Punching the Clock, But It's Already Broken

Connection Terminated

The last thing Mike remembered before blacking out was the feeling of cold pavement as his throat was shredded by animatronic wires and chips, the agony of throwing up the thing that had basically been keeping him alive for the past 3 months, and the taste of blood, even though that made no sense. He shouldn't have even had any blood left.

That was the last thing he remembered, and the first thing he saw when he woke up.

What was happening? This wasn't his house. This didn't even look like any house he had seen before. Except it did. The pale yellow walls, the white popcorn ceiling, the surreal paintings on the walls... This was his old house from when he was a kid. What the hell? That made no sense. He couldn't be back there, he hadn't been anywhere near there when he blacked out earlier. So how was this possible?

The sound of glass shattering downstairs. The screams of rage from his parents. The scream of pain from his mother. Agony, agony, agony. Desperate wails resounding in his head as he desperately tried to block them out. His Walkman did nothing, his blaring music did not mute the screaming in his head, the memories of pain and sorrow. He couldn't imagine how Elizabeth and Evan felt. 

He'd have to check later, after his mother left to go to her friend's house.

Michael sat up, and stared around the room. Sure as shit, there he was. Undeniably, in the flesh. He heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and instinct took over. He ducked back down, under the quilts and comforter, and closed his eyes, breathing as evenly as he could. The bedroom door opened, and someone sat at the foot of the bed. He couldn't even call it 'his' anymore. It used to be his, but it really wasn't. It didn't belong to him anymore.

"Mike?"

Michael's blood ran cold, and his heartbeat quickened. He could barely believe it. That was his mother's voice, but his mother had been dead for years now. Unless he had gone back in time, which wouldn't surprise him, all things considered. Was Ennard with him? He couldn't hear any of the familiar whirring, or the mechanical clicking. He couldn't even hear Ennard's mock-Circus Baby voice, whispering their thoughts to him.

"Mike? You ought to get up before your father gets mad."

Oh, right. His father. The one who he had set out to destroy.

Wasn't that ironic?

Michael slowly sat up, blinking the mock-sleep from his eyes. "Mom..?" He muttered, rubbing his eyes. His mother smiled in relief. "Yes, it's me. Hurry up and get dressed, Mike. Your father might get mad. Do you want help with your hair?" Mike reached his hand up to his hair. He had forgotten how fluffy and curly it was.

He shook his head. "I got it, thanks." He said simply, sliding out of bed. His mother got up, hugged him close, and kissed his head. Michael prayed his mother wouldn't notice the way he started shaking as he hugged her back. "I love you, Michael Terrance. Don't forget that, okay?" His mother looked at him adoringly. "I'll never forget." He promised, and his mother ruffled his hair affectionately before leaving.

Michael sank down onto his mattress, head swimming. This was definitely some timeline fuckery, but what kind of fuckery was it? Lord, he had forgotten how much he missed his mother's hugs. He hugged his elbows, trying to get control of his breathing again. He slowly stood up, walked over to his dresser. His hands moved by themselves, he was barely aware of anything that was happening, and he was dressed. Grey t-shirt, old jeans. He decided that was fine. Not like they'd be going anywhere anyways. But it felt like it was missing something.

Oh. Of course. That stupid Foxy mask. He reluctantly put it on, then trekked downstairs. Evan was positioned perfectly by the banisters for Michael to scare him.