Blood seeps through the gaps in your teeth, rolling down your chin, joining the growing pool on the floor that slowly eats its way down towards your basement.
There is an eight inch chef's knife embedded in your chest, the blade slicing through your metal plating with supernatural precision. Your heart struggles to beat around the cold steel, each pulse a fresh lesson in agony.
Your attacker sits with one foot on your chest, kneeling as if in prayer, her little hands wrapped tight around the handle of that terrible knife. Sheâs shaking, her sunken eyes wide and scared; something black and foul leaks from her face in place of snot or tears.
The deep, dark, and awful purple of bruised and broken flesh, of rot, of necrosis, of death.Â
The severed head in her backpack laughs and laughs and laughs, as if this were all the greatest joke in the world.
âNow Vanessa, be a good girl and twist it.â Says the severed head, his rotted and rolling eye peering at you from the backpack. Heâs leaking that same purple ichor, you donât know how you didnât smell it when Vanessa came in.Â
You let her in, you let your guard down.
Why wouldnât you? Youâd seen Vanesssa enough, always hanging around Freddyâs Pizza Palace, treating the mascots more like beloved friends than animals like the staff did. Youâd heard from Freddy that Vanessa didnât have the best home life, so she treated the pizzeria like her real home whenever she was there. She was a good kid, a sweet kid, sheâd played with your children like they were her own siblings.
So when Vanessa showed up at the edge of your property just behind the ward line, dirty and disheveled, shivering in the cold; you didnât question how sheâd gotten up here, or why she hadnât come up to the door like any other welcomed guest.Â
You took her inside, you put more logs on the fire, you made her something hot to drink, and when you turned around to get her a warm blanket the tip of her knife bit into your spine.
Again, and again, and again.Â
In your back, your side, your belly and chest as you tried to roll over and get Vanessa off of you.Â
Her eyes wide and wild as she tried to pin you down, ichor tears running down her face.
âIâm sorry Iâm sorry Iâm sorry--â Is all she says as she plunges the knife in and pulls it out, using both hands every time.
You grab the blade, it slides right through your hands as if they aren't even there.Â
Her movements are stiff, and stilted like a dollâs.
Something dark swims behind those pleading eyes, and smiles with too many teeth.Â
You want her to stop, she wants to stop too, but something wonât let her. You could shake her off if you tried, throw her across the room like a toy, take her life in an instant.
You would never hurt a child.
Vanessa knows that, the head in her backpack knows that, and so does the terrible dark thing behind her eyes.Â
But Egg on the other hand, doesnât share that particular hangup. Something small and white launches itself off the dining room table at Vanessa with remarkable speed, sinking tiny teeth into the naked flesh of her neck. Vanessa screams and drops her knife, flailing wildly.Â
You canât move, you can only watch.
Venassa rolls around on the floor, smearing herself and Egg in your blood as they wrestle. Omelette dashes in with a knife taped to their shell, only to be punted across the room by a stray thrashing limb.
The egg bounces off of a table leg, and hits the wall with a sickening crunch before going so very still.
You try to roll over again, to drag yourself towards your baby⊠but everything hurts so much.Â
Your vision swims, bright lights dancing around the edges.
Shapes and voices blend together.