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What’s so scary about somebody in a bear suit?
His father designed the animatronics. He owned the place. He made them, spent sleepless nights assembling their parts. If your dad created robots, you’d be ecstatic. The first time it happened, when Evan clung onto you and sobbed into your shoulder at the sight of his father’s creation, you raised an eyebrow. Sometimes, you wondered what it would be like to swap brains with him. The boy, eight years old, had quite the imagination. Apparently, it caused him to see a demon instead of an employee in a suit. He sobbed, curled up into a ball, but this time, he ran away—far away. And now, you resembled a panicked mother despite being only two years older than him.
Tables. You checked all of them, all the tables he could be weeping under. With each minute, your options for where he might be grew slimmer. However, there were a few spots left.
Your legs never ceased. Each stride was faster than the last. Your body told you Evan was in the boy’s bathroom, an isolated place; every kid preferred peeing in the ball pit rather than the urinals.
The fear on his face was undeniable—no, it was everywhere, truly. It consumed him. But you never imagined it was this severe, this overwhelming, that he would run away. You know for a fact that nobody is born dreading yellow bears and rabbits. So, how did that fear take root for Evan? Who sparked it?
“Boo!”
Oh, him.
Just when you were turning a corner, where you’d find the bathroom doors. A strangled gasp escaped your lips, akin to a silent scream. The fright that ambushed your figure was overwhelming, horrible—your soul escaped your body momentarily. He relished how pale your face got. He and that mask.
Foxy used to be your favorite.
“No way, that’s just unbelievable,” the teenager mocked between laughs muffled by the plastic on his face. “It works on the both of you!”
A grunt escaped your lips. “Not funny,” you muttered. A rush of humiliation washed over you as your nostrils flared up. Anyone would’ve been startled by that. The fox mask, with its snout and sharp teeth, practically shoved in your face. This time it really got to you.
Eventually, Michael let out his last chuckle, which ended in a satisfied hum. He accommodated the mask to let it rest on the side of his head. And there it was. That smirk, that gesture that seemingly never left his damn features.
“Oh, come on. That face you just made? Pure gold. Hilarious,” after he ridiculed you, he crossed his arms. Something was up—he could tell. Mike scanned you. Down, then up, raising an eyebrow right after. His blue irises reminded you of his father’s. He only needed his pale skin and haircut to complete the look.
“I’m busy,” you grumbled as your eyebrows scrunched together. “What do you want?!” The answer was already clear in your mind. Crystal clear, even before the words left your mouth. He’d done it for his own amusement. And you? You were nothing more than the punchline of his joke.
“You’re busy?” Michael repeated as if the words coming out of your mouth were idiotic, ridiculous nonsense. “Really. What’s the rush, squirt?”
"I was going to the bathroom!” Agitation filled your voice. If you weren’t so frustrated, then you’d probably struggle to make eye contact with him. However, you began to realize maybe it wasn’t smart to show disrespect. “Trying to find… Evan.”
Michael grinned at your voice dying down.
“Hmm, you think that little man has the guts to hide alone in a bathroom? Kid pisses himself at the sound of the toilet lid closing.” he shrugged, glancing over at the two entrances. “He’s probably under some table. Choking on his own snot.”
The teenager snorted at the cruel thought. You, however, stayed with your brows furrowed together. Lips pressed in a thin line. The idea of his baby brother—your best friend, tears streaming down his face, trembling in fear. How could that ever be funny? Evan was a child. His mind was still trying to make sense of the world; the moments unfolding around him would leave lasting marks on who he’d become. What Michael put him through was sadistic. Disgusting.
“No, he’s not,” you mumbled. Fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, you managed to meet his eyes briefly. It wasn't easy. “Um, but I don’t wanna go in the boy’s bathroom…”
You swallowed.
“Can you check for me, Mike?”
He hummed. Exaggerating the noise, as if still making fun of you. It was evident he didn’t take you seriously. Never took you seriously. Mike’s gaze narrowed as he rubbed his chin, and then you noticed how his lips curved upwards into an innocent smile. How uncomfortable. It didn’t really suit him, nor did it wrinkle his eyes.
"On my own? Nah, I’m sure he'd love to see you too,” Michael tilted his head, trying to win your trust. “Let’s go together, yeah? See if you can put a smile on that little shit’s face.”
