Tw Dysfunctional Family - Tumblr Posts

HE’S DIZZY AGAIN, BUT THIS TIME FROM RELIEF. Well, Michael thinks it’s relief. It could just be exhaustion, those long angry nights catching up with his emotions, or maybe surprise at having anyone (let alone his father!) on his side. But no matter, because tears nip at his eyes and Michael turns away to the cabinet indicated to hide them, scuffing roughly at his eyes with his bloodied cuffs. Any comfort, no matter how basic, is unfamiliar […] But in a situation like this, he could practically fall at his father’s feet in praise. A man of devout faith to a god.

“No, it was— it was slow,” he says, just as drawn out, like he’s not really there at all, “he— I didn’t even know him much, and I just heard him saying shi— STUFF ABOUT OUR FAMILY. Stuff about you and me. I just wanted to make him stop.”

The cabinet is opened, but his arms are occupied with dirty, bloodied rug. In this state — a little numb, a little dazed, Michael blindly copies his father, rolling up his already sullied sleeves and dropping the rug at the side of the room. Tunes out the repugnant tang of blood and the sight of the body. It’s the little things, the unthinking obedience, that helps him cope with the next words.

“I just… lost it, I guess. And I didn’t even realise ‘til halfway through, didn’t realise how bad I’d hurt him.”

Rug, discarded. Sleeves, pushed back. Michael falters briefly, and keeps his eyes firmly averted from the corpse as he opens the cabinet. He’d punched until the red mist cleared and the throbbing in his hands made him cry out, and then he’d panicked and floundered at the mess he’d made.

All of you Aftons, the boy had spat, you’re all monsters, and everybody knows it.

The queasiness returns at the memory, and Michael lurches over to his father with cleaning products like he’s forgotten how to walk. William is so nonchalant and vaguely pleased about the whole situation that he’s beginning to feel some of that sought-after delight of killing (alongside the disgust and dread).

Well. Of his father’s praise and attention. But he won’t realize the difference between the two for another couple of months.

William’s last words steady him. Breathe. His chest heaves up automatically, and it’s ridiculous how much easier it feels now that he’s been told to do it — breaths jerky, but less panicked, Michael shoots his father a look. It oozes more gratitude and more positive emotion than he’s aimed at the man in several years.

“Thank you. Thank you. I’m okay. I promise I’m okay. I just— didn’t know what to do, and I was so angry. It— It felt good.” A lie, but he’s seeking approval. It feels like the right thing to say. “To just… let it all out.” (Now that’s not a lie.)

CONTINUED. / @behindslaughter

MICHAEL’S HANDS ARE TWITCHING AROUND HIS CIGARETTE AS SHE SPEAKS, and her words are nowhere near as comforting as he wishes they could be. Fucked, yeah, it is: their whole situation, their whole family, has been fucked from day one, and he’d give anything to change that […] but despite everything he’s just said, he can’t help but think of the crisp little note that had appeared on his doorstep. His father’s words (orders). The way he’d dropped everything to follow them (trained too well), pausing only when he caught word his sister had been living close by to the town he’d stopped in overnight.

‘Cause his question lies deeper than that. Could you kill him?—He knows Ollie could. But could she kill the dog? Michael, if he gets sucked into yet another of their father’s schemes; would she put him out of his misery, kill him before he had the chance to do more damage? His time after Ollie’s escape had brought pain and death to so many: Michael suffocates in his dreams under the intensity of their hatred for him. Ollie can kill her father. Could she kill her brother?

Lucky it won’t come down to that, yeah? Michael isn’t stepping out of his father’s plan alive: or, at least, not as himself.

The cigarette flares to life, finally, and Michael shoves it into his mouth, offering her a lopsided sad little grin and a cig in his free hand. “Thought you’d say that. Hoped you’d say that. ‘S gotta be one of us that can do it.” Keeps his mouth very carefully shut about his own feelings on the matter. Instead, he pinches the cigarette between his teeth and reaches into his pocket, pulling out the note from his doorstep less than forty eight hours ago. Hands it over to her, sharp blue eyes scanning her face. A request to go to the Circus Baby location, work a week’s shift until ‘further instruction’. It reads like a trap, but he wants to know her thoughts. Misses having her to bounce ideas off of.

