Eyes Wide Shut: 12

I was holding Iris’s hand as I entered the room. Well, to be truthful it was really Mrs. Afton who was holding it; I was just seeing through her eyes. She glanced over the chamber while I became conscious of her breathing. She inhaled and exhaled, her chest receding and rising as her heart pumped blood in and out.

 I had skin, or at least felt like I had it. It wasn’t at all like my dancers’ carapaces, or the smooth plastics of my own body. Her flesh was soft and warm, like a stuffed animal. Being human was strange. But not necessarily worse. Iris squeezed my hand, and looked up at me with a trusting smile. Her mother smiled back.

As Mrs. Afton guided Iris to their seat in the back row, I noticed that they looked just like they did in the photograph. The woman was wearing the same blue dress and fancy pearls, while Iris was much younger than she was when I saw her at Circus Baby’s. She was just a toddler, as she was on that day in June 1980. She had no idea what was going to happen to her in the next few years.

While she was being lifted up, I realized that I had never been in this room before. The stage was from Circus Baby’s. I remembered it well, because I placed Iris on it less than a minute before she was killed. But the walls were of Freddy Fazbear’s, while the chairs were wooden, and ornately carved.

I wasn’t sure where these came from. They were too fancy to have been used for any of the restaurants, which always opted for cheap plastic seats. And the floor was covered in a soft indigo carpet, when all of the restaurants used hard floor tiles. It was disquieting, but I didn’t dwell on it too long, as after a few seconds the lights dimmed. A show was about to begin.

The stage at the end of the room lit up with a purple light, as I stepped out from behind the curtain. I was much cleaner than usual, and my plates shone in the violet light.
“Look, Iris,” Mrs. Afton said. “There’s Ballora.”
“Who?”
“Daddy’s dancer,” she said, pointing at the other me. “He worked very hard on her.”

The three of us watched the other me spin in silence. There was no music, and there was no noise save for the sounds of my shifting plates.

I didn’t know what thoughts ran through the head of the Ballora that was dancing on the stage. But I could discern what Mrs. Afton was thinking. As she held Iris on her lap, I was aware of every muscle movement, no matter how slight. Her eyes narrowed as she watched me, and her lips curled into a faint smile.

Most parents gawked when I revealed myself to the audience, so it surprised me that Mrs. Afton was completely unfazed by my appearance, beyond a hint of dry amusement. Especially since she was supposedly the wife of my creator.  It made me wonder what kind of person she was, and why she married him. She seemed too decent for someone like William.

I felt a similar way towards Iris, who was the nicest little girl I had ever met.  At this moment, she was enthralled by my performance, and was tapping her feet with each pirouette I made. Mrs. Afton noticed this at the same time as I did, and shifted attention from the other Ballora to her daughter. Her smile widened, and she brushed some hair out Iris’s eyes.

Iris was adorable, frankly. The way she watched me so reminded me of my own children. It wasn’t like when William watched me. She seemed to have an interest in dancing.

She seemed to like me.

As Iris was bounced on her mother’s knee, I longed to teach her, as if she was one of my own. But I knew that was impossible, so I settled for a vicarious motherhood. I felt warmth as her mother hooked her arms around her waist like a seatbelt, keeping her safe and secure.

But as Mrs. Afton planted a kiss on Iris’s forehead, her eyes moved back to the me that was on the stage, who was still dancing. They lingered there, briefly. And then she scanned the room, stopping on the empty, elaborate chairs. Then she noticed the carpet, and fixated on it as if she recognized it. Her eyes widened with realization.

“Iris,” she said in a soft, measured tone. “Let’s go home, okay?”
Iris watched my doppelganger for a few seconds longer, and exclaimed  “Okay!” in that eager, cheerful voice I had grown so fond of.

 Mrs. Afton hoisted Iris up into her arms, and stood up. She swiftly walked to where they had entered, which was now darkened. As she got closer, it seemed like the door was closed. This turned out to be incorrect.


Where the door was before, there was a shadow. A shadow of impenetrable darkness that seemed to throb and pulsate, like a human heart. From out of the depths, a white face peered at us. It seemed to be a mask, at first. Due to its lack of eyes or teeth, it resembled the faces of my children, albeit vaguely. But where they were happy, with dimples and a great big smile, there was no emotion in this thing.

In lieu of a white sheen, the face bore a yellowed color, with garish makeup, as if it was a mockery of Circus Baby. It was nothing like Circus Baby, though. It wasn’t a machine, nor was it a man. It was something else.

I felt like I was being studied, or judged. Its blank stare burned into my very soul, as Mrs. Afton took a few steps back. She kept her hand propped up against Iris’s head, so she wouldn’t have to look at it.

The mask remained where it was, and from out of the void two branch-like extensions protruded, holding a gift box. I could hear pounding somewhere. It was loud and violent, like thunderclaps. Iris began sniffling, and Mrs. Afton stroked her hair. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I’m still here.”

The arms extended out, carrying the box all the way to the woman. When it reached her, she was gone. And so was Iris, and the warmth she brought.  I was myself again, for better or worse. I looked at my hands, and there was only plastic. There was no flesh, or bone. Mere metal, underneath a shell. There was nothing left to do, but open the “gift”.

Gingerly, I lifted the box into my arms and removed the lid, letting it fall to the floor. Within the present were my children- fresh, shiny, and obviously cramped. They were packed in with so little space to move, and were forced to crawl over their brothers and sisters. In the center of the box were three dancers, who were ensnared on each other. I removed them with care, handling them as if they were made of glass and checking them for cracks or other injuries.

The extricated dancers looked at me with tilted heads, as if they had never seen me before. One boy was hesitant, and reluctant to move while his brother and sister were much more adventurous. Without prompt, they climbed up to my shoulder, moving swiftly and with unexpected familiarity. The remaining child shook his head and backed away when I reached out for him. He didn't want to climb, and turned to the box. My head began to hurt, as I felt sharp pangs somewhere above my eyes.

I wanted to console him. I wanted to be a good mother, who could solve his timidity. But the pain intensified, and the pounding returned. It was in my head now. I clutched my head, and dropped the box onto the ground without thinking.  Dancers poured out of the container in droves, scattering like spiders. He was lost in the crowd now. I squeezed my eyes shut. But tears wouldn't come, of course.

And then the storm passed. The sound was gone, as was the pain. I opened my eyes, expecting to see the mask. But it was gone. "As if it had never existed," I thought.

I woke up to the sound of the vent door slamming shut, coming from somewhere to my right. Overwhelmed and disoriented by the events I had just witnessed in my dream, I was left unaware.

Vulnerable.

Before I could rise up to face him, Freddy Fazbear was standing at the exit vent of my gallery, a shadow of his former self. A mess of mangled wires hung from the stump his partner used to be attached to, and most of his white coloring was covered in some dark substance that I hoped was only oil.

He turned his head and stared through me. His mind was elsewhere, in another time and place. “Bonnie?”, he asked.