I Don't Get Paid Enough For This (William Afton x reader)

New Friend

Another day, another dollar.

It had been about two days since your first shift. You were meant to work the day after but called in sick due to the sheer stress and overstimulation you faced after working in that environment of judgemental teenage co-workers and hyperactive kids with no boundaries. Maybe you were just not built for the minimum wage life... not that you had a choice or anything.

You had debated, over the last two days, whether or not to quit but a quick look at your bank account solidified the necessity of your shitty job. You were a glorified quitter but even you had to admit that keeping your small and dirty studio apartment was on the top of the list of your priorities, unless you wanted to be out of the street.

Your apartment was nothing remotely special but you had naturally expected that considering how cheap it was. It had the main room with a small kitchen area that contained a microwave and a broken oven. The microwave itself hardly worked, every time you were about to cook some frozen meal you mentally wrote down your will, in case the microwave decided to explode and end both of your sufferings.

Along the chipped, cheap wooden floor you had scattered around clothes, food boxes and anything else that you couldn't be bothered to throw away. The whole apartment itself was a mess but so were you, so you considered it a match made in heaven.

To say you were anxious about the day was an understatement. You had thought about your meeting with your boss over and over, each time getting more angry and more creeped out over what took place. You didn't want to see him again. You remembered the way he glared down at you and the way he leant in so very close to speak to you. You remembered your anxiety over his threat of you losing your job. You remembered your eyes beginning to water, which made you feel small and pitiful. You remembered the surprising strength at which he clutched your shoulder, leaving it aching and slightly bruised.

You shook your head and pushed the memory away, you didn't want to think about it. You were being dramatic, even though you were pretty sure that it was psychotic to grab someone like that. Management across America had really gone downhill.

You put on your tacky and emotionally draining uniform and once again became a Fazbear Entertainment employee, much to your own frustration. You stood for a second in your cramped and mould infested bathroom that blackened the underneath of the sink and the toilet. The mirror stared back at your tired and worn out face, a face you could only catch glimpses of as the flickering overhead bulb slowly burned itself out. You finally built up the willpower to leave. Barely.

After a twenty minute walk from your apartment complex, along the deserted streets of Hurricane, you pulled up to the pizzeria. The same chaos was there once again, a child running into you as he ducked in between the cars before rushing off again as his mother called after him. The nightmare was beginning again.

After gathering yourself, you opened the murky glass doors of the pizzeria and was once again greeted by screaming, crying and throwing up.

Great. That's great.

You walked slowly to where you needed to clock in, as to avoid doing work for as long as possible. You clocked in, having a silent emotional breakdown upon doing so before spinning around with the best fake smile that you could muster and marched into the arcade area.

The flashing neon lights and artificial sounds of futuristic guns left you disoriented as kids pushed past you like you were not there, as if you were just a looming presence over their fun.

You made your rounds of the arcade, cleaning up any spilled drinks or gum that had been tossed onto the carpet when it had lost its flavour. This job really was a whole new level of degrading as you spent half the time bending down, knees cracking as though you were 80 years old, to scrape gum out of the black carpet with geometric neon triangles and squares while simultaneously trying not to get trampled by kids and parents.