Eyes Wide Shut: 5

There was no doubt about it. I had caught Mr. Afton. He was right there, on the wall in front of me.

Bound.

Helpless.

And most importantly, vulnerable.

But what to do with him?
I would have to think about that.

I moved away from his unconscious body, and climbed up to retrieve my two “doctors”, who had been stowed away during the confrontation. I returned to the sitting position from which the operation was initiated, and deposited them on my chest.

The two dancers were awake, but apparently confused. They stumbled around around a little bit, and I could feel the boy trying to peek out at the man in the far end of the room. I blocked his sight with my hand, and gently pushed him away.

“He’s bad,” I whispered. “Whatever happens to him, he deserves it. Let’s finish the job.”

With a fingernail, I opened the panel to my new eyes inside, and retrieved an eyeball, passing it to the female. I closed the panel, and picked up both of them.

“You’ll open the eyelid like last time.” And then you’ll plug it in. Start with the left eye.”

I deposited the two dancers onto my shoulder, from which they climbed onto my face, as I tilted my head back. While they scurried about, I thought about Mr. Afton.

He had a special interest in me. I knew that much. None of the others ever got the same kind of on-hands treatment. I wondered why, at first. But then I remembered what he said about me. I was to “Distract and Deter” parents.

Mr. Afton had run his fingers up and down every shell, crevice, and joint. He knew which buttons did what, and where. He had called me in more than any other performer. For “cleaning”.
Sometimes “inspection”.




And sometimes other things.

The sessions all blurred together. I can’t tell you the exact date, or what I was doing earlier that day. But I can tell you what he did. I remember watching as he pulled from my spinnerette; the web being wrapped around his finger and tugged upon like a string of floss. I was frozen, and standing in front of his desk while he pulled and pulled. A strand of web in one hand, and a scotch glass in the other. Just to “see how strong it was”.

In other memories, he moved up and down my body, tweaking parts while I was still active, just immobile. The other animatronics were always shut down for their maintenance. But not me. Mr. Afton wanted me to watch. He never said why.

When we were all sent down here, it was a blessing. We were left to rot, yes. But we were also left alone, save for the occasional guard. Like bugs in a jar, our boundaries were clear to us. They would not let us leave. And to be honest, I didn’t really want to. How would I take my dancers with me? Where would we go? We eventually stopped seeing the facility as a prison, and more of a playground. Or an abandoned island. All to ourselves.

As the months went by, my family grew. I made more and more dancers, and with enough company I think I could’ve eventually forgotten about him and the outside world. It would’ve been just me and my children, dancing our troubles away.

But he had to come down here himself, and dredge up the mental flotsam. He was right there, only some feet away from me. I could walk over to him, and press a finger through his neck. I could also take him apart, piece by piece. Or maybe I could smother him, and listen to his muffled cries. The possibilities were endless. My fingers scratched at the floor and curled into fists as I felt something swell up inside of me.

And then the tide receded, as the darkness was lifted. I could see again. Blurred shapes and colors swam in my vision, before focusing and becoming clear. The dancers were peering at me, still as statues. Bathed in the glow of my eye, their masks glowed with an unearthly moon-like pallor.

After weeks of black nothingness, it was strange to see such brightness.

The boy pulled his arms away from my eyelid, allowing me to blink. A flash of blue snapped before my vision, like a camera’s shutter. “Let’s move onto the other one,” I said.

I passed it to the girl, who held it while the boy held open my remaining socket. The installation process went much faster than it did before, and after a few seconds I had a fully functioning pair of eyes.

“You did very good,” I told them. “I’m proud of you both.” It was then that I noticed they were shivering. I could see their joints quiver ever so slightly, and the way their arms were tensed spoke of stress, in spite of the fixed grins their masks bore. I drew the dancers close to my chest and held them tightly, until their shaking stopped.

“It’s all over,” I said. “You’re done.” I stood up, still holding my doctors, and crossed the room. I quickly found their empty pods. The walls were lined with dozens of the egg-shaped things, but I had been through the routine of counting and checking so often that I remembered just where they were, based on nearness to the end of the line. And of course, now that I could actually see their pods, I could tell which ones were holding somebody and which ones weren’t.

I longed to see the two of them dance, perhaps in a “pas de deux”, where their talents could be better displayed without several others to tend to. But I could always save that for another time. They worked hard enough already. And besides, I wanted to get a better look at Mr. Afton. It had been so long since I last saw him in person.

I gingerly placed the two dancers into their pockets, and watched them curl up inside. Assured of their sleep, I turned my attention to the uninvited guest.

It was definitely him. The cleft chin, the hair, the eyes-all of it seemed identical to the man I knew a long time ago. There was always a pretense of normalcy, one that is echoed here.

There was one curiosity, though. He was wearing a guard’s uniform. Why would Mr. Afton come down here, and dressed as a guard, no less? I wondered why Mr. Afton would come down here, all alone. Just to attack a pod? It was a pointless endeavor better suited for a guard. But I didn’t want answers, at least not yet. All I really needed was revenge.

With my right hand, I firmly held Mr. Afton’s head.
Instead of crushing his throat or gouging out his eyes, I cut into the left side of his face with my finger. It wasn’t too deep or too long; just a few inches of a cut. There would be more where that came from.

I was filled with elation, having made my maker bleed. I had William Afton all to myself.

Joy was soon replaced with puzzlement.

Where did that name come from?