Chapter Text
Oswald's heart raced a million miles an hour, tears ebbing in his eyes. He pressed an ear against a white door, listening closely for something. Anything. It was silent for a long, agonizing moment, and so he cracked the door open further than it had been. It squealed. With a quick flash of his flashlight, he peered into the hall. Nothing. Okay. Back to the bed.
He checked the plush Freddy on the bed. Nothing bad, yet. Wait, yet? It was just a toy, what was the worst that could happen? Oswald shook his head, but the terror in his chest didn't ease.
Eyes landing on the right-side door, he ran for it, barely making contact with the blue carpet in his speed. There, he crouched and put his ear to the door again. Nothing . . . nothing . . . something. Breathing. He grabbed the doorknob and pulled it shut with the tightest grip he could manage. Waiting for what felt like an eternity, he reflected on his situation. He didn't even know what was out there, but whatever it was couldn't be good.
Silence fell again. He stuck his head out of the door, bathing the area in flashes of light. At the end of the hall, a tall figure screeched and ducked back around the corner. It was gone before Oswald could make out any details. Was that what he was up against? A shiver passed through his body, the weight of the air pressing against his lungs.
Oswald's head snapped back towards the bed. He sprinted over and took a breather. After a moment of silence, like the entire room was in a hush, something told him to turn around. Without hesitation, he spun, only to reveal a bunch of nightmarish little versions of the bear twitching out from where the plushie had been. He flinched, breath hitching in his throat as he quickly flickered the light at them like it was some sort of natural reaction. They screeched as if they were in pain, retracting back into the little Freddy. Okay, so the light did help with everything, it seemed.
Feeling as though he'd wasted too much time, he crossed the distance and landed at the left door. Again, he listened, holding his breath. Nothing. His grip on the flashlight tightened. He peeked out of the door, lip trembling, and squeezed his eyes shut as he lit the hall.
After a moment of silence that stretched for what felt like eternity, he opened them again. Seeing that nothing was there, he breathed a sigh of relief. He turned the flashlight back off and retreated back towards the bed. Not wasting any time, this time, he flickered the light at the bear. Then, sprinted over towards the right door again.
Then the bed. Then left. Bed. Right. Bed. Left. Over and over again, like a cycle, until something finally happened. Or, not-so-finally.
At the left door, Oswald felt the familiar rough sensation of the carpet digging into his knees. As he had at least five times before at this point, he listened intently for any signs of life outside of the door. Nothing but the sounds of his own breathing were apparent, and so he, like the many other times, spied out of the door with his flashlight ready.
One click of the light was all it took to reveal the giant, monstrous blue rabbit towering above him. Its rows of sharp teeth glinted threateningly against the flashlight's beam. Before Oswald could run, or do really anything, he was lifted into its grasp as its mouth prepared to bite.
The last thing he heard was a shrill, terrifying screech as everything around him blacked out.
Oswald woke with a gasp. Heart pounding in his chest, he assessed his surroundings. His eyes flicked from his hands, to the bed he was in, then to his room. Soft yellow light covered it like a blanket, and he couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. He was awake. In his own room. The memories of the nightmare were still fresh in his mind as he stretched his tired limbs. Still feeling weak with the sensation of sleep, he gave his hands a motivating shake.
Whatever room he'd seen in the dream hadn't been his—what kind of room has two doors and two hallways, anyways? Plus, Oswald didn't have carpet. Or a closet like that. Or anything really that matched up with the dream room.
Well, other than a few toys in the corner. Oswald thought he could remember seeing that weird, creepy caterpillar thing in his dream. Probably just his mind trying to create a sense of familiarity in a space he wasn't used to, though he had to wonder why he dreamed about a room that wasn't his. Usually, they took place in his own house. He sat up further and slid off of the bed, shrugging internally.
