Chapter Text
William had kept a journal since year seven. A school psychologist had recommended it, after he’d gotten into a fight with a couple of boys. Or, more accurately, he’d been beaten up by a couple of boys and threatened to kill one of their cats before threatening to kill himself. The school had decided it wasn’t his fault. He’d been provoked, but his behavior still wasn’t healthy, and some intervention had to happen. So he’d signed two contracts, typed out on clean sheets of paper to go into his file before being promptly dumped when he graduated and no administrator or teacher at his prep school cared about William Afton anymore. Two agreements, that he would not hurt himself or anyone else, and that he would take his feelings and write them down in a neat little book for only him to see, so they wouldn’t bother anyone else.
It was a miracle he’d even done it in the first place, mostly happening out of some paranoia that somehow someone would find out he wasn’t writing and he would get in even more trouble. He hated the attention he got when he was in trouble at school, hated the calls home and the bruises his father gave him for the inconvenience. He wished he could tell the school that was punishment enough. For one reason or another though, he started to write, and he didn’t stop. He purchased himself another notebook when his first was full, and placed his first in an old shoe box. By the time he’d packed and moved to small-town Utah, they’d taken up three boxes. Now, tucked under the bed in his and Henry’s shitty off-campus house, an arrangement of clothing and boxes of records concealing it, he was working on his fifth. His grip slipped on his lighter as he held a cigarette between his lips.
September 29th, 1967
I bought a gun today. It’s small enough to conceal, but I have no doubt it will work. It’s a Colt 1911. It has 7 rounds and I bought a box of 100 bullets. It will work. I haven’t picked a day yet, but it has to happen this year. I think I’ll wait until Henry comes home. I’ll make him dinner. I don’t know what yet. I have to figure out his favorite food. I don’t even know his favorite food. I’ll kiss him. I’ll tell him I love him, and I’ll shoot him. Then I’ll shoot myself. Either our neighbors will call the police or the Emilys will get worried about Henry and send someone over. I hope not one of his cousins.
His watch beeped. Henry would be home in 10 minutes. He closed the journal and shoved it into his desk drawer.
September 30th, 1967
I can’t shoot him. I can’t be the person who killed the Emilys’ favorite son. I don’t know why I give a damn about what they think of me, but I do. I have a new plan now though. I’ve still got those pills, the ones for sleeping that make me feel all fuzzy if I ride them out. Henry won’t though. I’ll give him them somehow.
He scratched that line out.
I’ll slip them into a drink and he’ll go to bed. Then, I’ll take a little bit of petrol, just a little. I’ll spill it on the front porch, so maybe it’ll look like an accident. I’ll drop my cigarette in the puddle. I’ll take the pills myself, and slip into bed with him. I’ll tell him I love him before I fall asleep.
The ash from his cigarette smudged the paper with a light gray dust, and he pressed the cherry against his right hand.