Daddy Issues (FNAF) *ON HOLD*

Chapter Eight: Bad Dreams

Michael sat on his knees in front of his sister's grave. His jeans were soaked with water and mud. He shivered as the rain hit his head. He couldn't tell if the drops on his face were tears or rain. He kept his head down, his wet hair clinging to his face. He clenched his fists and pressed them to his legs. All he could hear and feel was the rain.
The rain suddenly stopped above him, but he could still hear it. He looked up; Someone was kneeling next to him, holding the umbrella over him. Their face was blocked by the umbrella. They were wearing a simple red gown with a black overcoat and gloves. "Are you alright?" Their voice was feminine and smooth. It was familiar to him.
"No.." Michael mumbled, looking back to Lizzie's grave.
"Of course you're not." The person's tone changed completely. They sounded angry. The person stood up and began to walk away. Michael got up on his feet and watched the person walk away.
"Wait!" He called after them, beginning to chase them. "Who are you?" The person turned around. "Mom..? Mom!" Her dyed brown hair was nicely curled and framed her face perfectly.
"It's your fault, Michael." She said, no emotion in her voice. Michael stopped in his tracks.
"What..?"
"It's your fault our family fell apart!" She raised her voice. "No wonder your deadbeat father hates you!" Michael stepped back. "You're why I left." She turned around and continued to walk away. Michael chased after her again.
"Mom! Mom!" He reached out to grab her arm. She disappeared and Michael woke up.