“But I’m…” Hesitation stopped you momentarily. “...scared,” the word set off something in Michael. Fear was an emotion he enjoyed seeing in things he deemed as small, inferior—you. His view of that feeling had been warped and twisted since he was a little boy.
Abruptly, your hand violently met his. He grabbed it. Yanked it. Without a care, as if you weren’t just a kid. He scoffed as he practically dragged you to the restroom door.
“Don’t be a fucking baby; you’re not some spineless wimp like Evan. Come on.”
A gasp fleed your mouth as your feet desperately attempted to hold you in place. Grunting, you tried your best to resist his grip, your knees buckling beneath you. Still, Michael had the upper hand. Always, Michael had the upper hand. Your struggle? Useless, overpowered by the older boy. Six years older.
“Wait, but- but somebody else could be inside!” you attempted to voice your worries. He only pressed his ear against the bathroom door. “I don’t want them to see-”
He gave your wrist a harsh squeeze. “Can it, bitch. I swear I can hear him crying,” he claimed, brows knitted together as he eyed the door, seemingly focused. “You hear that? He’s in there, for real.”
Too relieved to process the vile insult, your eyes sparkled with hope. Your best friend was supposedly in there, thus ease washed all over you. Trust is what you gifted Michael—precious, naive trust despite your inability to pick up on any sounds coming from inside the restroom. Nevertheless, you somehow managed to convince yourself that truly, he was in there. Evan was scared, aching, but you’d finally save him. You’d be the hero.
“Evan!” You called out in a state of atwitter.
Again, he squeezed your wrist. “Don’t shout at him. He’s sensitive, you know that?” Michael scolded. There was a brief silence between you two. Why couldn’t you hear anything?
“Let’s just go, please? Let’s go inside, I’m really worried for him…”
He nodded, sharing your concerns. Or you thought so. Anyone would’ve felt concerned, right? Even Michael. Without hesitating, he twisted the knob.
The boy's bathroom was almost too clean. With the sharp scent of chemicals hanging in the air, mingling with a faint, underlying odor of urine that refused to be masked. When you glanced up, the bright white lights flickered intermittently. They cast a harsh, bluish hue that made everything feel so cold. So unwelcoming. Beneath you, the tiles gleamed. But the grime clung stubbornly as if the space had been scrubbed too much yet never quite scrubbed clean.
“I don’t… hear him,” you let out, tensing up at the sound of not Evan. Behind you, something jingled—a set of keys. Michael didn’t reply.
That’s when you spun around, quick and full of uncertainty. The sharp click of a key turning in the lock echoed throughout the uninviting place, and the teen had his back facing you. Of course, he had the keys—he's an Afton, after all, but this isn’t right. It can’t be. A thousand what-ifs spiraled in your mind until you felt consumed by horror, eyes wide while he shoved the metal back into his pocket. They stared at him when he turned around, straight into his gaze as if looking for answers. You should’ve known.
“Liar, Evan isn’t here; you lied to me, you… you dumbface!” Heat rose to your face. You swung your small fist at his chest, frustration motivating the move. He didn’t flinch when it hit him.
Instead, Mike stepped closer. Menacingly. “I was just trying to help. No need to be such an ungrateful cunt about it,” he spat out as he violently pushed you back. It nearly made you fall to the ground, contrasting your strength to his.
Fear tainted your voice. Dismay ruled you, brain scolding itself, angry for being misled by somebody like him—untrustworthy. He never intended to reunite you with Evan. “No, Mike, you didn’t want to help me. You lied to me!” you repeated.
The false hope of finally finding your friend, trusting Michael’s lies, his cruel words. Everything about it broke you. Your facial features contorted, brows knitting together as tears welled in your reddening eyes.
“W- Why did you do it?!”
“Why are you crying already, for God’s sake? I haven’t even laid a single finger on you,” Michael scoffed. His words were like a foreshadowing, a warning for what would come. In reality, he did lay a few fingers on you earlier.
And the fact that he could do more than that, terrified you. You’ve witnessed what he was capable of, how he manhandled his baby brother. How he picked him up, and no matter how much the little boy kicked his feet, he’d never escape. Michael could do that to you if he wished to. And you knew he did. You had no idea what he exactly wanted right now, but he definitely wanted something from you. Undoubtedly, it’s something you’ll never get back.
