Trapped

How long had it been? How long had he been trapped?

He had thought it so easy, thought himself so clever. When he had heard news of someone starting up a Fazbear haunted house, he was reminded of those children he had killed, so long ago. Although they had not been the first, and certainly were not the last, they still held a special place in his heart. In a fit of sentimentality, he had visit the pizzeria, long since closed down.

The night had been exceptionally dark, the moon covered by clouds and a downpour obscuring his vision. Although he had never been to that particular restaurant, having killed children only at its predecessor, there was still an air of nostalgia about the place. It was only while he was looking around that he realized that the animatronics were still there, mostly whole and active.

Feeling completely at ease, he came up with the idea to destroy them. How could he not take this chance, this opportunity to spit on the Fazbear name once more? It had been a simple thing. Merely gaining their attention one by one as they wandered and then leading them to their doom.

First the bear, taken out with a few blows from a crowbar. Then the rabbit, turned to scrap by his wild swings. Next came the chicken, its endoskeleton pried apart. The last one was the fox. It had been a close thing, Foxy faster than he had realized, but it to was soon dismantled.

The satisfaction he had felt at a job finished turned to horror. Apparitions, spirits of the children he had killed at Freddy’s. The five of them cornered him in the safe room, and the panic he had felt was unimaginable. Was he to finally answer for his crimes? Dread filled him, icy and heavy in his core. In a moment of inspiration he hid, climbing into the springsuit that had been left to rot.

That clarity was false, the lucidity that wormed it’s way through the haze of fright had only led to damnation. Exposure to the elements had rendered the suit a death trap, and that was exactly what it had done. He had been killed. Cold, rusted iron pierced his flesh, bones were shattered, organs shredded, his eyes mashed. He died, and the children vanished.

But did he really die? However long it had been, for he had long since lost track of time, he was still here. Aware. Had the children even been there in the first place? Perhaps guilt, crushed deeply within the confines of his mind, had created them. Maybe the fumes and dust in the decrepit building brought forth images of things that were not truly there.

None of it mattered, in the end. He was trapped, unable to move or speak. His throat had been ruined by metal, and the thought of what had been done to his tendons and muscles was something he dared not ponder.

Sleep never came to him. His ruined eyes had been replaced by those of the springsuit, and they never closed. His ears had been destroyed, and yet he could still hear. His flesh was almost entirely gone, from rot and maggots and mice. The pain of being eaten alive was almost worse than the agony that had killed him. Yet, he could still feel. His tongue had been ripped away, his nose was gone entirely, and yet the taste of copper and the scent of mold still burdened him.

It did not take long for the hallucinations to start. First came visions of the children, visages twisted into an uncanny and cruel facsimile of a human face. They hounded him, flinging taunts and insults in equal measure. They spoke to him of ceaseless torment that he was destined to face. Demons they must be, as they beckoned him to fiery pits and unending suffering. It was only the knowledge that he had seen the children’s ghosts pass on that allowed him to banish them.

Next came hallucinations of monsters that crept from the shadows on the walls. Indescribable abominations that filled him with a terror vast enough to swallow the night sky. Even now, they brought him misery, ceasing only when his mind was at the breaking point. But was his mind not already broken, to see them in the first place? Were they even hallucinations at all?

By far the worst of all was the visions of freedom. Of being found, rescued from his metal and cloth prison. They brought him such happiness when they came, yet they crushed him with anguish beyond anything else. When he would return to his senses, still trapped in this room, staring at the same wall, body wracked with phantom pains, he felt only sorrow. Were he able to, he would have wept.

Truly, hell would be preferable. It would nearly be a mercy compared to this wretchedness.

And so he sat, springsuit molding, metal rusting. The blood pooled around him had long since dried. The hole in the ceiling that had exposed the suit to the elements was closed now, the wall caving inwards. There was only darkness and silence, in this prison within a prison.

A sound came to him then. A voice from outside the room, as stereotypically “surfer” as possible. Springtrap ignored it. He had mastered the ability to block out this particular brand of torture. No freedom would come to him. Such hopes had long since died.

No matter how much he willed it, he could not blink. No matter how much he yearned to, he could not scream. No matter how much he wished to, he could not move. In the end, this was the nature of the children’s retribution.