“What do you think about this? Creepy as hell, by the way, that he delivered this to me.” In an attempt to lighten the mood, Michael laughs weakly. “I moved two states out and changed my name without telling him. He really is always watching, huh.”

@runeians: " if you have to kill him - could you ? " [ from my multimuse @runeians - from MICHAEL ! ]

fear street pt 2 starters / accepting

"Shit," she says immediately in response to the question, caught a bit off guard. Sitting up a bit more, Ollie leans forward a little. Brow furrowed a little bit as she considers it. She...had some suspicions, before she left, about what was really going on. But hearing it laid out like this, it is a lot, each piece of new information stacking on top one another.

She had cared for her father, at some point. Maybe some part of her still does. But as she had gotten older, things had become more strained, and then when she left...well, she knew something was wrong, but now she realizes how deeply fucked everything was.

"I don't know," she admits before considering it some more. She thinks she can set aside any personal connection to her father. It's more about if she thinks she could kill someone. But she's been in some pretty messy and dangerous situations, and she thinks about how she's felt in those situations. When things really come down to it what she would do. Her voice is a little quieter when she continues, "I think so, probably."

❝ you deserve so much more than what you were given. ❞ from @hazardes !!

THE MAIN STAGE IS EMPTY, FOR ONCE, THE ANIMATRONICS OTHERWISE OCCUPIED. Michael — Mike, he tells himself firmly, though it’s hard to shed his father’s strict dislike for nicknames — chooses the corner to sit anyway, broad back pressed against the thin wall and knees brought up to his chest. It feels a little more bearable like this, everything that’s happened, though the sight of the empty pizzeria while NOT being in the security office is still incredibly unsettling. Not for the first time, he wonders how Vanessa copes with it: and then is instantly reminded that they’ve been in the exact same position. Though his father doesn’t often let him in the pizzeria past closing time unless it’s to keep watch, which he always does from that same office. The sight of the half empty drink can and the faded, festering posters are more familiar and comforting than anything he’s seen here in this timeline […] though the knowledge that the oldest Afton child cannot escape their father in any universe is disheartening.

“I dunno,” he says, evasive, and focuses on twisting the cheap metal ring around his middle finger, unable to look at Vanessa, “I’ve done— I’ve done a lotta bad things. Sure, life was shit, but—”

But he loved me, at least. I don’t know if your father loves you.

It’s complicated. Mike’s eyes burn with it all, though later he’ll blame the stage lights. He’d never believed his father loved him until he’d arrived here, in this timeline where so much is different but so much is the same — no Charlie, but a missing Garrett. No Michael . . . But Vanessa instead. He doesn’t quite know what to make of it all, and sure, things had been awful, but had they been this bad?

In fairness, maybe this is what other people see when they look at him. Isn’t it always easier to see the flaws in someone else’s relationship than see the flaws in your own? Headache forming, one hand lifting to rub insistently at his forehead and sweep away the thoughts and dark floppy hair he hasn’t managed to make presentable in years, Mike continues:

“I got out.” Mostly, anyway. Though his father asks and Mike still comes crawling, switching from thirty-three to thirteen again in an instant at the sound of his father’s orders. When he meets her eyes, there’s an earnest kindness, a world-weariness beyond his years— “You’re still stuck cleaning up after him. You don’t deserve that. When was the last time he even thanked you, huh?”

