"Michael?!" The name echoes through the confinements of your brain as you reminisce through your memories of a week prior.

You can't get the image out of your head. Michael had staggered into the house that the two of you share -- him and his darling. He was covered in his own blood, the source from his stomach. Blood was spritzed across his face and arms. His shirt and jacket were torn and there were a bunch of bandages sloppily wrapped around his stomach. The plates you had in your hands dropped, and they shattered loudly when they hit the ground. You had been making breakfast, waiting for Michael to come home.

Michael hadn't even flinched. He just stumbled into the bathroom, as though he had forgotten how to walk. He didn't exit out of the bathroom for a long while. He had exited the bathroom, clean and tidy, as though nothing strange had happened.

The next week or so had gone by so slowly-- so strangely. Michael slowly began to change color. He became slower. And soon, he turned purple.

And right now, you're staring at him while he sleeps in your shared bed next to you. His eyes are closed, but he isn't breathing. He can't. He doesn't have lungs to do so. He told you everything. How he got scooped. How it took out his organs-- all of them. His lungs, his heart, his stomach, his intestines-- whatever you can think of, it's gone. Besides his brain, you think. The animatronics from Circus Baby's Entertainment and Rentals merged into one, and stepped into his skin--literally. He told you how the animatronics left his body and fled into the sewers once they realized that their cover was blown.

He should be dead. But he's not. All of it is surreal to you.

Michael had been avoiding you. He's been sleeping on the couch. He doesn't seem to like being in the same room as you. It's almost as though he's afraid of scaring you, or grossing you out. It was a huge effort just to convince him to sleep in bed with you. Even then, he didn't let you get too close to him. He's sleeping on the other side. Usually, before he got scooped, you'd sleep on the same side of the bed, and you'd hold each other. Even in sleep.

He smells like death. You can always smell it from a room over. It's strong. But, to be honest, you don't care. Not one bit.

Because he's still your Michael. And you just want to be with him. Close to him.