Despite the fact that he'd gone to sleep pretty early the night prior, he was still tired. But oh well. He had to get ready for school—it was Monday, which meant another week of . . . ugh, Dylan. Ever since Oswald's “freak out” that day—the one when he'd punched him—Dylan had been ramping up his torment tenfold. Oswald had to assume it was like revenge. He'd hurt him, so Dylan was hurting him back. Whether that be physically, with shoves or hits, which had become much more common than they were beforehand (again, revenge, probably), or psychologically, which were the usual snide remarks or ugly glances.
He stretched again before heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He was clean, but he didn't really feel it. It almost felt like something was lingering on him. But what? He looked at his unruly hair in the mirror—he'd showered the night before, but it looked like he slept on it funny. He combed through it with his fingers, but one stupid tuft of hair kept sticking almost straight up in the air.
He groaned, wetting his fingers with some water and trying to pat it down. If he didn't, that'd probably just be some new fuel into Dylan's fire. Maybe he won't be here today, Oswald internally hoped, but something told him he wouldn't be that lucky. Applying a dot of toothpaste to his toothbrush, he took a moment to reflect. Sometimes, Oswald just wished people could read his mind. Maybe, if they could just understand everything he'd been through—
Oswald cut himself off, shaking his head. No, that'd be a nightmare. Having people understand would be worse. After all, who would want to know that he had to dive into a crusty ballpit for a week straight to save his father from a weird mechanical rabbit? Or that he'd seen the aftermath of a child murder? Or—
Oswald snapped himself out of it as he realized he'd been scrubbing his teeth so hard that he was beginning to bleed. He spat, swirls of pink dancing around in the foam. Ew. He quickly rinsed it down, then grabbed a little paper cup from the stack on the corner of the sink. He rinsed his mouth out, threw the cup in the garbage, and checked over his hair again. It looked like it was staying down. Focus, Oswald told himself.
Heading back to his room to get some new clothes, which he'd forgotten to do, he hummed. The quiet of the morning was always nice. Oswald wondered if he'd have to walk today, or if Dad would be up in time to drive him. He really didn't feel like walking, but he also preferred it over when he used to ride the bus the year prior. The main issue was that one of Dylan's lackeys was on with him, and while it wasn't Dylan himself, it still sucked.
When Mom heard about the bullying, she'd pulled him off of the bus. Oswald was grateful, but at the same time, it made him feel like a bit of a coward. Oh well. What was done was done. Plus, when Dad drove him, it was always nice to be able to have a little conversation with him. Bonding, or something.
Rummaging through his wardrobe, Oswald pondered on what shirt to wear. He had the red and yellow striped one, which he really liked but he thought he over-wore sometimes. Then, there was a Zendrelix one, but it always felt kind of embarrassing to wear no matter how much he liked it. He rummaged a bit more. Junk shirt with a bunch of stains on it . . . no, weird brown hoodie . . . it was still a bit too hot for that, and it was too heavy of a material. Hmmm. What to wear, what to wear? Eventually, he just settled for the classic red and yellow one. He couldn't help it. He liked it too much. Then, he picked a random pair of jeans. They were a greyish-black. The pants didn't matter so much to him.
Quickly, he changed out of what he wore to sleep. Quickly slipping back into the bathroom because of the fact he didn't have a mirror in his bedroom, he stared into his reflection. Yeah. He looked okay. Ish. The hair thing was fixed at least. Though, he looked down at his arm.
They'd just taken the bandages off recently, and he really, really didn't like looking at it. Two long, jagged scars stretched on either side of his arm from the rabbit's top and bottom teeth. He'd never been bitten by anything before, and that kind of wasn't a very good first experience. He thought it had to be at least ten times worse than a dog and he'd never even felt one. After all, a big, yellow, mechanical monster chomping down on his arm with a mouth almost twice the size as his face might have hurt a little. And bled alot.
He dropped his arm down to his side and took a deep breath. From off in the house somewhere, he heard the sound of Dad doing that loud, dad-typical morning coughing. Oh, he was awake! That was good. Maybe he wouldn't have to walk to school.