HE HAS NOT BEEN ANYONE'S SON IN A LONG TIME. Hasn't been anyone to anyone in a long time: most people dead and gone or worse when Mike has been dragged back, unwillingly, once more from death to ruin his father's schemes. NO REST FOR THE WICKED, BOY: STAND UP STRAIGHT. DON'T SLOUCH NOW. MAKES YOU LOOK WEAK, A LITTLE KID. Draws blood with how hard his nails dig into his palm, hardly able to breathe even without the visage change from the other. His father. His own grey eyes not even widened, not even surprised, at the sight: glossy and dry with resignation. That's what you are, aren't you ? My son. " Maybe once, " he says, unwilling, blood run cold at the glitch's words; from forty to fourteen Mike will always be Michael, will never escape the role of the eager, reaching son.

Compared to the other's fluid, graceful movements, the man is robotic. Recognize his face anywhere, huh ? Mike hasn't known his reflection in decades. His body, stiff, lurches back when the creature that is his father learns, and suddenly, for all the noise and clamor of the Pizzaplex, he feels very alone. Eyes dart to the room opening, waiting for someone to come by, see the situation, save him from this: but there's nobody here but him. And his father. His father who looks like his father and for all his age and the own decaying decrepit form, Michael is a little boy again. Staring, helpless, at a role model a disappointment of a parent the bane of his existence a sad, unstable man who just can't let go Dad Michael feels something within him fracture. insides scooped out again, no sister to speak of. Is he proud of his son ? [...] Still standing after everything ?

Hey, he learned how to cling to life from the best.

" I have nothing to say to you. " The words come out with more fervor and less dignity than he'd hoped. A fox cornered. " Last time I checked, you're just a virus. Leftovers from an old man's overdue death. " His smile is flat and frozen, exposes chipped tooth from childhood and more scars from his scooping. " Yeah, last standing. And I'm gonna keep it that way. What is this? -- One more grab at immortality, huh ? Predictable. " Body creaks and groans when he stands straighter, squaring old, stitched shoulders. Make up for how small, how grotesque, he feels in the face of his father in prime life.

“Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that anymore.” [hear me out: apprentice michael pulling away from his father’s clutches, only to be drawn back to spring/glitchtrap….]

🔧 @runeians !

"why?" is the faint answer of glitchtrap. arms raised, with palms upward on either side of widened grin. a grin which cocks to the side, jarringly. question sounding far too genuine even for his own liking. his wide, purple eyes blinking animatedly.

"that's what you are, aren't you? my son." his voice resembled springtrap's if not for the influence of his newfound digitization, now knock, knock, knocking at the door of his son's mind. inflected just so. all michael has ever wanted, was his approval. perhaps the big picture he had missed when withholding it too much as a flesh and bone man. but now, he sees all. hands gesticulating, and landing with a curious finger curled under his jaw.

hands flourish in to rest on one hip, the other finger extending to point with a sway. all fluid motions. "don't try and hide from it now, boy. you might have aged, but i'd recognize that face anywhere." he easily leans against a surface beside him, elbow propped with ankles crossed. nonchalant. "quite funny how things work out, isn't it?"

he glitches in and out. his form becoming more and more distorted, until the image of his old self appears stark before the man standing before him.

in the same position, teeth show in a lazily lidded-eyed grin. "the last afton standing." he says, chuckling lowly. foot bouncing as the image of the elder afton in his patriarchal prime stares back at the rotting visage of his boy.

“ i don’t need you to hover, okay? i got it. “ / teen elizabeth

THE WORST PART ABOUT BEING AN OLDER BROTHER IS BEING CHRONICALLY AWARE OF HOW ANNOYING HE’S BEING. When it’s deliberate, that’s alright — flicking hair bands at his sibling or purposely embarrassing her (or terrorising his brother until he sobbed every night and then. And then) but it’s his fussing and mother-henning that embarrasses him now. Being that ridiculously overprotective brother incapable of giving his siblings space, even though he knows how annoying that can be. He’s just used to tragedy by now: tries to cling on to the good stuff, his loved ones, before it disappears.

Still, he removed stiff hands from her shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he mutters, face flushing— “I know you do. I just know that— I worry, Liz.”

