Death Of Me (William Afton X Reader)

̷C̷̷h̷a̷̷p̷̷t̷̷e̷̷r̷ ̷T̷̷e̷̷n̷

You wake up feeling like you've been trampled by a herd of elephants. Sunlight streams through the window, not warm or comforting, but sharp and invasive, turning your throbbing headache into a full-on migraine. What a wonderful way to wake up, you think bitterly. Every muscle in your body aches, heavy and sluggish, like you’ve just gone ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer and lost.

You lie there a moment, eyes squeezed shut, silently begging for some magical force to take pity on you and make it all go away. But of course, reality has no mercy. With a groan, you push yourself up, feeling your hair sticking up in every direction. Great, you probably look just as horrible as you feel. And isn’t that a lovely sight? You can practically hear William’s unimpressed expression if he were here to witness the mess you’ve turned into.

A momentary thought flits through your mind: maybe you should just call in. Tell him you’re too sick to work. He probably wouldn’t even argue. “Oh, hello, Mr. Afton, I feel like a sack of mashed potatoes. Mind if I just… not?” You snort at the thought, already imagining the look he’d give you. Sure, he’d probably let you stay home, but the idea of looking weak in front of him gnaws at you. No way. You’ve got something to prove, even if he might not care about it one bit.

So, with a sigh of resignation, you drag yourself to the bathroom. The tiles are cold beneath your feet, and as you flick on the harsh fluorescent light, you squint against the brightness, feeling it jab directly into your headache. You splash some cold water on your face, hoping it’ll help wake you up, then start brushing your teeth. Each action feels like it’s happening underwater, your mind foggy and weighed down with exhaustion.

Catching a glance of yourself in the mirror, you almost do a double-take. Dark circles smudge under your eyes, and your skin has that “I’ve slept three hours in the last week” pallor. “Zombie chic,” you mutter to your reflection, giving yourself a mock salute. “Charming.”

After a quick shower that does little to shake the fatigue, you pull your hair up into a messy bun, just enough to look somewhat pulled together. You try not to think about how your worn-out clothes hang loosely on your tired frame as you throw on the usual ensemble. As if William’s going to notice, you think, a mix of sarcasm and longing lacing your thoughts.

In the kitchen, you rummage through the cabinets until you find a half-empty box of cereal. It’s probably been there for months, but you’re past the point of caring. Pouring it into a bowl, you grab the milk from the fridge. One whiff tells you it’s maybe a day past its prime, but you shrug and pour it anyway. The first bite tastes like stale cardboard, and you grimace but force yourself to keep eating. Breakfast of champions.

You force down the cereal, each crunch loud and grating against the silence, and follow it up with a glass of tap water. Once that’s done, you slump back against the counter, wondering if this is what adult life is supposed to feel like. It’s not exactly how you pictured it—dragging yourself through the motions, fueled by sheer stubbornness and just a hint of spite.

Finally, you grab your phone and keys and head for the door, but not before one last look in the mirror. You adjust a few stray strands around your bun, trying to look more put-together than you feel. “You’ve got this,” you murmur to yourself, though the lack of conviction in your voice isn’t lost on you. Just another day of pretending to be fine when you’re anything but. But hey, maybe that’s what William respects—someone who keeps showing up, even when they’re barely holding it together.

Stepping outside, the morning air greets you with an icy slap, almost refreshing in its chill. You inhale deeply, but the cold isn’t sharp enough to clear the stubborn fog tangled in your head. Lovely. Nothing like starting the day with the feeling that you’ve already run a marathon… but hey, who needs sleep or an un-cramped neck anyway?