Reaching for his pocket, you grunted. Your hand nearly brushed against his jeans. However, your attempt to go for the key was utterly pathetic, dodged by Michael.
“Let me out of here,” you sobbed out. “When I leave, I’m not gonna let you search for Evan with me anymore!”
“You’re so desperate to find that crybaby. Got a bit of a crush on him, huh? Whiny bitch,” he laughed. Grabbing you by the collar of your shirt, he slammed you against the cold wall. Hard. “God, he’s just like you.”
It left you gasping for air; your breath was knocked out of your lungs by his force. Your feet were almost dangling off the floor as you only cried, proving his statement to be true. But something else was happening. A hand moved from your shirt to your pants. The waistband of your pants. Your mind was clouded, surrounded by a thousand questions.
“You’re not going to fight me, are you? Don’t make me get rough with you,” he only added to your confusion. His tone, low and steady as his pupils pierced through yours.“I’m well stronger than you. You wouldn’t like it, right?” A few of his fingers slipped in and brushed your skin.
“Please, please stop,” you resorted to begging, voice cracking.
This was past your comprehension. But you knew one thing: whatever Michael would do, it would hurt you. You couldn’t stand there and let him hurt you or steal your innocence and fully take advantage of that trust you previously granted him. Your hands were like a small bird’s. Dwarfed by the size of his, yet you still struggled. It was exactly what he told you not to do. Your grip was nothing; he violently shoved your hand away. It hurt—you sobbed.
Although faint, you could hear leather scraping, sliding through metal. Clinking. “Since you wanna be a baby so bad, I’ll give you a real fucking reason to cry about,” he snapped.
Reaching out, Michael roughly grabbed you by the hair. He handled you while his grip pulled your scalp. It was short yet painful. With a thud, he threw you on the floor. Cold, coming into contact with your palms. And with the spiral of agony in your mind, you wondered what you did to deserve this. Why?
“Ow!” You wept, hand on your head to instinctively ease the pain. You didn’t even get the time to turn around before you felt a pair of hands gripping your hips, pulling you back until your butt came into contact with a stiff part of Michael’s body.
Oh no.
“Mike, don’t hurt me!” your cries came tumbling out.
“Shut up, for fuck’s sake! You’re dramatic as hell.”
His other hand left your hip. Clinking, again. This time it was followed by the sound of a sharp, brief zip, and ruffling. He was quick. Too quick—you couldn’t fight the way your pants were yanked down.
“Help me, hel-!” your cries were interrupted by your head being shoved down, cheek hitting the floor while your ass remained up. Your mind was a mess when the realization dawned upon you. You couldn’t fight it. Not anymore. Why did your butt suddenly feel a lot colder?
Then, there were glass shards exploding in you. Your body jerked forward, cheek sliding on the ground. Attempting to look behind at the horrors of what he did, you used both palms to support you. No matter how badly your arms shook as you tried to raise your upper half from the floor.
Nausea crept up, along with the worst pain of your life. It was so deep inside of you. You screamed. But Michael’s hand was on your mouth before you knew it. A few of his fingers went in it; he didn’t care. He had something worse in you.
“Shit…” He groaned uncomfortably close to your ear. He could feel the warmth of you all around him.
Out, then back in. The glass shards cut deeper. You cried into his skin, snot dripping down your nose. Both of your arms trembled, shivered, barely able to hold yourself up in the humiliating dog-like position he forced you in. Was there blood? Wetness trickled down your inner thighs. You didn’t even want to think about what was in your vagina, but it stretched you, tore you open, destroyed your insides. It hurt.
“Stop… stop,” sobs escaped once again. Their desperate tremors drowned into his palm. But to your dismay, he only pushed himself in again. And again. And again. One more time. Each time it was just as torturous.
“What?” Mike sneered, picking up the pace of his hips. His voice used to maintain distance from your ear. Well, not anymore. “You asked for my help, and I helped you. The least you can do is to let me… let me have this,” he breathed out.
Michael’s chest was on your back. Sick. You were ill with everything going on. You had to tell his dad, to inform him that his son was hurting you in ways you couldn’t even explain.