Especially now they’re back here: the Circus Baby Pizza sign glimmers down on them and Michael just wants to grab Elizabeth, hold her close, and run while never looking back. The last time she’d been here hadn’t ended well. And, with him under instruction from his father to monitor the place “until further instruction,” he doesn’t imagine anything here ending better. This is still a Freddy location, after all. This is always destined to be a place of tragedy.

Trying to save his own reputation, he scuffs one hand through her hair as he steps away, […] offering her a smirk at his own teasing gesture. It quickly fades as the door unlocks, allowing them both entrance to the complex. “…Y’know you can still go home, right? I can drive you, make sure you get there okay, and just come back here alone. You don’t have to do this.” Resists the urge to fuss over her again, smooth down her hair and fix her collar and promise her she’d be alright. She’s old enough to make her own decisions, though Michael isn’t going to let her out of his sight whenever he’s patrolling. The Fazbear sister location may be unused, a relic of a time gone by, but he doesn’t trust that their father’s work is safe — especially not after what happened last time to his sister.

IT’S NOT THE FIRST TIME HE’S DEBATED TRYING TO KILL HIS FATHER. Not like it’s a frequent thought — for all the blood on his hands, he still shies away as often as possible from the actual killing blow, as subtly as a twenty two year old can be in the face of paternal authority. For the most part, he’s content (ish) by his father’s side. Pleased to have a purpose, satisfied with parental warmth. He has nobody else, and he’s not sure anyone else would be anything less than horrified at his violent ways — why would he kill the one man that accepts him?

And besides, it’s a useless thought. Wishful thinking, whenever his bitter memories from childhood get the better of him, remembering the man his father used to be — because William has long outgrown his humanity, and stabbing him or poisoning him would be entirely unproductive.

…But this might be the first time he’s ever seen his father so weakened.

The command rings in his ears, and Michael jerks towards the shelf automatically, pausing while halfway there. Power: not often he has it unless it’s over him and his father’s victims. Powerless: not often his father is ever even close to it. He’s tempted, just for an offhand moment. To just smash the vials, in one vicious sweep. To make his father say please. Just for a second.

“What did . . . What did they do?” He asks, morbid curiosity settling like a weight over his bones, trying his best and delaying his task. “Holy shit. What pissed you off so much?”

Because it really is a horrific scene: if he hadn’t been so used to blood and bodies by this point, he’s certain he couldn’t have handled it.

     @bitterborne ★ ❛ you’ve lost a lot of blood. ❜

     It is not often that one of his targets would get a solid struggle in, enough to remove all semblance of control of his anger. Hell, this was the first time William had lost all control, enraged by his victim struggling far too much -- reminded him a lot of that boy who broke his jaw. But oh boy, this one pushed her luck. The actions were one thing, but the words were a whole different park.      When Michael finds his father, the scene is far more gruesome than anything before. William breathes are heavy, feeling light headed from the simmering rage and the fact a good amount of blood has been lost in the struggle. What could resemble a human body is torn to shreds, like a wild animal had gotten its claws on it -- all done with the wrath of a god and a single claw hammer.

     Slowly, his breaths grow into something normal, using the sleeve of his shirt to wipe some of the blood off his face, “I'm. . . fine. . .” There is a subtle shake to his hands, feeling the fatigue starting to take over. The amount of blood lost would have killed a man, but William still stands, even if on weakened legs.      He gestures towards one of the shelves, “Grab one of those vials, one of the silver ones. Bring it over. . .” It can be felt, the reserves of the remnant inside his body starting to drain. He must replenish it, before it runs dry. How finicky his immortality could be, but it is worth the prices, worth the risk.

HE THANKS ME. HE’S GRATEFUL. ROLL OVER, PLAY DEAD. FOR GOD’S SAKE, MAKE YOURSELF USEFUL, BOY. Michael doesn’t let himself outwardly react to her words, but even the way she says them is oily, brimming with discomfort: like she’s the doll, coming to self-awareness; like she’s the doll her father practices his humanity in front of. “Right,” he says, his own voice laden with wooden sarcasm, “‘cause being grateful is something any decent, thankful person has to practice to their kids. He sounds . . . Really sounds like he’s gunning for Dad Of The Year, Ness.”

