The Murderer's Child

Now You're Gone...

Sensitive content warning.

The grass was green, littered with the last of the summer flowers. The trees were still stood tall, full of life. The sky was a pale grey, a covering of clouds dropping a light rain.

He was the only one there, stood alone as a single tear fell down his cheek. His hand was placed on the headstone, his head bowed. In his other hand was a small collection of flowers. He placed them gently on the grave, and studied three pictures that were sat on it. One was of a small girl and her family: four children, their mother and father. Another showed her recently, as an older child with five friends. The last seemed hidden behind the other two, the girl- now probably about nine- and her father, smiling for the camera in an all-too-familiar purple uniform.

"I'm Sorry..."

More tears threatened to fall as he continued to stare at them, before he bowed his head again, standing up. His dark hair blew in the harsh breeze, the wind hitting his pale face and his deep purple eyes filling with tears.

He looked at the headstone again, the image burned into his mind.

'SHADOW AFTON,

SAVIOUR TO MANY, NEVER FORGOTTEN.'

"I'm so, so sorry, Shadow."

He shook his head slightly, and turned to walk out of the graveyard. He trudged back to his car and drove home.

...

He didn't lock the car, or unlock the house. He just walked straight through. The house, like him, was a mess and smelled of alcohol. Empty cans and bottles of neat spirits were scattered carelessly. He walked into the main room, where more bottles were sat, abandoned on the floor from where he had been drunk and left them. When he'd heard what had happened, he just wanted to be drunk, not in celebration, but regret. He wanted to forget, but it was hard. Everything around him was a mess, and so was he. Mentally, he had been destroyed by the news of his daughter sacrificing herself, and he had lost the ability to care what people thought of him. He looked a mess, his hair looking like it hadn't been brushed or washed in days, heavy, dark bags sat under his dead eyes, and he had messy stubble on his face. His clothes were dirty, the top two buttons of his shirt were undone an his tie hung limply around his neck.

His daughter was dead.

He took a pen and scrap of paper, and sat at the small coffee table, writing a note.

'I'm sorry. She's dead, just like everyone else in her family. I know what she did. She freed the spirits of those who fell victim to me. When I left that day, I never intended to kill them. To this day, I still don't understand what urged me to kill them. Worst, I have no recollection of doing so. I don't want to hurt anyone else. I don't want anybody else to be affected by me, directly or indirectly. I'm sorry. She was all I had left in this world. Goodbye. -Afton.'

He placed the note on the table and wandered over to a draw in the desk. He pulled out a small key and wandered over to an almost-hidden cupboard. He took out a large springlock suit; a golden Bonnie one. He placed the delicate, deadly suit over his trembling form, before standing dead still in the center of the room, looking at what a mess his life had become. Blueprints and animatronic devices littered the floor, along with stale food, empty bottles and stationary. He stood there, thinking, before moving his feet from under him in one swift movement, and shaking violently to trigger the well-worn springlocks.

"I'm sorry..."

His body fell to the floor, limp. The light drained from his eyes. He was gone, and so was the guilt that had followed him around since the day he had murdered the first small child.

No-one was to remember them, and, in time, no-one would.

The family was gone, the guilt and depression that hung around it lifted. They say time heals all, but not even all the time in the world would have healed the scars inflicted on the Afton family, or those who fell victim to it...