It wasn't fair...
A boy in a black-and-grey striped shirt rests in a plain white bed, alone and unattended. He is in the emergency ward of a local hospital, though he had long since been left to the cold, unfeeling care of the machines that kept his heart pumping out of obligation. No one has come to visit him, and no one ever will. He is as good as dead, and no one wants to be around the dead for very long. He will be quietly placed in a marked grave, right next to the one for his mother, and that will be the end of that.
The boy in black couldn't concentrate. There was something jabbed in his arm, but he didn't know what, since his eyelids felt like lead curtains, and he couldn't move his neck. In general, he couldn't feel much of anything. It was like he was floating; whether in an endless sea or the void of space, he had no way of knowing for sure.
It just didn't feel fair. Why did he have to suffer like this? He'd told them he was afraid of the animatronics, but they didn't listen. If anything, they actively used it against him, mocking him and scaring over and over and over. Now, he was here, waiting to rot away, all because one of them had decided to bite hard through his soft, fragile skull.
For many others, this would only the beginning of an unending nightmare, but the boy didn't know that.
Nor should it concern him even if he did. After all, he would be on the other side very soon, and the dead have no need to concern themselves with the affairs of the living.
However, something happens that shouldn't be possible: the boy wakes up.
Groggily, he is met by the glaring harsh lights of the LED ceiling lamps. A procession of dotted grey tiles is all that he can see, as the boy get adjusted to having control of his body again.
The first that the boy realizes upon waking up is that he cannot remember his name. Scattered scraps of unfamiliar names that could refer to him come up, like Evan, or Chris, or Norman, but it makes no difference. He cannot recognize any of these as his own.
How unfortunate, then, that he could still remember everything else.
Every awful moment of that fateful birthday, including the precise minute that his brother had hoisted him up into Freddy's awaiting jaws, was laid out crystal-clear in his mind. He could see feel the teeth digging into his vertebrae, severing his spine and turning his brain into a fine mush.
Yet the boy was still here. Someone, against all odds, he was awake. But that couldn't be. He... it had hurt so much. He couldn't think at all - all there was was... was...!
Before he realized it, tears were flowing freely down his face like rapids. Once again, he was crying. He was such a pathetic crybaby; he couldn't man up no matter how many times father tried, and now, like he said so many times before, it had gotten him killed.
Or rather, it should have gotten him killed. Yet he was still here. Alive.
How was this possible? As the grey-striped boy finally got a clear view of his surroundings, he realized that:
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