Had his father ever done anything like that for him? Mike’s never thought about it much: other than the clothes on his back and the money in his pocket and the blood on his hands every single thing he owned had been William’s. At least until he’d run after Jeremy, got himself a new job, a new apartment, a new life. But his father had a way of becoming every shadow in his house and every rainstorm he found himself under: looming larger than reality even in a room so full of life. Even here, in a whole fucking other timeline, Michael feels his hands pressing down on his shoulders; steadying, suffocating. Easy, the spectre would whisper, down, boy.

Vanessa’s father is here too: not literally, thank god (he doesn’t think he’s here, anyway?) but in the air, their words, the silences between them. In how quickly she covers the raw, exposed wounds he’s left her with (“I’m fine”) and jumps back to him (“We’re talking about you”). He tries for a grin in her direction, knowing and sad and reassuring all at once, but allows the subject switch. Well. Mostly.

“God, I feel like I’m being interrogated,” he tells her, a layer of amusement in his voice, “uh, well, I’m . . . considering everything, I could be worse, right ? Dimension travelling, or — Whatever this is, isn’t exactly my usual Thursday night. I think I’m keeping it together pretty nicely, actually.”

He sobers. Turns his gaze back to his hands. Try as he might he can’t unsee the blood. Wonders if she feels the same . . . if she lies awake at night haunted by the things she’d done as a younger person. The things she’ll still do.

“ I don’t know. All of this is so weird. I think I’m, like, weirdly homesick? — Freddy’s isn’t standing any more in my world. I didn’t think I’d miss it so much, but, being back here . . . It’s not like there are any fond memories in here, but it’s where I grew up. You get me ? ”

CONTINUED. / @hazardess <3 !

"Oh, spawn of the creator~" Glitchtrap muses as it kicks its legs while sitting upon the countertop, "Do you really think you'll be something more than just a shadow of him?"

IT  KIND  OF  FEELS  LIKE  BEING  SCOOPED.  AGAIN.  Michael’s  breath  ( unneeded )  catches  in  his  ( torn )  throat,  and  something  ugly  ( childish )  holds  his  tongue  for  a  moment  too  long.  The  rabbit  sure  knows  where  to  kick  a  dog  when  it’s  already  down,  and  Michael  has  barely  recovered  from  the  nasty  surprise  of  seeing  it  in  the  first  place.  For  a  moment,  he’s  sixteen  again  –  tall,  but  never  as  tall  as  his  father  –  strong,  but  never  as  strong  as  his  father  –  trying  so  hard  to  be  good,  but  never  good  enough  –  and  lost  for  words.  All  he  can  do  is  stare  at  the  glitch  for  a  torturous  second,  before  laughing.  Harsh,  rough.  Resigned.  

They’re  the  same,  aren’t  they ?  Both  created  by  him.  The  thought  is  laden  and  sour  in  his  throat  when  he  speaks:

“ I  guess  he  didn’t  have  time  to  code  you  with  some  kind  of  command  to  shut  the  fuck  up. ”  Not  that  Michael  really  thinks  his  father  would  have  done  that  anyway.  He  always  seemed  to  like  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  too  much.  But  he’s  bitter,  brash  with  his  next  words.  “ I’m  literally nothing  like  him  – ”   ANYMORE.  “ – and  hey,  look  who’s  still  standing.  It’s  sure  not  him. ”

That,  at  least,  makes  him  smile,  even  if  it  is  a  hollow  victory.  Steps  forward,  despite  all instinct,  towards  the  rabbit,  his  upturned  lips  mocking  and  hard, and adjusts the mask so it can see his scarred grin.

“ At  the  end  of  the  day,  I’m  the  one  that  survived.  Guess  the  world  really  wants  me  to  eradicate  every  last  memory,  every  shadow,  of  him,  huh ? ”   And  Glitchtrap  is  next,  if  he  doesn’t  shut  up.  Deep  down,  a  part  of  him  still  itches  for  a  bit  of  destructive  violence, and even if smashing up a computer monitor won't hurt it, it sure as hell would feel good. 

