Michael wanted to go to the pizzaplex first thing the next morning, but I refused. We had to get there as soon as possible and start our mission. Waiting would just give Vanny more time to plot some evil scheme. Besides, I couldn't rest easy with the image of my mom flashing every time I closed my eyes. He begrudgingly agreed, on the account that I took a nap before we left. He said it'd be bad for me to exert myself after such "emotional turmoil," as he described it. Though, because my mom's image had burned into my brain, I wasn't really able to sleep. I couldn't even sleep in my room. It was weird being in the same house that my mother's still corpse laid in. Michael had unlocked his car, lowered the front seat down, and brought me a couple blankets, letting me rest there. In the meantime, Michael was gathering things he deemed important enough to bring along.

I didn't sleep at first. I hugged Bowtie close to me as I tried to relax. Michael came out a few brief moments later, opening up the car door to the back seats and putting down something. He then quietly shut the door and walked away again. He didn't come back for quite some time.

When I realized I wasn't going to be able to fall asleep, I peeked over my seat to see the back. The row was lined with suitcases and luggage, which were all the things Michael had packed before he began his trek back down here. There was a backpack sitting on top of one of the suitcases, which I realized was what Michael had brought in; it was one of the old hiker backpacks that we had lying around the house.

I was so curious as to what Michael had in his bags. The suitcases were most likely filled with clothes, but in the space between the front and back seats of the car was a small tote bag. Why'd he bring so many things?

I leaned over the seat and grabbed the handle, picking up the bag and placing it in my lap. "What are you doing?" Bowtie asked me.

"I just wanna see what's inside," I said. I stuck my hand inside and felt what I assumed was a notebook. I pulled out what was more of a small sketchbook. The front topped with stickers with encouraging messages. I was reminded of Chica's gift to Roxy, and how she had made a scrapbook that was also decorated in a similar way. I opened the sketchbook to the first page.

"You're so nosy," Bowtie scoffed at me, but then it inched closer. "Move, I wanna see too," it said. I exhaled a bit when I tried to stifle my giggle. I fixated Bowtie on the ledge between the two front seats and shared the sketchbook with it.

The first page was not what I was expecting. There was a doodle of a skeleton sitting next to a flag, and beneath it was a pledge in red ink; "I solemnly swear to accept life's toughest challenges, to give myself time to process my grievances, and to stay true to my virtues of kindness and solidarity. Unless I see William. Then it's on sight." A blue side note was written in different handwriting, "Not funny, Michael!" I didn't know who William was, but I was going to guess Michael wasn't a big fan of them.

The following pages were full of small collections of doodles and drawings with a recount of what had happened that day. Each page had a date in the upper hand corner, and the red and blue ink showed up. The red ink was obviously Michael. It covered most of the pages, was used to write his entries, and most drawings were made up with it. The blue ink was someone else, and it was as if it was responding to his journal entries, giving him advice, criticisms, or congratulations depending on how his day went. The beginning was pretty boring, as it was clear Michael was getting used to this set up. He didn't express himself very much and he seemed to only be fulfilling a requirement. It was around a quarter through when the entries became much more intriguing.

There was a drawing of who I assumed was Michael barely able to stand connected to an IV, just like the one I had in my hospital room. Around him in bold lettering read, "I hate my blood. Why must it be yours? I wish I could empty myself."

"Interesting thought," the blue ink said, "but remember; you are not your father! Your DNA isn't identical. You're your own person."

That wasn't the point , I thought to myself. If Michael was really talking about his dad, he's upset that he must be related to him, not that they're similar. I didn't know much about his dad, but I did know that Michael resented him. Maybe he was William.

"Who do you think is the blue?" Bowtie asked me. I shrugged, "I have no idea."

I flipped through the pages some more, looking for the most compelling entries. Most of them were him ranting about his job or normal day activities. Apparently he now worked in IT, specifically customer service. Seems like he spends his time answering phone calls and helping with technological interruptions. It fit him well, considering his previous work as the designer behind the animatronics, but according to his accounts he didn't like interacting with people all that much. He felt like most of them were judging him all the time, but "it pays the bills," he said.

