Death Of Me (William Afton X Reader)

ȻħȺᵽŧɇɍ Ŧwɇnŧɏ-Ønɇ

(i named the document for this chapter pain and suffering because i rewrote it too many times to count. And- it started to blend together so if it seems a bit.. like shits repeated-thats why.)

Your head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, heavy and muffled, as you blink into the suffocating darkness. Every thought feels sluggish, dragging like a weight you can’t lift, while confusion claws at the edges of your mind. The air presses down, thick and stagnant, and every nerve in your body screams that something isn’t right. Where were you? This wasn’t the bar. This wasn’t your house. This wasn’t… anywhere you recognized.

A cold chill crawls down your spine as fragments of memory cut through the fog, sharp and disjointed—David’s voice, low and insistent, urging you to leave with him. His arm clamping around your waist, too firm, too controlling. The unease in your gut that built like a storm, swelling into something more dangerous. You’d tried to pull away. You remember that, don’t you? But after that…

Nothing.

A void stretches where memories should be, vast and terrifying. Panic flutters in your chest, sharp and unyielding, as fear digs its claws into you. What happened? Why couldn’t you remember? The blanket draped over you feels wrong—too coarse, too heavy, too unfamiliar. You clutch it tighter against your chest, but the pressure of it against your hypersensitive skin sends a jolt of discomfort through you. The sensation lingers, crawling over your body like static, making you want to scream and rip it away.

Your breath hitches as the phantom sensation of David’s grip resurfaces, ghostly and suffocating. A shudder wracks your frame, and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing it to stop. He brought you here. He must have. But why?

"Stop," you whisper to yourself, your voice trembling, the word barely audible. It’s irrational, you tell yourself. You’re spiraling, overreacting. But logic is a faint whisper beneath the deafening roar of panic in your mind.

You push yourself upright too quickly, and the room tilts wildly, as if the ground beneath you is shifting. The edges of your vision blur, darkening, narrowing, until the room becomes a tunnel of shadow and distorted shapes. Dizziness crashes over you like a wave, and nausea churns in your stomach, the bile rising even though you know you won’t throw up. Not yet, at least.

Your arms tremble under your weight, the muscles refusing to cooperate as though they’ve been disconnected from you. Your body is betraying you, one faltering movement at a time. A sharp gasp escapes you as the couch beneath you feels unsteady, threatening to dissolve into nothingness. The sensation of it pressing against your skin makes your head spin further, every fiber of the fabric magnified in unbearable clarity.

"Where…" Your voice cracks, barely more than a breath. The word feels foreign on your tongue, unfamiliar and distant, like it doesn’t belong to you. "Where am I?"

The room doesn’t answer, the silence too thick, too menacing. Your heart races, thundering in your ears, drowning out any sense of reason. Shadows seem to creep closer, curling around the edges of your vision, and your thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm. This is irrational. You’re being ridiculous. Calm down. The words bounce uselessly through your mind, as flimsy as smoke, unable to pierce the chaos.

And then, cutting through the void, there’s a sound—a murmur, low and steady, grounding. You freeze, straining to hear. A voice. Familiar. Steady. William. The name rises unbidden in your mind, clinging to the fragments of reality that haven’t slipped away.

"Will…" Your voice quivers, cracking under the weight of your fear. The name is fragile, breaking apart even as you speak it, but it’s enough. "William?"