MICHAEL RECOILS LIKE HE’S BEEN STABBED. ACTUALLY, THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN KINDER: instead, buzzing fills his ears, loud and insistent static trying to block out the rabbit’s words. You can piss it off, a part of him whispers encouragingly, if you can do that, you can destroy it too. It’s nice thinking, but Michael — Mike — is busy shoving uselessly at the mounting horror in his chest to pay it much attention. As long as you are alive, he will come back. That can’t be true. And yet his eyes fix on the glitch, and its stupid, stupid grin tells him that it’s not lying.

Fuck.

“ Kept him trapped, though, didn’t I? It was pretty cathartic, watching him run back and forth in that old building looking for a kid that didn’t exist. ” He barely has the ability to force the words out, and they emerge from his scarred throat tired and gritty, but there’s a tone of derision in his voice too. Mike has no respect for what his father has become. None whatsoever. And he sees him as especially pathetic here. “ Sure, so maybe I didn’t kill him. But even if he comes back — if I don’t manage to stop you first — it’s not really him. ” The weary smile is only slightly bittersweet. “ You wouldn’t get it, ” he adds, “ ‘cause he made you. But the real William Afton has been dead since he died in that fucking rabbit suit, and everything else is a pathetic copy. I mean, look at you. ”

( Growing in energy and strength, Mike’s gaze fixes on the rabbit and finds itself disgusted. Contemptuous. Almost pitying. )

( Does his best to hide the lingering fear that maybe he’s exactly the tool Glitchtrap needs to save his father. Because there will always be some version of his father living inside his bones, and every day Mike is terrified someone realizes that. )

“ You’re a copy, and a shitty one at that. The thing you’ll bring back won’t be anything more than a weed in a garden. Do yourself a favor — do him a favor. Destroy yourself and let him rot in hell. ” Mike steps in, jaw clenching automatically at his own action. “ No amount of effort will bring back the man that created you. Only another piss - poor mimicry of him. ”

     @bitterborne from ☆

     The virus lets out a laugh -- grating as it becomes filled with static, its own form seeming to glitch out of reality as it does so. Glitchtrap had been programed to be loyal, crafted from a piece of its creator's soul. It knows no loyalty but to William Afton. Not to some company that tries to steal its creator's achievements ; not to the children of its creator.      Loyal to a terrifying degree. If it cannot find a proper shell -- if it cannot find its creator's old body -- then it will find a fitting vessel. . .      “I only listen to him. You may look similar, ᴍɪᴄʜᴀᴇʟ, but you are not him.”      The remark about the child still standing when the father is dead, does get the virus angry -- so much like its creator. The rabbit suit tears in some spots, bits of inky blackness seeping out. Little rabbit-like faces that disappear as quickly as they appear out of the shadows. Then, in the blink of an eye, Glitchtrap returns to its unnervingly calm state, that grin ever wide.       “Every part of him? You didn't ki-- [ ᴇʀʀᴏʀ ; ɪᴍᴘʀᴏᴘᴇʀ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʀᴇꜰᴇʀʀɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴏʀ ]. Your hand did not do the deed,” it tilts its head to the side, never shifting its focus away -- dead set on the miniature version of its creator, “Haven't you thought about it deeper, little spawn of his? -- if you are capable of such a thing~” A snicker, “You are still here, just like me, and you're not the only one who can see me either~ oh no no no~” The virus has been busying itself, finding new followers, new puppets to play with. It has started to infect others, to remove the possibility of failure.      It knows all about the plans ; It is the failsafe, the method to find its creator and bring him back. It is as eternal as technology. As long as it survives, William Afton will return.      “As long as you are alive, ʜᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ.”

