The Party -FNaF

Goodbye

Everything was white.

The floors, the walls, the chairs. There were only a few tables in the waiting room and far more chairs. Michael and his father moved to a corner.

Just before Michael sat down, however, his father stopped him. "Wash off your shirt. You look like you just killed someone."

Michael flinched, and his words came out before he processed them. "I did."

"Well we don't need other people knowing that, do we?" Michael's father hissed. "Clean up." He gestured to a door right next to them, one Michael hadn't noticed, labelled for the bathroom.

Michael hesitated, but eventually headed for the door. He wasn't sure he wanted to be near his father when he was tense, anyway.

Just like the rest of the hospital, the bathroom was almost completely white. Michael went to the sink farthest away from the door and looked down at his shirt. His eyes burned when he saw all the droplets of blood. He had been so close to Fredbear when it happened.

Michael turned on the faucet, turning it to warm water. Clothes were always washed in warm water, right? He tugged his shirt over the running water once it was hot enough. Just the rim to start, in case it didn't work.

Some of the water stained a little pink, but Michael began to panic when he realised the blood wasn't washing off. He rubbed at the red droplet, but no matter what he did, it was noticeable. He winced the longer his hand was held over the boiling water.

Eventually, Michael turned off the faucet, grimacing at his now slightly wet and bloodstained shirt.

He paused for a moment, wringing out the wet rim of his shirt and watching the pinkish water run down the drain.

Was it permanent?

Michael's breaths grew short and jagged. Surely he could get it out. Was there some secret he was missing?

Michael glanced over at the soap dispenser. Of course!

Michael let the soap fill his hand as he turned the tap on again. He scrubbed the hot rim with soap, but it did little to nothing. Michael fell back, once more confused.

His eyes felt dry. His head hurt. The room was unfocused. Michael reached forward, grabbing the edges of the sink to steady himself. He looked in the mirror, blinking hard to focus his vision. His eyes were wider than he anticipated, and much more red. His left eye was redder than the other, and there was drying blood on its eyelid from where it shot between his mask. His hair was ruffled.

He looked tired. And scared.

He looked down at his slightly bloody shirt again. What would he tell his father when he tells him he can't wash it off?

Michael looked to the door, then back at the mirror. He scrubbed off the blood on his face, which thankfully did come off. That meant the fabric was the problem. Right?

Michael hesitated, but eventually headed for the door. Maybe his father could help.

His father noticed Michael enter immediately. "That's not the clean I'm looking for."

"It won't come off," Michael tried explaining. "No matter what I do."

His father adjusted in his seat to address Michael directly. "Did you use cold water?"

"What?"

"Blood only comes out in cold water, Michael."

Michael stuttered, knowing he couldn't say 'what' again. "S...so... it'll...? I'll...go..." Michael awkwardly went back to the bathroom, dashing when he realised he left the tap on.