Stories I made last year that I can't just leave unintended

Eyes

Do you know how it's like to have your insides scooped out forcibly by a large, metal spoon?

Well, to make this easier to explain: Have you ever went into the Scooping Room?

I can tell that you haven't.

To further explain what traumatizing experience I had to deal with will be explained later on, probably tomorrow if my anxiety gets the best of me and i just have to write it all down as therapy.

My name is Elizabeth Afton, the child of William Afton, well, I'm from another man that my mom had relations with without telling my father, but, again, that'll be explained in another time.

My point is, I went through so much shit in my life that I would write an entire damn book about it if I have to make my point clear.

It all started back when I graduated from college with a mechanical engineering degree, nothing too big, just something to keep me far, far away from my Father.

Yeah, I was two or three states away from that purple bastard, even with that, I only spoke to him on the phone because going back to see him on holidays would only result to a very quiet and sad dinner set up.

We only talked a bit across from each other in that table, two out of five chairs were always filled in those four years I rarely came by to visit him.

Sometimes he talked, sometimes he would just stare, and on some occasions, he would watch me sleep.

Okay, yeah, I was fully convinced that he watched me sleep if he did it when I was young, then he could still do it now.

And when I left, we would hug it out and I would kiss him on his cheek, don't worry I threw up later on from that, I made sure.

It wasn't until I didn't hear from my Father again for a while, like, a few months with no phone calls whatsoever.

It seemed normal to me, to be honest, I thought of it as a blessing that I didn't hear his voice again for three months or so.

But then I didn't hear from him in four months, I thought that was strange, then it was six months, for some reason I felt worried about him so I called him.

All I heard was a voicemail of his voice and, in turn, I got to say my own voicemail back.

And then I waited...

I was already done by my college by this point, I packed my things and flew all the way back to my hometown Hurricane, Utah.

I went over to his house, I rang the doorbell and waited for a response.

I didn't get one so I knocked on the door for a response.

Still no response.

After a few minutes of waiting, I got out the spare key from the capped outlet near me and opened the door wide open.

"Father, it's me, Elizabeth!"

No response.

Everything was just quiet.

I closed and locked the door behind me as I set my stuff down on the couch I looked around the empty home calling out his name.

I looked in the kitchen, my room, my brother's rooms (and yes, it did pain me to see that they still haven't changed), and even in the backyard.

Nothing.

It then came up to his room.

It's funny how I was so scared that I made a quick dash away from the door before when I was young, but even as a young woman I still have a sort of panic attack when I placed my hand upon the doorknob and opened the door.