HE’D NEVER HAD THE LUXURY OF HATRED, ESPECIALLY NOT WHEN IT CAME TO HIS PARENTS. Michael can’t even hate his father despite the pain electrifying his every nerve and the knowledge of what he’d done to him. Old enough to remember her leaving, unmoved by his father’s lies to others after she’d left — never pushed to hatred for her despite wondering what his life might have been like if he’d chosen to go with her. His refusal had been simple. Not wanting to abandon the only parent who approved of his guilt over Evan, not daring to follow the parent who promised him he wasn’t a murderer. Growing up at his father’s side and thinking late at night: where is she ? Would life be better with her ?

Now he’s still not sure, but what he does know is that he would not look like this if he’d left with her. Swaying on feet that he’s unsure even belong to him anymore, or the machine that had taken his body as its own, Michael stretches his mouth in the facsimile of a smile. It feels false, but the soft look in his eyes is not. “ I should’a visited sooner, ” he tells her, and startles at the sound of his own voice: it sounds like him, quiet and accented slightly more like his father perhaps, but his own mind refuses to recognise it, “ I’m sorry. ”

Try as he might, the apology wobbles. He ducks his head, refusing to cry in front of anyone in front of her, specifically. Might not even be human enough to do so. How does he ask for comfort from a woman he realizes, belatedly, he doesn’t truly know since she left ? “ Can I — Can I come inside ? ” Michael chooses to say instead, avoiding her eyes. “ It’s real cold out here. ” He’d walked all the way here based on a simple memory of an address. Desperate to see his mother again, though uncertain if his rash action is one to regret yet or not.

@bitterborne   \   michael   :   “ i bet you weren’t expecting me , were you ? ” [ post-scooping :’) ]

𝐀   𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄   𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓   𝐖𝐀𝐒   𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄   𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓   with   all   the   prospects   of   growing   old   to   watch   her   children   give   her   grandchildren   ,    so   on    &*    so   forth   ,    ripped   away   from   her   violently   with   her   husband's   misdoings   .    being   as   awful   as   a   man   as   he   had   become   making   the   matriarch   grow   resentful   of   him   ,    horrified   he   was   her   husband   .    still   adoring   her   children   with   every   fibre   of   her   being   but   leaving   their   lives   to   protect   hers   .    a   mind   filled   to   the   brim   with   dark   thoughts   encircling   all   around   her   own   end    &*    demise   is   not   what   they   needed   in   a   mother   .    running   fast    &*    running   far   from   her   husband   all   in   the   name   of   self   preservation   .    an   incredibly   selfish   act   for   a   mother   .    though   the   day   she   lost   her   youngest   son   ,    she   was   no   longer   the   same   rosa   who   had   birthed   any   of   them   or   even   married   william   afton   .

wanting   them   all   in   her   lives    &*    even   offering   her   eldest   boy   the   choice   of   coming   with   her   ,    though   his   denial   was   one   that   she   respected   .    lost   contact   of   course   after   years   became   long   .    skin   remaining   taut    &*    eyes   while   dulling   still   vibrant   with   life   .    the   same   could   not   be   said   for   michael   .    for   a   moment   she   is   horrified   .    for   this   did   not   look   like   her   boy   .    how   flesh   looked   as   though   it   were   rotting    &*    becoming   more   pale   by   the   day   but   she   knew   michael   .    she   would   always   know   him   .    mouth   coming   to   open    &*    close   ,    shake   of   her   head   briefly   .     “   what   happened   to   him   ”     coming   to   cross   her   mind   though   that   would   be   answered   in   due   time   .    of   course   there   is   still   shock   in   her   gaze   as   mouth   remains   agape   for   the   moment   before   reminding   herself   to   close   it    &*    head   comes   to   shake   .     ‘   of   course   not   ,    but   i   can't   say   i   didn't   miss   you   ,    papa   .   ’     pet   names   for   her   children   rolling   off   her   tongue   with   ease   .    for   if   he   hated   her   ,    he   hasn't   told   her   outright   yet   .    expecting   it   if   she   were   frank   .