Then I found a drawing that took up most of the page. It was a hillside with gravestones and names etched into them. "I wish I could visit like I used to," Michael wrote. "Their bodies were never found, but their parents gave them this memorial anyways. They're so far away now. I still think of them every day."

"They're lucky to have you," the blue said. "I'm sure they're smiling down at you. If you ever get the chance to go back to Utah, I hope you visit. They'll appreciate it."

Well, he made it to Utah. I wondered if Michael had thought about going back to this gravesite during his trip, though that probably wasn't the first thing on his mind right now.

More useless life updates followed. One of his friend's dogs had a litter of puppies, and he thought about adopting one of them, but ultimately decided not to. He said it was too much work to take care of one. It's too bad, I would've loved it if he showed up with a dog. Though, I guess we wouldn't be able to bring it to the pizzaplex with us.

There was an almost entirely blank page that stood out. The only red ink on it was, "I couldn't get out of bed today. Sorry."

"Don't apologize," the blue ink said, "you deserve a break. But please don't forget to eat and drink."

The next page was long. It was a whole paragraph of Michael venting out his feelings. There was a doodle of Freddy at the bottom, but it didn't look like the Freddy I knew. It was terrifying to look at, with large teeth and sharp fingers. Its stomach had teeth that lined along it like a mouth. I didn't realize Michael was such an artist.

"I was sixteen when you died," Michael wrote. "It was your birthday, and Dad organized a party at Fredbear and Friends, despite your pleas not to. I thought it was pathetic how you'd hide in your room, crying to your Fredbear plushie as if it could understand you. I remember tearing off your toy Foxy's head as you yelled and screamed at me. You cried that he was bleeding, but it was just his white stuffing flowing. I emptied out his head and put it on in front of you. I'll admit it, I enjoyed terrorizing you."

Well, that's horrible , I thought to myself. Was this one of his siblings he was talking about? Michael had mentioned having a brother and a sister in his tapes, so I wasn't sure which he was talking to, but it must be one of them. Who does that to their sibling? It seemed unnecessarily cruel.

"For me, it was all fun and games," Michael continued. "It wasn't because I hated you or that I was insensitive. I was just your older brother, so of course I laughed at you, belittled you, and disbelieved you. Mom would try to get me to stop, but Dad would tell her that it was normal for brothers to fight like this."

So this story is about his brother specifically. I couldn't really relate to this story. Whatever life I had before my brother disappeared, I didn't remember. I hoped he wasn't as mean as this, though.

"When the party finally came, you cried under the tables begging to go home. My friends and I tried to cheer you up, but nothing worked. We got fed up, you were starting to annoy us. We thought we'd bring you closer to Fredbear. He was your favorite, after all," Michael wrote. Then there was a big space, separating this portion of the page from the other.

"When he bit you, I couldn't move. Your blood was as red as the ink I'm writing with. It sprayed everywhere; Fredbear's face, your clothes, my hands. I had to take off the Foxy mask I was wearing. It was suffocating. I apologized to you profusely, but I don't think you heard me. You died in a cold hospital room," Michael wrote.

I blinked as I processed what I read. That Foxy mask, the one his son had found in the warehouse, the one that Michael had tasked Foxy to destroy, the one that was now hidden underneath my bathroom sink, it was the one Michael had worn during this accident.

"Dad lost his mind, even more so than he already had. I stood still as he yelled at me, crying about what a terrible brother I was, but I could see through his obvious ruse. I don't believe he ever cared. All his talk of putting you back together, or his proclamations of the betterment of us as a family, I didn't believe a word of it. It sickens me how he used your tragedy for inspiration," Michael printed.

I was now fully invested in this story Michael had written. Maybe I was intruding on his privacy a bit too much, but at this point I couldn't put the book down. I was almost done with this page, anyways.

"I named my first child after you," Michael wrote, "but he was nothing like you. Not that it mattered, of course. He had a brilliant mind. I liked to think he was you if you were given the same opportunities as him. But that was wishful thinking. Your curse transferred to him."

