Patience: Epilogue

Father... Did I do you proud? Did I finally become the man you always saw in me? It's been so long since I heard from you and ma. And, heh, you guessed it. I messed up again. I tried pop. I really did. I wanted to help people, fix the world. I wanted to buy you an' ma the house of gold you always deserved. But I couldn't even help myself.

...

I'm scared dad. I wanna come home. I want to walk the halls without the weight of the world crushing me, with a handful of faces that don't hate me mixed in. It's...I know I'm being selfish, naive, weak. But i'm at the end of the world now. I'm looking back through the broken roads I've walked to get here, and I can't see the way home any more. I feel so alone. Same as it ever was, I know. But, I didn't want to be alone forever. I didn't want to be left to rot. Abandoned and forgotten. Forever. So please, please believe me when I say

I'm sorry.

I'm so sorry, sorry for everything I've ever done, for everything I've burned and blew off. I wish I could see your face, tell you all of this to your face, man-to-man. Heaven knows you've earned that much with how much you've sacrificed in my stead. You all deserved so much more from me, and it hurts more than I can bear to fail all of you on a daily basis. That's why I ran away from it all, scampered away to the edge of society to hide my failings away from you. I've always been a burden. On you, and everyone else. I always figured I was better off alone, if only for everyone else's sake. But I thought if I got away from it all, I might've been able to make something of myself. Build a man out of the failure that left you behind.

But I can't run anymore. I've reached my limit, and I don't know what else I could do. I would've asked for help, but a part of me has always felt like I deserved all of this. Stupid, I know, but I've never been a good source of wisdom. Or words. So I'll try to keep this quick and stop bothering you... Help me. Please.

It's so dark now. I'm so lost, in all of this. I'll make it right, I'll fix it all this time. Please. I need you. I need anyone to just show me the way... please?

...

...Anyone?

...

Help me...

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Mike's eyes shot open to the strangling darkness that brought tears to his eyes, and burned his lungs. Thrashing and tearing at it best he could, he saw the light fading above him as he clawed his way through it's bowels. He fought for his last breath with broken nails, and tore himself to the spark of life. He pushed with the last of his might, and pulled his meager frame forward. Blinded with the light, Mike's eyes grew bloodshot with a surge of air that finally filled his pained lungs. When the blinding radiance subsided, a cartoonish looking figure stared down at him with a frozen smile.

Sitting there, half heaved over the foul mass, Mike took a moment to breathe before pulling himself out of the dumpster. He spilled out onto the snow-covered alleyway. Taking a moment to dry-heave from the disgusting taste lining his mouth, Mike wobbled to his feet to inspect his surroundings. The alleyway was sandwiched between a rusted metal fence, and a brick building. A heavily graffiti-ed building at that, but it was stable enough for Mike to lean on, which is what really mattered right now. He felt shaken about the dream he couldn't quite remember. All of it was a blur, and his right leg was throbbing, (probably whacked it when he fell out of the dumpster), which occupied most of his thoughts.

Walking home with a pained limp, Mike wiped the dried tears at his cheeks, and wondered why he'd been crying. That was, until a real problem surfaced: the winter chill had began to set in, and Mike was wearing a fucking polo. It was strange, but it didn't hurt. He felt numb. That was bad right? He'd heard that that was bad. He thought to pick up the pace, but his leg was swelling around the knee now, and it was getting hard enough to walk as it is. He only had a small ways to go anyway, and the streets were entirely abandoned at this time of night. There was nothing for it, to press on against the clock.

...Okay that was a bit over-dramatic. But he WAS freezing his ass off. And he wasn't going to be found dead, huddled over for warmth. That'd be embarrassing.

Turning the corner to his apartment block, Mike could see that his door was ajar...and that the light was on. Fuck. Well, if someone had finally gotten around to stealing his refrigerator, they had at least been considerate to wait until mother nature could offer an alternative. Silver linings.

Pushing the door open, and looking over the entirety of his living space...in a single glance, Mike noted that nothing was notably besmirched. In fact, as he shut the door behind him and wrapped himself up in his childhood blanket, he felt as though the place was noticeably cleaner. Like, he'd have to spiff the place up, yeah, but it wasn't in such a bad condition as he remembered it being. Hell, even though he'd woken up in a dumpster without much knowledge as to how or why, he felt pretty well rested. He could start picking up here or there, probably starting with the...

The pizza box sitting on his bed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had pizza... but if someone wanted to leave their lunch after cleaning his house up...well, he supposed stranger things have happened. The box was withered, but opening it's lid revealed a different surprise. While the initial thoughts of pizza had ignited his hunger, he set that aside to inspect the small device that had been left inside. A small box with the words 'WALKMAN' printed on it, with a small cassette tape laid beside it. The tape was purple with smiling farm animals on it in a cutesy pattern. Mike stared at it with a blank confusion...as though there was something familiar about it that he simply couldn't place. The label on it read: 'For all those wasted years.' in a sloppy scribble. It took a minute to figure out how it worked, but eventually Mike pushed it on with a click.

"...S'it on?"
"Yeah."
"S'what I jus'?"
"Yeah"
"Awright. So..."

Clearing it's throat, the voices crackled through the recording. One feminine and restrained, the other masculine and slightly agitated.

"Heya lad. S'real good to get a talk in wiv ya. I'da done it meself, but uhh, I ain't gonna fuckin' do that."
"Language."
"Roight. Sorry. Anyway. Me an' the missus 'ere gotta get goin', but didn't think it propa to leave ya danglin', ya know?"
"It was a pleasure working with you Mike."
"Yeah, really brought a toucha life to th' place. Kids loved ya somethin' fierce I 'eard. They'd prolly say somethin' too, but they went on ahead before us."
"We did need to use your backpack i'm afraid."
"OH! Yeah, that. I'm throwing this thing away lad. S'old, S'got bad memories, and you look fu- ...silly with it on."
"Good catch."
"I tol' you I'm gettin' better."
"We've also taken the liberty of replacing the device with a more...refined version for your personal use."
"So you don't look like a pansy that is. Was a sad sight, watching ya prance around like a princess."

A slightly aggravated 'ahem' reminded the man's voice that he was getting off track.

"Right, we're running outta time ain't we? I'll make this short. Hope I never see ya again ya stupid bastard!"
"Langu-"

The track cuts off to an Iron Maiden song...'Wasted years' happily enough. Whoever had recorded the message had really gone all out with it, ending their message in a lighthearted bash that was obviously in good faith. But who were they? God damn did his head hurt trying to wrap his mind around it all, but he felt as though he should know what the hell the tape was going on about. He rubbed his temples before sliding his hand down his face to wipe the irritation out of his eyes. He was still too hungry for this, whatever it was. Letting the song play out, Mike moved over to his refrigerator and swung it open.

Stacks and bundles of cash that had been stacked inside spilled out as the door flew open. Hundred dollar bills. Wrapped, banded, and packaged neatly. Mike sat with his eyes wide enough to burst, and his mouth agape. Mixed in with the greenbacks was a small letter. Mike reached for it with a shaking hand...

Attached was his final check, mixed in with a pink slip for his immediate dismissal from his job at Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria.
 The paper simply read: 'Goodbye, thanks for all the stories.'

And with that final keystone, Mike remembered.

He remembered everything.