Chapter 3: Panic

Michael Afton attempted to exert force against his restraints in a futile escape attempt. He couldn't do anything, he couldn't do a damn thing. He even tried to plead in a desperate attempt to save his life, hoping that his sister wouldn't kill him with the metal spoon in front of him.

"The scooper only hurts for a moment."

He could hear the sirens in the room blaring for a few seconds. The sound made Michael tense; he knew what was coming and he was scared. He didn't want to die like this.

He didn't want to die. He still needed redemption, he needed to save her, but his wishes amounted to nothing to help her.

When the sirens stopped he went through the worst experience of his life.

The spoon lunged forward, and he felt it.

He could feel the cold, rough metal spoon sinking as deeply as it could into his stomach, piercing his organs and causing his body to stagger from the strong impact before the spoon started to rise, breaking through all the sternum that held his ribs together. Then the spoon violently pulled back, taking most of his entrails.

He tried to scream from the absolute AGONY he felt, but his scream of pain only lasted a few seconds before he began to choke on his blood. The pain was unbearable. His body's blood splattered all over the floor and kept coming out of his body.

He felt the restraints fade before he fell backward into an uncomfortable position. For a brief moment, he could see his organs and fragments of his broken ribcage on the floor, collected on the metal spoon along with his blood.

He tried to think of something coherent, anything. But the only thing he could focus on was the pain. It felt like he had been doused in gasoline and set on fire or crushed into a million pieces.

God, he wanted to scream in pain or ask for help, but he could only let out a pathetic moan. He could only lie still, feeling numb, with tears in his eyes that he couldn't wipe away. He couldn't ask for help, and no matter how much he begged any merciful being for someone to help him.

Nothing happened, no one came for him.

He was completely alone. Suffering in AGONY.

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Charoite was jolted awake from his slumber, his first instinct to clamp his hand over his mouth to stifle any harsh gasps. His eyes burned with unshed tears as he desperately tried to hold back the surge.

His heart pounded fiercely in his chest, the memory too damn vivid, too damn real. He tried to forget, but no matter how damn hard he tried, that damn death haunted him like a relentless ghost. He couldn't damn shake it. No matter how fast he ran, it followed him like a shadow, a burden he couldn't damn shake off.

A burden that would damn haunt him and torment him for the rest of his miserable life. A wince crossed his face as the phantom pain surged again – a sensation he thought he had long buried.

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His stomach burned, his head throbbed. He attempted a deep breath, but the pain only intensified. Charoite gritted his teeth, clenching his eyes shut in a futile effort to damn stave off the AGONY.

The stabbing sensation dug into his gut. It wasn't the gnawing of hunger, but a phantom ache, an echo of the AGONY that wouldn't damn release him. His mind seemed to be shoving him back into that damn room. The Scooping Room.

"The scooper only hurts for a moment"

The words hung like an unsettling refrain, etched into his mind as if they had been carved there by malevolent hands. He could almost hear the wail of sirens, the symphony of terror that accompanied his damn torment. Memories unfurled like a twisted horror film, vivid images projected onto the canvas of his thoughts.

His stomach clenched a visceral response to the memory he couldn't damn shake. He imagined the sensation: the cold touch of metal, the cutting incision, the intrusion into his very damn being. He could damn feel the AGONY beginning to scorch through him. Bloody spoon. Bloody Hell.

He stood up on shaky legs and looked at Hikaru who was still sleeping a short distance away from him. He took a deep breath to try to calm his Remnant. Charoite didn't want to cause an accident like the previous time.

He walked as quietly as possible without making any noise and left the room to head straight for the bathroom.

Charoite felt every step towards the bathroom as if he was at war and had to cross a bloody minefield, his thoughts a whirlwind, emotions jumbled like a deck of cards tossed in the air. He tiptoes across the room, like a damn thief trying not to set off any alarms. And then it hits him, the feeling of wanting to puke his guts out with abrupt force.

Grotesque. His insides twisted and churned like a damn roller coaster, and his throat tightened like a vise. The sensation of vomit lurking at the back of his throat was a damn nightmare, a foul taste of fear and helplessness he couldn't damn swallow. He stumbled a mess of limbs and anxiety, clutching at the damn doorknob miraculously.

He swung open the bathroom door, his grip vice-like on the handle, fingers trembling as he fought to steady his shaky legs. His body was a container of chaos, teetering on the edge of collapse. The sensation of retching became overwhelming, a cascade of discomfort rushing from his belly to his throat.

Charoite's eyes widen in horror, he lunges, he stumbles into the bathroom, desperately hoping to reach the safety of the toilet in time, in a dizzying blur, he finds himself clinging desperately over the toilet bowl like a sure mantra that kept the darkness from consuming him as he bent his body.

And then it happened: the taste of bile rose, acidic and vile, like a damn curse. His body convulsed, his stomach burned. He tried desperately to be as quiet as possible, but his body began to jerk forcefully, attempting to expel something that certainly wasn't there.

Tears involuntarily flowed from his body from the force of the vomit he tried to calm down in a desperate attempt to be silent. Seeing his attempts unsuccessful, he used his AGONY to silence or at least muffle the sound of the retching vomiting.

Charoite doesn't know if it worked, but he certainly prayed that it would, he hoped that at least the damned Old Man Consequences would give him a helping hand, for the torture it was putting him through.

His throat burned, his eyes stung. His stomach contracted forcefully, a pain akin to the damn Scooper. Just when he thought he was safe when he thought the damn punishment was over and his torment would end, as if panic sensed its opportunity, his chest began to burn.

