Just William

Chapter 1

Pictured: My version of William Afton before he was arrested. I hope this is an enjoyable read! (Also I wanted him to be in a purple suit so bad, but sadly even the internet has limitations.)

Trigger Warning: In accordance with the FNAF story line, this chapter mentions child murder and violence against children. 

I stared down our gravel driveway, my arms crossed in anger. I glance at my mother, her green eyes contain hope, nervousness, but no frustration. My younger brother, Michael, stands half hidden behind my mother, bouncing on his tippy toes with nervous energy. Michael is twelve, but he is immature for his age. His therapist says his mental development has slowed because of what happened, that acting younger is Michael's way of coping. I guess that's true, although I don't really believe that therapist mumbo jumbo. The first thing my therapist learned about me is I don't like to talk about my feelings. Albeit, he tried, convinced the Dr. in front of his name would impress me into sharing my deepest, darkest secrets. Eventually my mother decided it wasn't worth her good money for me to sit and brood for an hour.

My name is Elizabeth Annette Afton, I'm seventeen years old and I was cursed to bear the same dark hair and blue eyes as my father. How I wish I would have been born like my mother, with golden hair and emerald eyes. My youngest brother, Evan looked like her and even Michael has her beautiful smile. Only I was conceived under the unlucky star that made me resemble my father in every way. If you have a good memory and my name sounds familiar to you, that's probably because you read it in the Hurricane Valley Journal, almost ten years ago. I remember the newspaper being left on our doorstep with big, bold, black words on the front page.

Eight Year-Old Girl Murdered By Local Restaurant Owner William Afton

I'll never forget that day. Police were coming in and out of our house and my mother cried until her face was red and swollen and her eyes refused to produce more tears. Michael and I slept with her for weeks. He, still just a toddler, too scared to be alone, and I, unable to go into my room without staring at the remnants of splattered blood on the wall and floor. Eventually the red marks faded to black, but you could still see them for months. About a year after the "incident", my mother got my room repainted and carpeted. Sometimes I wonder if the stains are still showing and if one day a new family will come to live here and upon tearing up the carpet will wonder what those black stains are from.

I see two police cruisers turn onto our road and my breath catches in my throat. I'm not ready for this. Are any of us though? My mother is trying to contain the visible tremors that course through her hands and Michael has retreated even farther behind her. My mother pulls one of my arms straight and grasps my hand in hers. Her palm is cold and sweaty and her fingers hold mine in a deathlike grip. I let my other hand fall to my side and clench into a fist. The cruisers pulled to a stop about twenty feet away from where we stood. My mother let go of my hand and stepped forward as the first officer ducked out of his car.

"Good afternoon Mrs. Afton." Chief Burke shook my mother's hand and nodded respectfully.

I've known Chief Clay Burke my whole life. He has a son named Carlton who's my age. We used to go to school together and he was a good friend of... a friend of mine when we were younger. I don't have many friends these days. Two state police officers emerged from the second car and opened the back passenger door.

"I know this is going to be difficult for you Clara. People are going to talk and-."

"It's already been hard, Clay." My mother trembles. "The last nine years have been hard. People have already talked." She took a sharp, haggard breath. "What more can they say?"

A tall figure slowly got out of the police vehicle. My mother looked up, her eyes frozen, light reflecting off the tears glistening in them. It was my father. The state officer began to speak, telling my father the conditions of his parole. Don't remove your ankle monitor except to shower. Don't leave the farm without notifying your parole officer. Return home by 9:00 PM. But I didn't hear any of it. All I saw was my father, standing there, dark blue eyes flitting between my mother, Michael, and I. He was different than I remember, thinner, his cheekbones protruding sharply from his unshaven face. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit that said Utah State Prison on the front and white tennis shoes. His hair, that fell to his shoulders just as it used to, was greasy and unwashed. He came forward, his strides hesitant and uneven. For a moment, some part deep down inside of me was glad he was okay. That's just the part that remembers what it used to be like. The part that remembers the fun, jovial, laughing, and gentle man I called daddy. That is not the man who stands before me, the stranger, the inmate, the murderer. Chief Burke stepped to the side, giving my mother a full view of her husband.

"William," She choked.

"Clara," He returned, his lips twitching as if they wanted to turn up into a smile, but were unable.

How many times in the last nine years have I watched my mother's heart break over this man. What did she see in him?

"I missed you." He said, almost inaudibly.

I'd almost forgotten about his British accent, forgotten he was from another country. When I was young, Grandma Elizabeth (my namesake) would send us Christmas presents from London. That was before she died. Mom flew all the way to England for her funeral and those were the first nights Michael and I had spent without her since our father was arrested. I was ten. Michael was five.

My mother just nodded, a lone tear making its way down her cheek.

Fury burned in my eyes. I had hated this man for a long time, but I was even more angry at my mother for bringing him back here and even shedding a single tear over him. I've never cried, not since the day he was arrested. Being numb is so much harder, but it's better than feeling all those raw, sick emotions stabbing your heart and making you sick. My stance stiffened as my father opened his arms and mother awkwardly stepped into them. After a moment of total silence, they broke away from each other. My father's eyes lit up as he turned to Michael.

"Hello...Do you remember me?"

Michael nodded briefly, holding on to the back of my mother's shirt for dear life.

"You're my dad, aren't you?" He blinked twice.

"No!" I wanted to scream. He's not our father! He's an intruder, a convict, a killer!

"That's right." The man in the orange jumpsuit offered my brother his arms and Michael accepted them. He hugged the man with the same uneasy tension my mother had. As if hugging your father after nine years of not seeing him was the most natural, and yet the hardest thing to do.

That's when he turned to me.

"Lizzie, you're so grown up."

I brought myself to look him in the face and the turbulent sea of his eyes met my raging ones. In those eyes I thought I saw my father, but lucky for me, I never trust just what's on the surface. My fists clenched so tight I could feel my knuckles whiten, my scowl deepened, and I felt my body give an enraged shake. In those eyes I saw one thing...Charlie. This was not a man; this was not my father. This was a monster! A monster named William Afton. He took a step toward me, arms open, but I dodged his embrace. I swiftly turned and marched back towards the house. Behind me I could hear my father give a sigh. No! Not my father, William. Even without looking I could feel William's defeat. The farther away from him I grew, the more resilient I became. No longer would he be my father, he was only William. And that is all I will ever know him as.