well." He does anyway because he made his father happy.
He did what his father always wanted.
"You are not son of mine, Michael. You would never be. You don't have any kind of interest of what I do. Of the legacy that could be yours."
When his father told him that, he thought he was talking about the animatronics, about the Fazbear Entertainment. He knew he was wrong when he saw his father shush him using the Spring Bonnie suit meanwhile he cut a little kid until making bleed.
"Lesson number one, Michael." He was trembling, holding his tears, fearing for his life, fearing his father. "Make it painful, make it messy. It's not like they are of importance."