Punching the Clock, But It's Already Broken

Thanks For the Memories (I Hate Them)

Michael frantically looked around, trying to gain his bearings. He was still in Evan's room. Never a good sign.

The alarm clock on his nightstand blinked an angry red, giving him a throbbing headache as he tried to read what the time said.

6:05 AM.

The times were too similar to be a coincidence. Sighing, he flopped back down onto his bed. Blood was coming from somewhere, but he couldn't find where. Blinking, he noticed the way his room seemed to shift and sway. Surely, that couldn't just be because he was tired.

No, it wasn't.

The blood pooled on his pillow.

Michael lifted his hand up to his forehead, and felt agony and nausea wash over him as he tore his hand away, his palm now a bright scarlet. Staggering out of bed, he fumbled for the flashlight he kept in the drawer. He came away empty-handed.

Swearing, he leaned against the door on the left side. Nothing. That was a good sign.

He trotted over to the right side. Breathing. He shut the door tight, waited, and listened again. It had gone silent, save for the faint ringing in his ears. It made his headache worse, he wished it would just stop already. Alas, no such luck.

He stumbled around, trying to survive without his flashlight. He turned around, and remembered his lamp by his bed.

His bedroom lights. His closet light.

He had lights.

So what if his father got mad at him for turning the lights on? He would take an angry father hitting him over being torn limb from limb by a robot designed for murder.

He raced around, turning on every light in his room and shutting the doors tight.

Once his room was sufficiently lit, he crawled back into his bed and used his pillow to block out the artificial luminescence. Slowly, his eyes fluttered shut.

The blood never. Fucking. Stopped. This time when he woke up, he was in the car, parked in front of Fredbear's. Shaking slightly, he got out and walked inside. There, his friends were tormenting Evan by the secondary stage. He'd been here thousands of times. He wanted to be sick. But he joined in regardless. Mark caught his eye, and made a face. What happened to your head?

Michael gingerly reached up and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. Scarlet again.

He shook his head, wiping his hand off on his jeans, and picking Evan up.

It never mattered what he wanted to do, he always did the same thing. Because what was Michael Afton if not a predictable mess?

A wave of agony washed over him, but he powered through it as he heaved Evan up to Fredbear's mouth.

But he didn't see Evan. And he didn't see Fredbear.

He saw himself being lifted up to Foxy's mouth, friends jeering about how scared he was being for no reason. He fought back the urge to drop himself.

He watched Foxy's jaw snap shut, sink into his head. His own head throbbed painfully, as though punishing him for all his past mistakes- even though this one wasn't his fault.

He wanted to be sick.

He woke up to a loud beeping and a knocking on his door. Frantically, he checked the time. 7:15 AM. The calendar read August 21st, 1987. Evan's birthday. The day before was crossed off.

Sighing deeply, he struggled to his feet. Everything hurt. If he focused, he would swear he saw the bruises on his limbs again.

He shuffled over to the door, rubbing his eyes. "Mornin'," he mumbled groggily. Evan stood in the doorway, pouting slightly, but the expression quickly melted away when he heard Michael's uncharacteristically domestic greeting. "Morning. Did you sleep at all last night?" Evan, ever the observant little twerp, seemed genuinely worried for him. He looked down at his brother, and gave him a lopsided smile. "I got enough. Don't worry, I'll give you a break today. In honour of the occasion." He ruffled Evan's hair, and trudged to the bathroom in search of some aspirin and his toothbrush.

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He found his sweet relief with the successful hunt for painkillers. He also gained a small respite when he brushed his teeth and rid himself of the gross taste in his mouth. Half blood, half bile, full nauseating.

After he felt like a real human again, he went into his room to get dressed. He chose something different than his usual grey shirt and torn-up pants this time. This would be the timeline where he did everything right. He was determined to make it so.

He picked out a dark green shirt and his old monochrome Letterman from middle school. It wasn't his grey shirt, so it was good enough for him.

He stretched, still stiff and sore from his nightmares. His pale scar was still visible through his curly hair, so he did his best to hide it. Not that it mattered anyways.

The wailing of the ambulance, the beeping of the heart monitor-

He shoved those thoughts away. Today was a happy day. The happiest day.

He would fight to keep it that way. He was going to have to.