𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 | William Afton x Reader

𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙣𝙚

   It felt like you had been in that office for hours. 

   It was hard to stay still, and part of you wanted to yell just to hear something other than pen on paper and the obnoxious tick-tock of that goddamn wall clock. You fought the urge to turn around and check the time again. 

   Was therapy supposed to be this unbearable?

   "Y/N..." You heard the gentle voice, and tore your gaze away from the floor. Your therapist finished scribbling something down in her notebook and made eye contact with you.

   "Mhm?" You responded.

   "Are you familiar with the term 'survivor's guilt'?"

   To save yourself from an annoying explanation, you desperately wanted to say you were. But, you weren't supposed to lie.

   It's pretty funny that I draw the line there. After all... haven't I been lying this whole time?

   "What's 'survivor's guilt'?"

   Your therapist tapped her pen on her notebook and started:

   "Well... it's a grief response." Of course. "It occurs when someone survives a situation that another didn't."

   "...They feel guilty for making it out alive?" Horror movies must be unrealistic as hell. Sidney Prescott never let that shit bother her.

   "Yes. I think that's what happened with you and Jack. I can imagine how hard it is for you to cope, what with how that night went and all."

   You said nothing (there was nothing to say), but nodded your head very slightly. You no longer wanted to meet the eyes of your therapist. It's hard to do that when you lie to someone. 

   The woman went on:

   "Though I acknowledge your trauma due to the situation, I think it'd be a good exercise to go over the events of that night one more time. Is that alright with you, Y/N?"

   Shit.

   "Yeah. Ok."

   The sound of the wall clock seemed to be getting worse. You didn't know why you said yes. Maybe it was a feeling of obligation... or maybe not. Maybe you subconsciously knew that if you didn't refresh the story in your mind every once in a while, you'd forget it.

   Of course, the real story could never be erased from your memory. You wished constantly that it'd swap places with the fake one, faded and missing pieces. That'd never happen, though.

   Just then, all you could do was pretend you didn't murder your little brother.

   "You start," Urged your therapist. "The two of you were going to Freddy's together, right?"

   No. I was sneaking there to cover up a murder I had nothing to do with and he followed me.

   "Yeah... A couple of days before, I had promised to let him 'meet the band'. You know how kids are." That part was true. Your therapist nodded.

   "Well, on the planned day, I got a text from my boss saying the restaurant was closed. I felt really bad, so..." You faked a sad chuckle, "against my better judgment, I told Jack I'd take him anyway; that we'd sneak in. It was a secret mission to him."

   Saying his name hurt. You wished that the night had gone down how you were describing it now, but both stories ended in death, anyway. It wouldn't be an alibi if that weren't the case. You gulped.