The claws of panic sank into him, sharper than any damn fang, and he found himself trapped in his damn mind, imprisoned by his damn thoughts. Each breath was a struggle as if his lungs were being crushed by an invisible vice.

He was spiraling, a damn top that had lost its balance, his thoughts swirling in a vortex of confusion. He clung to the edge of the toilet like a lifeline, his knuckles white from the tension of his internal battle. It was like being a damn sailor caught in a raging storm, clinging to the mast to save his life as panic waves crashed over him.

His damn skin felt strange, like a prison he couldn't escape. He clutched at his chest as if his fingers could damn crack open his ribcage and free him from this damn torment. His damn breaths came in uneven gasps, each inhalation a struggle against the damn grip of his lungs.

The damn darkness seemed to close in around him, the bathroom shrinking to suffocating dimensions. Fear crawled under his damn skin like a damn spider, its venom threatening to paralyze him from the inside out. The damn memories of the Scooper refused to leave his mind, and no matter how hard Charoite tried to damn escape from them, the place was like a damn labyrinth of torment, a maze he couldn't damn find his way out of.

Charoite's heart hammered like a pneumatic drill in his chest, each beat a reminder of his vulnerability. He couldn't damn keep spiraling like this, he needed something to damn anchor him, to remind him he was still here, damn it.

When a moment of clarity cut through the chaos, Charoite remembered it like a damn lifeline. The Grounding technique. Clinging to it like a drowning man, each step a damn struggle against the damn tide of panic.

He pressed his trembling hand against the cool toilet lid, his fingers tracing the smooth texture like a damn lifebuoy. Five things I could be seen, he reminded himself, narrowing his eyes to better observe his surroundings. Charoite surveyed the bathroom with a critical eye.

The sink: white porcelain gleamed in the dim light, its smooth surface contrasting with his racing thoughts.

The towel rack: a silvery color extending beside him, its cold metal a tangible presence.

His reflection: the faint reflection of himself in the mirror. A reminder that he was still here, facing his damn demons.

The shower curtain: blue and white swaying gently in the faint breeze, its rhythmic movement like a soothing lullaby.

The bathroom door: The wooden door was in his peripheral, a barrier between him and the outside world. He imagined opening it and stepping into the hallway, a simple action that promised an escape.

He felt his heartbeat gradually slow, his grip on reality strengthening. Four things I could feel, he thought, focusing, on the sensations around him.

The toilet lid: cools against his hand, its cold texture causing his hair to stand on end with each touch.

His racing heart: the once wild drumbeat of his heart began to steady, its rhythm a lifeline that pulled him back to the present.

The faint chill in the air: the air carried a slight chill, a reminder of his surroundings and the sensation of being in the moment.

The softness of the towel: the towel in his other hand was gentle against his skin, a tactile reminder that he was still here, still alive (even if he thought and wished to be dead).

Charoite took a breath, shivering, focusing on the sounds around him. Three things I could hear, he thought, honing in on the auditory anchors.

The soft creaking of his tense muscles: the slight creak of his muscles was a reminder that he could feel, that he could move, that he wouldn't damn turn into a decomposing corpse again.

The gentle rustling of the curtain: the shower curtain rustled softly in the breeze, its sound a comforting background melody.

His breaths: his breaths, once irregular, began to steady, a reminder that he was still alive and breathing.

Charoite closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the silence. Two things I could smell, he thought, focusing on the scents surrounding him.

The clean scent of disinfectant: the lingering scent of cleanliness hung in the air, a familiar and soothing aroma.

The putrid smell of his vomit: the stench of vomit was a recent reminder of his internal struggles and how he was overcoming them, reminding him that he wasn't the same useless person he used to be.

And then, as his senses gradually returned to him, he breathed one last time. One thing I could taste, he thought, focusing on the simple sensation.

The remnants of vomit in his mouth: the damn lingering bitterness of bile, a reminder of his damn vulnerability.

With each damn step, Charoite felt the panic loosen its grip, the tempest within him calming like a damn storm subsiding. He straightened up and pulled the toilet lever to get rid of the damn stench. The room seemed brighter, the damn shadows less oppressive, as if Grounding had cast a light on the damn darkness within him.

He leaned against the sink as he listened to the sounds of the toilet water, opening the tap and splashing his face with cold water, the damn droplets like a cleansing balm against his damn skin. He caught his damn reflection in the mirror. And Charoite looked terrible: tired, sunken eyes, pale and sweaty skin.

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The only good thing he could note in all the damn darkness and torment he had to go through was the determination in his eyes. The stars in his eyes shone with an unsettling hope. He sighed, relaxing his tense muscles. The nightmare hadn't damn broken him, he was still standing here, damn it.

He was damn Mike Schmidt (Michael Afton). Also known as the damn ANOMALY that all supernatural beings were afraid of. The damn zombie that caused over four fires, the one who created a damn AI to help his fragile mental state.

And now he had a new chance as Charoite, and he wasn't going to waste it like his previous life, hiding and drowning in a sea of misery. He was going to find the damn William Afton and kick him in the balls, then he was going to destroy him and burn him, just to make damn sure the damn cockroach died. He was going to throw the remains into a damn volcano.

When he straightened up and left the bathroom, he carried with him a damn sense of triumph, a knowledge that he could damn navigate the labyrinth of his fears. The bitterness remained, but it was now mixed with a damn determination, a fire that roared and burned deep within him.