Five Nights at Freddy's The Silver Eyes

People thought he did it. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t. But if he had, how would
she even have known? I knew him, she thought fiercely. But did she? She loved him,
trusted him, with the blind devotion of a seven-year-old girl, even now. She understood
him with the knowing and not-knowing that comes of being a child. When you focus on
your parent as if they are the center of the earth, that thing on which your survival
depends, and only later do you realize their flaws, their scars, and their weaknesses.
Charlie had never had the dawning moments of realization, as she grew older,
that her father was only human; she had never had the chance. To her he was still
mythic, still larger than life, still the man who could deactivate the monsters. He was
also the man who made them. How well did she really know him?
The rage was gone, ebbed back to wherever it rose from, and she was empty of
it, her insides dry and vacant. She closed her eyes and put a hand to her forehead.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and John touched her shoulder for a brief moment.
“Don’t be,” he said. Charlie put her hands over her face. She did not feel like
crying, but she didn’t want him to see her face. She was thinking of things that were too
new, too awful, to think in front of someone else. How would I have known if he did?
“Charlie?” John cleared his throat, and repeated her name. “Charlie, you know
he didn’t do it, right? Mr. Burke said they knew who did and they had to let him go. He
got away with it. Remember?”
Charlie didn’t move, but something like hope stirred inside her.
“It wasn’t him,” John said again, and she looked up.
“Right. Right, of course it wasn’t,” she whispered. “Of course it wasn’t him,”
she said at a normal pitch.
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