After the Bite

It was supposed to be a prank, Michael Afton hears himself say. Sun is pouring through the blinds. The couch feels like it's swallowing him. The room he's in feels hazy, swirling, foggy. His throat feels like something is stuck in it, making his words seem soft, and troubled. The kind-faced lady in front of him starts to speak, but he thinks it comes from a deep, deep, empty void, echoing in his ears. He can't think. He doesn't want to go in anymore. All he wants is to rest. It's been a long day.

He can still feel the blood on his face, even though he has the mask on. That warm, red splash of blood as it drained from his brother. It was supposed to be a joke. It's just a joke, Michael tries to reassure himself. Michael shivers suddenly, as if he only now remembered that he's in an air-conditioned room. He rubs his hands to warm himself. He hears a squelch. Looking down, he sees red.

Red. His hands are a dark, bloody red. Michael tenses. It's as if a switch has just flipped. The room feels unwelcome and cold. His shaky breath feels frigid against his dry throat. The sun shining on the wall is now a bright red-orange color, like the color of Fredbear's skin after the jaw chomped on his poor, crybaby brother. His throat is itchy, as if some words were clawing their way out of it. He hears the woman on the couch speak even clearer. She is calling him.

"Michael? Michael, can you hear me?" asks the woman.

"Yes," he hears himself say. "I can hear you. Please continue."

The woman looks relieved and starts to speak, but he diverts his attention to other things. A bookshelf, a vase, a fireplace. What if she can see the blood? He panics. Looking at his hands again, he breathes a sigh of relief. It's clean, not red. Clean. It isn't really his fault after all. It was just a joke. Fredbear's mechanism just snapped, fatefully snapping his crybaby of a brother's skull inside. The blood really isn't that big of a deal, Michael thinks. It isn't his. Maybe he could tell that to his friends someday, and that would be cool.

It was a birthday party for his brother, you see. His pathetic little brother. He isn't the favorite, he's sure of that. Whenever he sees Evan, an icky feeling always stirs up in his stomach. He always feels it, every single day. When he asked his mom about it, she laughed. Laughed, like he was the bad one. She said something about "sibling rivalry" and that it was normal. He had nothing to worry about. Were the things he felt that day normal then?

"-and how do you feel about it, Michael?"

He jumps. "Oh, uh, what was the question?"

He feels stupid. Why hasn't he listened? It is clearly important, right?

"I asked about your jealousy towards your brother. What was his name again?" The woman's voice goes cold.

"Evan. He's fine I guess. It was an accident, I didn't mean to do it," he says defensively.

"No, it wasn't an accident, Michael. You killed him."

The wind howls, shaking the nearby trees clean of their auburn leaves. It makes the windows rattle like a cage.The white walls are tinged a bright red from the setting sun.

He feels a drip on his head. Then on his hand. Looking down, he sees red. Dark red stains. Looking around, it looks to him that the ceiling is dripping with blood. He looks at the woman. She is still smiling. Her pristine outfit is splotched with red.

"You're a killer, Michael. That makes you bad." The woman's voice turns shrill and harsh.

Her smile is kind, although her eyes say anything but that.

"No! It was an accident!" he shouts. It really was! He didn't mean to kill him!

He notices he's shaking even more than last time. He feels scared. The room is now a harsh, neon red. It hurts his eyes. He strains to see the figure of the woman in front of him; a black silhouette against a red color.