But what if his father did this to you too?
The teen’s occasional grunting and constant breathing were loud in your ears. It was all that you could think about. The squelching and the smacking of his skin on yours made your face heat up in humiliation. It was disgusting. You were disgusting. This is your fault—you allowed him to lock you in here. Maybe he did this to Evan too.
Michael removed his hand from your mouth. You weren’t screaming, which would’ve been fun to hear, but unfortunately, he didn’t want people to think somebody was getting murdered in the boy’s bathroom. And how would he explain being alone with a little girl if he was forced to open the door due to hysteric knocking? He pictured his friends relentlessly teasing him, calling him a pedophile. Fuck that. Michael wasn’t into little girls. No, he just wanted you . He wasn’t some sick child-liking creep. He just happened to have a younger brother whose best friend was as young as him.
“Fucking gross,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose as he used your shirt to wipe the snot off him. Finally, some distance between your ear and his damn voice. “Got spit and snot all over my hand. Disgusting bitch ,” his hips drove into you with violence, adding weight the insult.
You just wanted this to be over.
“I’m sorry…” you slurred, brain using all its power to try to numb the pain.
Abruptly, his brutal thrusts halted. He liked the sound of that. How weak and small it was, how pathetic those words were. It was a delightful tune to his ears. Michael tilted his head; a smirk grew on his face again.
“Oh, what’s that?” he spurred. Twitching inside of you, anticipating the melody of your voice once more.
Swallowing, you realized how dry your throat had gone from keeping your mouth hanging open. “Sorry… I’m sorry.”
“Say it again,” groaning, the wet sound of skin against skin renewed once again, along with the strange, painful sensation of his dick moving in your tightness. Michael shamelessly got off on your unnecessary apologies. He didn’t care; he didn’t allow himself to care. Clearly, shame was something you were supposed to feel, not him.
And you sure felt it right now. But maybe if you apologized, he’d stop hurting you.
“I’m- I’m so sorry!”
Bruises on your hips would probably bloom tomorrow. His fingers squeezed around your skin, greedily grabbing onto the meat. Michael’s thrusts were quick and uneven—different from the rhythmic pace he used minutes ago. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ It replayed inside of his head. Relentlessly, he just kept going.
Until he didn’t. It was sudden emptiness; his warmth left you. The tightness in your eyes disappeared. Even if the pain had thankfully abandoned you, it still lingered, somehow. Seconds after, Michael groaned behind you. Weird. But you were too busy trying to keep your arms from collapsing… which didn’t really work.
As you cried some more on the floor, Mike stared at his come-stained hand. Deep down, he wished to finish inside of you. But he knew he had to end it by pulling out and simply jerking off. Lame.
Sniveling as a few tears streamed down your eyes, you realized you couldn’t cry anymore. Numbness replaced you. It was strange, how odd it was to hear only white noise in your brain, and the faint sound of Michael using the sink next to your body. The numbness was protecting you as you stared at the stalls. Not a single blink.
Seconds had passed. But it was like an eternity of loud wind blowing inside your mind.
With a surprisingly gentle tap of his foot, he nudged your back. “Get up.”
The loudness of the pizzeria contrasted with the unwelcoming bathroom. Nobody, not a single kid or parent knew what had happened to you. The ones who stared at your bloodshot eyes never uttered a question. The ones who glared at your messy hair - which Michael tried to tidy up - were too busy. The girl who watched you limp over and wince when you sat down next to her didn’t seem to care.
“What happened to you?”
Maybe she did.
Brain struggling to form a proper response, you simply shrugged and mumbled. “I don’t know…”
It wasn’t that far away from the sick truth. You had no clue what Mike did to you in there. After he guided you back to the main area of the place, he dismissively walked off as if he didn’t threaten you after unlocking the bathroom door.
“Say a word, and I’ll choke you out myself.”
“Do you want pizza?” she innocently offered, then watched you shake your head. “Well okay. More for me!”
She dug in, chewing a little too loudly. Mouth open, letting the whole world know she was enjoying the greasy food. Sighing shakily, you looked at the kids running around, hoping you’d see Evan. But maybe his father had taken him home already. You felt the girl’s eyes on you again.
“Who’s your favorite? Mine’s Foxy.”