Punching the Clock, But It's Already Broken

Problems

Rule #1: If something can go wrong, it will.

As Michael started to drift off, he knew something was very, very wrong. The creak of the door was his first warning. The low, paralyzing chuckle was his second. As he sat up, his blood ran cold.

His old bedroom. The one Evan was in now.

Shit.

Michael flung himself out of bed, ignoring the sharp pain in his head that made the room spin. He leaned up against the door, listening. No breathing. He clicked the light, watched Bonnie dart away from the light. A tingle shot up his spine like an electric shock, and he raced over to the other side. Breathing. He shut the door tight, waited, listened again. Nothing. He ran over to his bed, clicked the light. Two Freddles zipped under the bed, giggling like drugged-up children.

Tears pricked his eyes and blurred his vision as he ran back up to the closet. Nothing.

He'd always been a crybaby when he was younger.

"Hey, guys! Look the baby cryin' again!"

"Wow, he's such a loser."

"What's the matter, man? Afraid of your dad's lil' pet fox?"

The taunts rang in Mike's ears. He could barely hear them over the sounds of his own fear, but they were loud and clear in his head once he registered them.

"I- I'm not scared..." He lied, struggling to his feet and rubbing his tears away.

"Yeah, right. Hey, why don't you prove you're not scared, huh?" One of them suggested, and Mike paled. "H-how?"

"Put your head in Foxy's mouth if you ain't scared."

Mike trembled. "N-no! That's dangerous-!"

The friend- whose name Mike couldn't recall- pushed him closer. "Do it, or we'll do it for you."

"No. I won't do it," Mike said defiantly, standing his ground. The boys looked at each other, then swarmed him, eliciting shrieks of pain. One grabbed his wrist, one grabbed his ankles, and one held his midriff.

"C'mon guys! Let's show Michael that there's nothin' to be scared of!" The one holding his wrists called, and the others hollered their approval.

"No! No, no, please, I don't want to!" Michael pleaded, but they ignored him.

"On three!" The leader shouted, lifting Michael up to Foxy's gaping mouth. His sharp teeth glinted in the neon lights.

"One..." They brought Evan Michael closer.

"Two..." Michael's head was almost fully in Foxy's mouth.

CRUNCH

The sound of sharp teeth piercing skin and bone echoed like a gunshot through the room, the cheerful music from Freddy and Friends' band still playing, though it sounded distant.

Everyone was terrified. No one moved. No one breathed.

Then, someone screamed. It was his classmate, Mark. That caused panic.

His old friends, the one he no longer considered friends- or even remembered- nearly threw up at the sight of blood. Of Michael's gored head.

So much blood.

It was everywhere. It spilled from his head as he fell to the floor, landing in a kneeling position. It pooled around the stage as he bled. It dripped onto the floor and clung to the boys' clothes, ruining them. They would forever have bloodstains on their conscience, just like their clothes.

A body, mangled and unrecognizable. It was kneeling in front of Foxy, eyes shut like he was praying. Hands and arms limp at his side. Barely breathing.

His body. Brown hair, pale skin.

His body. Son of the maker of the machine. The golden child.

His own body. The deep teeth marks still visible. Michael Afton, victim of the Bite of '83, forever changed by this day.

Foxy, looming above. Still fucking grinning, teeth dripping with brain and blood.

It dripped onto his head, soaked it further. Made him want to throw up, even as he floated at the edge of consciousness.

So much blood. It was everywhere. No one could escape it. Freddy and his band had stopped playing. They seemed to be watching the scene too.

His own blood, soaking into his mouth. Into his eyes. His ears ringing. Voices muffled by the sounds of his own blood rushing in his ears. Blood dripped from his lips. It tasted salty.

Anguish. Someone screaming, calling his name.

What was his name? Who was the person they were calling out for?

Who was calling out for who?

What was his name?

What was his name?

He didn't know. He didn't remember. The only reason he remembered later was because of everyone calling him that. Clearly, that must've been his name. He barely remembered his own family. His own friends.

The friends who had done this to him.

What had they done? He didn't remember.

So much blood.

It was everywhere.

What was his name?

His body hurt. His head especially, but his arms and legs felt bruised and sticky.

Where was he?

He screamed, and fell back. A monstrous being, with holes tattering its skin and sharp teeth perfect for biting, lunged at him, seizing him with its great talons and tearing off his flesh with its teeth.

Michael woke up in his bed, covered in sweat and blood.