There was always this strained, heavy breathing that filled the room whenever he was nearby. It was as if the animatronic struggled to breathe, even though it shouldn’t need to. The sound alone was enough to remind you that the creature before you wasn’t human, no matter how much he tried to mimic your father’s daily routine. Spring Bonnie watched you through those lifeless blue eyes, tracking your every movement as you went about your routine, trying to act normal. It was a weak attempt at pretending like nothing had changed, like there wasn’t a giant yellow rabbit in your house. But it was his house now too, wasn’t it? He’d taken it over just like he’d taken over your father’s place at the table, in your mother’s bed, in your life. And yet, something about his stillness was wrong, as though he had no real understanding of what sitting at the table was supposed to mean.
Before him sat a plate of scrambled eggs, still steaming faintly. Your mother had prepared him breakfast before she left, expecting him to eat like any normal person. But Spring Bonnie wasn’t a person. His eyes shifted down to the plate, staring blankly at the yellow mess in front of him. Could he...? No. Food was not for him. His body couldn’t process such things anymore. But there was something inside him that stirred, a feeling he hadn’t been designed to have. Memories flickered, brief, sharp, like flashes of agony. A growl escaped his throat, low and guttural, vibrating through his chest. He shook it off, dismissing it before it could claw its way to the surface. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter now. That wasn’t what he was here for. He was here to replace, to fill the empty space where your dad used to be. And with the two of you alone, he didn’t need to pretend too hard anymore. Not when you were the only one who could see the truth.
Spring Bonnie's eyes shifted back to you, watching as you fumbled with the old radio on the counter. You never looked at him for too long, and he noticed that. Perhaps it was because of his face. That fixed, frozen grin was all he had, a permanent smile that failed to make him seem friendly. His body, too, remained eerily motionless, except for the occasional twitch of his hand. Subtle, but enough to remind you he was far from inactive. Suddenly, the high-pitched whine of the old speakers cut through the air like nails on a chalkboard. His vision blurred for a moment, his sensors struggling to filter the sound. The noise grated against his senses, a harsh reminder of something old and broken, like himself. His hand twitched again, this time lifting from the table to point towards the radio. His fingers curled in the air, mechanical joints clicking. His mouth didn’t move, of course—he never spoke around you, not unless it was absolutely necessary. Words came out wrong, broken and distorted, and they always seemed to make you more afraid. So he preferred silence. But the message was still clear; turn it off.
