A Second Chance

Tomorrow is Another Day

Warning: Small doses of homophobia. This is a theme in this book, so be warned.
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He made it back to the restaurant by 7 am.

William's euphoria had mostly worn off by this point. It'd been replaced by a sinking, mind-numbing exhaustion that made him feel empty on the inside. He's not sure how that makes him feel.

With difficulty, he limps to the back of the building and shuffles lifelessly to the back door. With the rising sunlight, he spots the blood splatters on the door and on the ground, leaving a trail that leads to where the car once stood, 10 feet away from the building. He was gonna have to clean that up later.

He hobbles through the safe room, noting the even more intense blood trail that stained the stone floor. Another thing he'd have to clean up later, he supposes.

The stage and the dining area are a blood bath. Easily the worst and most damning piece of evidence from last night. Blood had crawled down the side of the stage where Fredbear had been. The blood splatter from Henry's spring lock failure was about a third of the stage.

"At least SpringBonnie is clean." William laments as he briefly leers at the stage.

His steps falter as he heads into the bathroom to assess the damage. One look in the mirror tells him everything he needs to know: he's fucked.

His shirt was soaked with his and Henry's blood. If another person had seen him, they wouldn't have even known that it was supposed to be purple. He had a bruise on the right side of his lip, the color a dark purple hue and another on his temple. There was a small cut on his forehead that he hadn't even noticed until he'd touched it. His shoulder and chest felt horrible. God, he forgot how sore he got after getting impaled. His left ankle felt like it was on fire. How the fuck did he make it from the desert and back?

He took his shoe off and whined. It was fucking swollen to the size of a baseball with a narrow, violet bruise going from the top of his ankle to his foot. Shit, how's he supposed to get anything done when he's like this?

It doesn't matter. He got done what he needed to. He saved Jack and Dee, that's what matters. Still...

William glances over to the mop and bucket at the end of the bathroom. He knows he can't rest quite yet. He has to clean up.

He feebly flutters to the mop and bucket. He notices that the bucket is near empty and dreads picking it up to fill it. Almost aimlessly swinging his arm, he precariously uses the mop as a walking stick as he drifts back to the sink. He grunts as he places the bucket into the sink. This turns into a howl as he puts the bucket back down. He anxiously checks his shoulder to see if his stab wound reopened. By some miracle, it hadn't.

William winces as he carries the bucket in his less fucked up hand and walks stiltedly to the dining area and stage. The sunlight creeps into the diner and spotlights the bloodstains. He had even more work then he previously thought.

William feels numb looking upon the scene. It was very different from how he felt from murdering the kids or even when he killed Henry the first time. He felt like he was in ecstasy. Each dead kiddo had meant one step closer to Henry. One step closer to finally earning Henry's love and respect.

There was nothing here. Not even a modicum of those old emotions. The only thing he had now was clean up.

William placed the bucket onto the floor and nudged it to the nearest blood stain. He was able to mop it up easily enough, however when he'd finished the floor had to remind him of his shirt predicament.

William's hands shook as he abandoned the bucket and almost tripped his way to his room. He buckled onto his bed and tries not to focus on the fact that he's hyperventilating as he undoes the buttons on his shirt. He pushes the feelings of adrenaline and fear as far down as he can as he changes into a different outfit. He felt like a new man once he left his room. He could walk better now, that's for certain.