Michael's son had disappeared inside of the pizzaplex. Was it during a party, too? I wondered if Vanny knew this story about Michael's brother and specifically attacked kids on their birthday, just to rub more salt into the wound. She probably knew all about Fazbear's history.

Michael had begun to write more, but he crossed it out and never finished. I couldn't make out any of the words. To my surprise, there was no blue ink on this page. I didn't really care that much, as the most important part was Michael's writing, but it was strange to see a page without the extra input this anonymous person gave.

"Maybe we shouldn't be reading these," Bowtie said nervously. I turned to him confused.

"I thought you wanted to be nosy with me," I teased, but it wasn't entertained by my joke.

"It's starting to scare me," Bowtie confessed. I wasn't quite ready to put the sketchbook down.

"I'll read it alone then," I said, turning to the side so Bowtie couldn't see the rest. It scoffed at me in annoyance, but it didn't protest. I flipped through the pages looking for another interesting entry. It took a while before I found a good one.

There were collections of stick figures fighting several animatronics. It was kinda funny to look at. Michael must've had some pent up anger he had to let out at that moment. The blue ink just wrote, "Creative!" as a compliment on his art. Michael wrote some lame, corny jokes to himself to go along with his new entries.

Then I came across a page with a gruesome depiction. A body laid still on a bench, bleeding out of its stomach with its organs falling onto the floor. Some of the spots were covered with small flower stickers to avoid showing too much. It was immensely detailed, probably the most realistic drawing in this sketchbook so far. If I had to guess, it was Michael after he was scooped. That could've been me .

"I don't blame you for what you did," Michael wrote. "I deserved it. But I wish I could have explained myself to you. I know you hated me just as much as you now hate our dad. When I realized you were still living within Baby, I trusted you blindly. Never would I have imagined you'd do this. I'm not angry about it anymore. Now I'm just insulted that you thought I was our dad."

The blue ink responded to this one. "Remember what we talked about, Michael. Your siblings' spirits are not living in your father's animatronics. You hallucinated their existence while under immense pressure," it said. Michael drew an angry face and scribbled "Bullshit!" with an arrow pointing to the blue note. I couldn't help but laugh, though I understood where the blue ink was coming from. Even I'm not entirely sure if I believe Michael's claims of remnant. The only reason I consider it true is because I witnessed the aftermath of the scooping and him shooting himself, and he survived both incidents.

Bowtie was starting to get antsy after being ignored for some time. "Where's Michael? He hasn't shown up in a while," it asked me.

"He's probably still inside," I replied. He thought I was sleeping, so he was giving me time to rest before we left.

"I don't like him being in your house all alone," Bowtie said, crossing its arms. "You still don't trust him?" I asked.

"No! He's crazy!" it said. I definitely couldn't show Bowtie this page, then. It'd probably use it as proof of Michael's insanity.

"Well, you better get used to it," I said. "I think I'm stuck with him." Now that my mother was gone, his temporary guardianship was most likely going to extend for a bit longer. I felt my face falter as I thought of her.

"Can we at least go see what he's doing?" Bowtie said. "I feel like he's doing some evil." I rolled my eyes, not feeling the same.

"I'd rather not go in there," I muttered. I never wanted to go back there again. I'd rather stay in here and shiver underneath the blankets than walk in there.

Bowtie gave me a saddened look. "It'll just be for a quick moment," it said. "We don't have to go to that one room."

I sighed, but I gave it some thought. Maybe I could tell Michael I was ready to head back to the pizzaplex.

"Okay," I said quietly, putting away Michael's sketchbook and placing the bag where I had found it. I didn't want him to know I was looking through his things. I grabbed onto Bowtie and opened the car door, leaving the blankets behind. I tip-toed through the yard and opened the front door, which was still unlocked.

I weaved through the clutter once more looking for Michael, but as I got closer to the living room, I could hear him. It was unmistakable; I didn't have to see him to know that he was crying. I stopped in my tracks before I even peeked into the room.

