Carnage : 1983 | William afton x reader |

Mortuary. - 2

8 January 1983

I awoke violently, as though dragged to the surface from some black and airless depth. My sheets were twisted around my legs, damp with sweat, my pulse hammering against my ribs like a fist against a locked door. For several seconds I could not separate dream from memory — flashes of purple stains, hollowed bone, a child's unblinking eyes.

Then I saw the clock.

6:30 a.m.

"Oh, hell."

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood too quickly. The room tilted. Pale winter light filtered through the thin curtains of my apartment, exposing every imperfection: peeling brown paint along the walls, a crooked frame hanging by a single nail, the persistent crack in the plaster above the door.

By 6:45, I had forced myself into something resembling functionality. I dressed in dark slacks and a pressed blouse, dragged a brush through my hair until it cooperated, scrubbed sleep from my teeth and face, and attempted — unsuccessfully — to silence the pounding behind my temples.

The clock on the wall ticked ominously. Its screws were loosening; it leaned forward as though contemplating a fall. Everything in that apartment seemed one tremor away from collapse.

The phone rang.

I exhaled sharply and lifted the receiver. "Yes?"

A familiar voice responded, already laced with irritation. "You never gave me your address."

Of course I hadn't.

I recited it anyway, my tone flat. There was a pause on the other end.

"You know," he said casually, "you have a terrible attitude."

My jaw tightened. There are moments when homicide seems less like a crime and more like a solution.

"Oh, do I?" I replied sweetly. "How tragic."

I hung up before he could respond.

"Why can't he just leave me alone?" I muttered, throwing my hands upward in exasperation as I grabbed my coat and stepped out into the frigid morning air.

The metal staircase outside my apartment groaned beneath my weight. Each step jarred my hips unpleasantly; the descent always felt longer than it should have been. By the time I reached the sidewalk, my patience had thinned considerably.

Twenty minutes passed.

No car.

Then, finally, I spotted the dull gleam of a faded 1970s sedan crawling down the street — and continuing past me.

"I'm over here, you idiot!" I shouted, waving both arms.

The car kept going.

I stared at it in disbelief. "You cannot be serious."

It disappeared around the corner.

I exhaled sharply and allowed myself to sit heavily on the sidewalk, drawing my coat tighter around me. For a brief moment, I considered abandoning the entire excursion.

Then the sedan reappeared, creeping back into view like an embarrassed dog.

"I told you where to go!" I snapped as it rolled to a stop.

"I know, I know," he replied, stepping out with infuriating calm.

He extended a hand to help me up. I ignored it and pushed myself upright, brushing dirt from my trousers.

"Ready?" he asked, flashing a smile too polished to be sincere.

"Mhm," I muttered.

The interior of his car was significantly cleaner than the one assigned to me by the department. The upholstery was worn but intact; the dashboard only rattled slightly when he started the engine.