𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨, 𝙊𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨. // WILLIAM AFTON X READER

.○° CHAPTER 1. °○.

» [Happy Face] «
[[{Jaguar Twin}]]
0:35 ─〇───── 2:49
⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

"A new beginning."
Cw: abuse, panic attack, violence.

You wake up to your alarm blasting in your ear, Muzzle by Dazey and the Scouts, if you wanted to know. You groan, rubbing your eyes and slapping your phone to shut it up. You take out your white, wired headphones and drag yourself lazily out of bed. Your head starts to throb, reminding you of the inevitable hangover that threatened to overtake you today. A sigh escapes your throat as you slide your feet toward your door.

Your room was a shade of coal, various posters of bands and game covers all over the walls, a pot of wilted flowers that you had forgotten to water, an unmade bed in the middle and dark wooden floorboards. You had a makeup desk that was heavily unorganised, followed by a computer desk adjacent to it. You open your paint-peeling wooden door and cringe at the irritating squeak.

You walk toward the bathroom down the hall, your feet feeling the rough carpet beneath you. You enter the pale bathroom, sauntering over to the sink and instantly recoiling at your appearance.

Your hair was fluffed up, messy and stuck out in some places, your mascara smudged, a dry drool mark trailing from the corner of your mouth and to your chin, your eyes bloodshot and accompanied with heavy bags under them. You blink a few times, grimacing and hastily brushing your teeth with a disgusting strawberry flavoured toothpaste. You wash your mouth out with spearmint mouthwash and then travel back to your room to grab a purple towel.

Trailing toward the bathroom, you were stopped by Ben, your foster father. He looked you up and down with a scowl, just as resented by your appearance as you were. With a scoff, you brush past him and slam the bathroom door shut, locking it. Turning on the shower, you pull out your phone and connect your bluetooth to a speaker.

"Za blootoot dewice is connected uh-successfully."

The thing spoke. You roll your eyes and then just start playing your playlist, which was pretty much the embodiment of Bipolar.

One minute, you were listening to Custer from Slipknot, then suddenly you were listening to Fluffing a Duck by Kevin McLoed.

You peel off your clothing and climb into the shower, turning on the water. You wince at the freezing temperature, but your joints relax as it heats up to a whopping 33°c, perfect temperature in your opinion.

You wash your face, getting rid of the makeup residue you had slept in, then you lather up your knotty hair with lavender scented shampoo, a smell that always made your nose wrinkle in distaste. You always preferred cherry scents. It gave you a memory of your mother.

You hum along to your music, washing your body thoroughly before rinsing off every miniscule bit of soap that you could have possibly missed. You climb out of the shower and thoroughly dry yourself, wrapping your slim body in a towel and making your way back to your room.

You never really bothered with basic clothing. You always had to express yourself. You made sure children cried, women prayed to god, and men hunched over with a gag.

You dressed yourself up in a dark green crop top, black loose jeans, a black belt with chains, leather fingerless gloves, and large black platformer boots. You put your hair up into two small pigtails, the rest of it down and covering your neck. You put necklaces around your neck and then look at yourself in your mirror.

You shrug, deciding that you looked fine and then put your headphones in. You play a random song, travelling downstairs with heavy eyes.

"Y/n!"