Abusive william

The workshop always smelled of stale grease, cold metal, and something else, something sweet and coppery I could never quite place. It was his sanctuary, the belly of the beast where William Afton brought his monstrous visions to life.

I was just another component to him. A faulty one.

My mistake was simple. I’d been cleaning up, trying to be useful, and I’d knocked over a tray of precision screwdrivers. The metallic clatter against the concrete floor was like a gunshot in the silent, focused air.

The change in him was instantaneous. The amiable, genius facade he showed his business partners melted away, leaving only the cold, calculating monster beneath. He didn't yell. William Afton never yelled. His rage was a quiet, freezing thing.

He slowly put down the endoskeletal finger he was soldering. The silence was heavier than any shout.

“Pick them up,” he said, his voice a low, calm monotone that didn’t match the venom in his eyes.

I scrambled to obey, my hands shaking so badly I could barely grasp the tools. “I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what you meant,” he interrupted, taking a single, deliberate step toward me. “Intent is irrelevant. Incompetence is what remains. You are a constant reminder of failure. A flawed, sniveling mistake.”

He was standing over me now. I kept my eyes on the floor, on the scattered tools, anywhere but his face.

“Look at me.”

I forced my head up. His expression was one of pure, undiluted contempt.

“You have her eyes,” he sneered, as he always did when he was particularly angry. It was his greatest insult, a reminder that I was a part of the mother he’d discarded and the life he resented. “All that weakness, staring back at me.”

Then came the blow. It wasn't a wild punch, but a sharp, efficient backhand across my face. The force of it snapped my head to the side, a starburst of pain exploding across my cheekbone. The taste of blood bloomed in my mouth where my teeth had cut the inside of my cheek.

I stayed on my knees, clutching my face, the world swimming. He looked down at me, not with rage anymore, but with a chilling disappointment, as if I’d failed a basic test of durability.

“You see?” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “No resilience. No vision. Just flesh and fear. You are nothing like the machines I build. They obey. They are strong. They have a purpose. You… you are just a drain. A useless, sentimental cog in a machine you don’t understand.”

He turned his back on me, returning to his workbench as if I’d ceased to exist. The message was clearer than any beating: my pain, my presence, was an insignificant interruption to his truly important work.

“Get out,” he said without looking back. “And don’t come down here again. You’ve contaminated the space enough.”

I stumbled to my feet, my face throbbing, my vision blurred with unshed tears I wouldn't dare let fall in front of him. That would only bring more derision. More proof of my weakness.

As I fled up the stairs, the cold, hateful silence of the workshop followed me, a heavier weight than any hand. His hatred wasn't just in the violence; it was in the silence that followed, the absolute certainty that in the eyes of William Afton, his own son was worth less than the scrap metal on his floor.