Michael opened his eyes. He was back in his bedroom. He sighed; It was only a dream. He glanced over at his alarm clock. It was four in the morning. It was Tuesday. He groaned, stretching a bit. He wasn't tired anymore. He sat up and got out of bed. He stretched out his arms and his back. He rebandaged his right arm when he woke up the previous morning. He ended up not going to school. He was shocked his father let him stay home. He opened the door into the hallway. A small light came from downstairs; His father was awake. His father was talking to someone, or maybe himself. There was no response to what he was saying. Michael made his way downstairs. He could hear his father clearly now. He was on the phone.
"You know.. I miss how we were.." His father spoke in a soft tone. He hadn't noticed Michael come down the stairs. His father was standing at the counter with a cup of hot tea. "Like how we were in college." His father chuckled at the other's response. "I know we're not in college anymore! I just miss the relationship we had." He paused so the other could respond. "You know what aspects I miss.." His father looked up from his tea and spotted Michael standing on the stairs. He sighed. "Sorry, I have to go. Good night." He hung the phone up back on the receiver. His father set his mug down. "Michael, what are you doing awake?" Michael walked into the kitchen and over to the fridge.
"Bad dream." He opened the fridge and grabbed a can of Coke.
"Do you want to talk about it..?"
"No." Michael popped open the can and took a sip. "Who was on the phone?"
"No one." Michael nodded. His father picked his mug of tea up and took a sip. Silence filled the room. His father broke the silence after a few minutes. "How's school going?"
"It's going.."
"How's your hand?" His father asked, gesturing to Michael's bandaged arm.
"It's fine. It bleeds sometimes. Why are you awake?"
"I'm an insomniac, you know that." Michael looked up at his father, raising his eyebrow.
"Since when?" Michael set his empty can down on the counter.
"Since before you were born." He took a sip of his tea. "Henry always told me to drink tea to maybe help me sleep." He took another sip.
"Does it work?" Michael asked, rinsing the can out in the sink.
"Occasionally, do you want me to make you some?" Michael dropped his can in the basket they had for pop bottles and cans.
"No, I don't like tea." Michael declined. His father chuckled.
"What kind of Brit doesn't like tea?"
"I'm not a Brit."
"You're my son, and I'm British. I have an accent, Michael."
Michael shrugged.
"Your accent seems normal to me." His father rolled his eyes. He would often go back to the U.K. to visit family, so his accent never went away. Michael never really noticed his father's accent, until he went to school and no one had his father's British accent. Michael was teased in elementary school for having a little bit of an accent that he picked up from his father. As he grew up, Michael's accent faded to a standard American one.
Silence fell over the room again. Michael rhythmically tapped his fingers on the counter, his nails clicking against the granite. He stared at the floor, following the spaces between the tiles. His father took a slow sip of his tea, clinking the mug on the countertop.
"Mom." Michael said, without looking up.
"What?"
"My dream, mom was there."
"You miss her, don't you?"
"I don't know..." Michael shrugged, glancing up at his father. "She left us... Is it true?"
"Huh?"
"That mom had affairs?"
His father sighed, taking a sip of his tea.
"Yes. Your mother would often bring men over while I was working late at the pizzeria. I never confronted her about it, because I was afraid she would leave. Which... she did anyway." His father explained.
"Did she ever tell you why?"
His father shook his head. "No, but I have a feeling it has to do with me." He took a sip of his tea and brushed his hair out of his face. "I'm starting to think about what Henry said, about how you acted differently after your mother left... I guess I never noticed, because I never paid much attention to you when you were little. It's very telling when Henry noticed your change in behavior and I didn't. Henry told me that he thinks you and I are very similar."
"He said the same to me, and that you see yourself in me." Michael looked up at his father. It felt strange for him to have a conversation like this with his father.
"I suppose I do. You look just like me." His father took a photo off of the wall and looked at it for a moment, before hanging it back up. The photo was of his father's family when he was a kid. He and Michael looked the same.
"Mr. Emily basically raised me." Michael blurted out.
"What?"
"He raised me when you weren't there. When mom left, he was always there. That's one thing I can give you. You never left us."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" His father asked, raising his voice slightly. Michael looked at his father. His eyebrows were furrowed. His eyes had gone from dull and tired to filled with rage.
"I-I don't know! I don't know why I said that! I didn't mean it! I'm sorry!" Michael panicked and stuttered as he spoke. He put his hands out in front of him; They were trembling.
"That's all you can give me? I give you a roof over your head, food on the table, and clothes on your back!" His father yelled, standing over him.
"THAT'S YOUR JOB!" Michael screamed and instantly slapped his hands over his mouth. His father stared at him in shock. Michael let out a meek "I'm sorry" before scampering up the stairs like a scared animal.
Once he reached his room, he slammed the door shut and locked it. He slid down the door, putting his face in his hands. He ran his hands through his hair and pulled at it. He stomped on the hardwood, grunting in anger. He buried his face in his knees.
"Why did I say that? God, I'm so stupid!" He hugged his knees tightly to his chest. Michael didn't cry; He just sat there safely thinking behind his locked door. He slowly stood up, his legs shaking, and turned to look at himself in the mirror by his wardrobe. He was wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of comfortable shorts. He looked at the bandages on his arm. His hair was messy and hung just above his shoulders. He looked at his face. His eyes were the exact same as his father's, cold and blue. As he looked at himself, he started only seeing his father. He didn't want to be like him. He didn't want to be horrible to the people he loved. He grabbed a wrench that was next to a tool box on his desk. He swung the wrench as fast as he could, hitting the mirror with a crack. He hit it once more and a few pieces fell onto the floor. There was a faint knock at the door.
"Mikey...?"
It was Chris.
"Go away."
"I heard a loud noise.. Are you okay, Mikey?"
"Go away!"
"But what if you're hurt.. We have to tell daddy if you're hurt.." Michael groaned. He glanced around his room. He grabbed a Foxy the Pirate mask off of his wardrobe and put it on. He unlocked his bedroom door and swung it open.
"I said, go away!" He shouted. Chris's eyes widened with fear. Tears welled in his brown eyes. He began to loudly cry. "Go!" He shooed him with his arm.
"Michael!" He heard his father yell from downstairs. He slammed the door in Chris's face. He locked the door and cowered behind it. He listened as his father's footsteps became closer. "Michael, open the door!"
"No! Leave me alone!" He dropped the wrench he was holding. He started choking on tears.
"Open the door!"
Michael began to cry just like his brother.
"Go away!" He cried.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
            "I'm sorry!"
Michael's breathing became much worse as he couldn't even take a pull breath. Was this a panic attack like Emily had had? He couldn't tell.
"No you're not!"
"I thought you changed!"
His father didn't respond. Michael covered his mouth with his hand.
"Are you crying?" His father asked, his voice slightly calmer. He hesitated, "Do you want to talk about it...?"
"No! You're just gonna yell at me more!"
"Michael, please I-"
Michael interrupted him.
"Leave me alone!" Michael buried his head into his knees and sobbed.
His father stood at his door for a few minutes before walking away and leaving Michael to cry.