I hadn't even considered how Michael was feeling. I cried until I couldn't anymore, but he had to keep himself together for my sake. Now he was letting it all out, as he had let me done earlier. I couldn't interrupt this. I stepped away and made my way back to the car.

"What are you doing?" Bowtie whispered annoyedly at me.

"He needs to be alone right now," I answered quietly. I slowly closed the front door and walked through the yard once again. I crawled back into the car and shut the door behind me. I regretted looking through his journals. Not because they were scary or worrisome, but because I felt as if I had just broken Michael's trust. I didn't have any ill intent behind it, I was just curious, but I should have asked beforehand. He's clearly been through a lot during his lifetime. His childhood, adolescents, and even adulthood seemed to just be constant bombardment of bad luck.

I laid back down on the car seat and brought the blankets up to my shoulders. I figured I'd try to sleep again. I didn't want to look through more of Michael's things while he was in the middle of crying. Bowtie laid beside me as I got comfortable, though it was hard to sleep with even more thoughts running through my mind. It took a while before I actually drifted off.

A road bump startled me awake as Michael drove the car over it. My chair was now sitting up, and I was buckled in with the seat belt. The blankets were still on me, though they felt constricting as they were also underneath the seat belt.

"Sorry, kiddo," Michael apologized when he realized I was awake. Bowtie gleamed at me. "Good! You're alive," it said, relieved that I was finally awake.

I gazed around trying to regain my senses. When I fully recovered, I asked Michael, "Are we going to the pizzaplex?"

"Yep," he confirmed. I sighed in relief and shrunk further into my seat. I remembered the sketchbook I had found behind me and I turned over my shoulder. Michael's things were still there, including the backpack he brought from my house. My backpack was there, too. I couldn't hide my curiosity about his sketchbook, but I couldn't tell him I had read it either.

"What's all this stuff?" I asked. Michael shrugged, "Just travel bags. I told you I was on the other side of the country, didn't I?"

I nodded, though the suitcases weren't what I was asking about. I pointed at the tote bag, but it's not like he could see. "What about this bag?" I asked.

Bowtie glared at me when it realized what I was getting at. I chuckled nervously at it and hoped it wouldn't blow my operation. "What bag?" Michael questioned.

I picked up the strap and pulled it back on my lap. Michael peaked over and saw it, which he did not seem pleased with. He reached out with one hand and threw it into the back with no hesitation. "Let's not look through that," he said.

"Why? What's in it?" I pressed. Bowtie looked at me annoyed, but I was so close to getting an answer without having to reveal that I'd already read through them.

Michael sighed. "They're my thought journals," he said.

"Your what?" I asked.

"My thought journals," he repeated. "It's just something my therapist asked of me."

I groaned, " Ugh , therapy." My experience with Julie was terrible. I hated having someone judge me openly. I couldn't imagine doing that willingly. The blue ink must have been his therapist responding to his entries.

Michael laughed at my response. "I'm guessing you weren't a fan of Dr. Harrison, then?"

"No way!" I said, crossing my arms. "She's the worst! She's all high and mighty after telling me how senseless I am. Who gave her the right to judge me like that?"

"Her psychology degree," Michael joked. I turned away annoyed, but Bowtie giggled. It just angered me even more.

"Don't be mad at her," Michael said. "She's just doing her job."

Yeah, terribly . Her criticisms of me just felt like insults.

"Why would you even go to therapy?" I asked, though it was a bit more of an outward thought. Still, Michael responded.

"You saw those tapes," he said. "I was unstable. I could barely hold myself together. I had to work harder than most just to be functional."

"You were such a good father, though," I said. He really was from what I saw. The way he interacted with son was heart-warming. He may have yelled at him one time, but it's normal to get frustrated sometimes.

"It's not just about being a parent," Michael said. "I needed help, so I sought it. That's all."

I tapped my finger on my arm as I thought to myself. Michael was likely going to be someone I'd be around for a long time, possibly my guardian for a while. I gasped at a realization.

"You're not going to make me go to therapy, are you?" I asked. Michael chortled, tightening his grip on the wheel.

"Ha! No," he said, "not if you don't want to. But there's no shame behind it."