Hastily, Oswald left the bathroom and entered into the kitchen, where he saw Dad rummaging in the fridge for some water. He was humming lightly, his hair sticking up in all kinds of ways with the remnants of sleep. When he stepped back and closed the refrigerator, he wasn't really prepared to turn around and see Oswald standing there.
“Oh, hey! . . . ‘morning, Oz.” Dad rubbed his sleepy eyes. “You're ready pretty early. I was thinking I'd have to pry you from the bed like I usually do.” He joked.
A quick, terrifying memory passed through Oswald's head of the yellow rabbit stomping into his room. Of the many times he'd hidden under his bed. He shivered, shaking the image.
“Morning. And yeah, I woke up before my alarm was supposed to go off.” He shrugged. “I just thought I'd get ready.”
“Yeah. How did you sleep? I know you said you've had, uh, troubles recently . . .” Dad trailed, almost unsure, like he didn't wanna pressure him.
Oswald hesitated. Thinking back to how he wished people could just understand, he took a deep breath. He never really told Dad about his dreams in detail, because they were always more of memories than dreams. Memories he didn't want to share. But this one was different.
“Decent, I guess. I, uh, had a bad dream.” He began, his throat seizing a bit. Why?
Oswald glanced at the ground, picking at his arm a bit. When he looked back up, Dad had rested his elbows on the counter.
“Oh, that's rough. Do you wanna tell me about it?” Dad offered, a soft expression washing over his face.
“Uhm, sure. It was really weird.” Oswald said, not quite knowing where to start. “So, I was in this room, right? It had two doors and two halls on either side. And I was, like, running back and forth between them with a light and checking the hallways for stuff.”
“Uhhuh . . .” Dad's brows furrowed, and he scratched at his beard. For a moment, he stared off into space with a look on his face. One that Oswald couldn't quite read.
“It was a bedroom,” Oswald quickly clarified. “And on the bed there was this stuffed animal that would turn into little monsters. It was really weird. I remember the dream really good for some reason.”
He frowned, rubbing his eyes. “But anyways, the dream ended when I opened one of the doors and there was this . . . thing, there. I don't really know how to describe it.” He half-lied. He knew it was a representation of Bonnie from Freddy's, but all weird and twisted, though he didn't know how to describe that in a way that he wouldn't have to explain how he knew who Bonnie was. “It was like this big, blue-ish rabbit thing with a bunch of teeth and it ate me.”
Dad gave him a couple of blinks, which made his heart sink. “It ate you?”
“Yeah. And then I woke up.” Oswald shrugged casually, though the memory of the dream sent a chill through his body.
Dad's expression was strange. He stared off into space like he was thinking of something. Reaching for something. Then, he shook his head.
“Well, it wasn't real, buddy. It can't hurt you, y'know?” He gave him a sympathetic smile, meeting his gaze.
“I know.” Oswald nodded, looking up through slightly furrowed brows. Then, he looked back down at the floor.
“I don't know what's been getting to you so bad, recently.” Dad sighed. “I wish I knew how to help somehow.”
“It's okay now, though.” Oswald quickly followed, not wanting to concern him even though he knew deep down that he had. Idly, he scratched at the side of his head.
. . .
“Hey, if you gimme a second to not look like a deadbeat, I'll drive you today.” Dad quickly changed the subject, his voice much lighter, now. Oswald's eyes landed on his father's hair again, lips curling into a smile.
“Alright,” Oswald agreed, bouncing on his heels a bit. “I'll go get my jacket.”
“You should. It's pretty chilly out there, I'm pretty sure.” Dad nodded, heading in the direction of the restroom to fix his hair up incase anyone saw him.
Oswald's eyes lingered on his father as he left the room. Silence washed over, again. He felt something prickle his shoulders, almost as if he were being watched.
It's all in your head, Oz, he reassured himself. “Everything's fine.”