Michael afton

Michael Afton used to be loud. He laughed, joked, and felt untouchable. Now he barely talked. A month had passed since the Bite of ’83, but it still felt like it just happened. The hospital smells, the beeping machines, and the moment everything went wrong replayed in his head every night. He remembered his brother’s small body. The spring locks snapping. The scream that ended too fast. Nobody had forgiven him. At school, people whispered when he walked by. Some said it was an accident. Others said he did it on purpose. The friends who had helped him that day turned on him as soon as things went wrong. “It was your idea.” “You went too far.” “You killed him.” Michael didn’t argue. He knew he had worn the Foxy mask. He knew he had laughed. The mask was now buried in his closet at home.