"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
06-26-2015, 09:34 PM (This post was last modified: 07-03-2015, 07:22 PM by Grumblesnakes.)
Okay, welcome to round 3! A few quick reminders before we dive in. Please, please, please check the last round for results before you start writing! Eliminations were posted in the round 2 thread! Also please remember, there is no editing your quest posts once you’ve submitted them. And one more thing, keep an eye on that tense-switching. It may not sound like much, but it’s a huge grammar pet peeve of mine and it really distracts from the flow of your post. I specifically mentioned it to a few people previously, but just please be aware of it. We’re getting closer to the finish line, and something like that can really make or break a post. You guys are fantastic, and I love your creativity! You’re doing great. And that last round was absolutely, deliciously brutal. Well done! Okay, enough with the notes. Let’s get down to business.
Bonus points if your immediate reaction to that was “to defeat…the Huns!” and you now have that song stuck in your head.
But not actual bonus points. Because I can’t read your minds. Thank god.
~*~*~
“Oh, no. Another one. Poor dear.” Work-rough hands scoop your mangled body out of the trash, running gentle fingertips along your broken, battered (and in quite a few cases, melted) surface “She really did a number on you, huh, little one? I’ll see what I can do to put you back together. Or…well, barring that, at least turn you into something beautiful again.” The housekeeper tucks you into her purse, where she has tucked many a tortured toy before. And when her work day is over, she smuggles you into the little cottage out back. It’s a cozy little place she shares with her own ten-year-old daughter, a sweet, shy little hazel-eyed brunette named Lena. She takes you to her craft room, where she will fix you up and turn you into a brand new-to-her toy for little Lena.
And when she has turned you back into a pretty (if slightly patchwork…or recycled…or completely different) toy, she will give you to her little girl. This time playtime won’t be torture. Lena will treasure you like you’re the only toy in the world. For as long as she can keep you hidden from that little bully Nerissa, anyhow.
~*~*~
You heard me. Go get fixed up (feel free to use your very active imaginations to come up with creative ways to manage that) and then go play. Have some fun with your new best friend! What, you were expecting more torture? Sorry to let you down. And I know this will come as a surprise, but Lena is not friends with Nerissa. She mostly plays inside, to avoid bumping into the girl who tends to make fun of her, push her around, and generally make her life miserable at any given opportunity. Eventually, though, Lena will slip up. Stop when Nerissa finally sees you, the remnants of her bestest new toy turned into a whole different new toy and given to someone else.
Once again, you have 72 hours to reply. Monday night, by the board’s time when you’re not signed in. Good luck, and have fun! And I’m sure there will be questions, because there always are. You guys are really good at thinking of things I don’t. So ask away! I’ll be in cbox for a bit, or the other usual ways of getting in touch will work too.
Should we be including Nerissa's reaction, or stopping when she sees the toy?
Stop when she sees the toy.
Can I include the housekeeper's words and such in my post?
Absolutely!
So basically you get to mess around with general appearance such as color with this makeover?
Color should stay pretty much what you were given in the beginning. But other than that, yes. Especially those of you who were melted, there's room to be reshaped and repaired into something different.
Just to make sure I'm clear, we could totally change what our character is, so long as we keep the color intact more or less?
If you want to. I mean, the housekeeper doesn't have molds she can pour you into or anything. She's patching you up by hand. But you can be creative with what you end up looking like, yes.
And the normal rules being a toy around humans applies? So we can't talk, etc?
Correct.
She almost missed the melted pony amongst the cookie crumbles. Blanche often took home Nerissa’s scraps after the monstrous child had torn them to bits. She loved to see her daughter, Lena, shower the tossed away toys with excitement and love. Lena had a heart of gold, and she never judged her mother for not being able to afford new toys. It was Lena’s joy that made Blanche give the trashcan a second glance. Amidst a mess of burnt chocolate chips laid a flat, singed, and stained plastic pony. Blanche wasn’t sure what she would do with the poor creature, but with rough hands she picked up the broken toy and placed it in her purse.
The sun had just gone down when Blanche finally made it home from a long day at work. She greeted her daughter who was playing with the patched doll Blanche had sewn together for her only a week before. Lena made herself a grilled cheese for dinner and was sweet enough to prepare another for her mother. ”Thank you, my love”, Blanche said to her daughter before she took the sandwich in hand and walked to the back room.
Blanche had created a crafting room for herself when Lena was little. Blanche collected everything from worn down crayons and markers to left over sewing supplies. The room was a hodge podge of tossed away supplies. It looked like a goodwill store mixed with a hobby lobby. In truth it was her little haven. Blanche found comfort in cleaning what was dirty and fixing what was broken. After she took a few bites out of the sandwich Lena had made Blanche opened her purse and took out the mangled body of Speck. She questioningly looked the pony over. Crumbs fell from her mouth and she lurched forward to catch them with her open hand. ”First is to get you cleaned up.”, she spoke with her mouth still slightly full of sandwich.
Blanche took the toy to the bathroom and scrubbed the body clean of its cookie remnants. She did her best to wash away the pink strokes that covered the orange body. Bits of the pink managed to be scrubbed away, but for the most part Speck remained covered in the permanent marker. Blanche returned to her room. She twirled the body around. Half of Speck’s body was flat and melted while the other half still had some lift to it. Blanche took long scissors and cut off the excess plastic that had melted above the horse form. Once the form clearly returned to that of a horse she took lime green and yellow thread and patched up Speck’s mane and tail. Most of it had been singed off in the oven, but Blanche repaired it to its former fullness. Next Blanche turned the pony over and glued large black strips to the flattened side of its body. ”Perfect.”
The clock struck 9:00, and Blanche sent Lena to bed. Blanche went to her workroom and grabbed Speck. She placed the flat part of the pony with its black strips against the fridge. Speck stuck. ”Lena will be so surprised in the morning.” Blanche said with a smile and yawn before she went to bed.
Speck felt like she had been clocked over the head with a giant stump. Every piece of her body was sore when she came to. ”Ughh…” She mumbled aloud. Speck attempted to move her legs, but they refused to listen to her. In fact she could not even budge one bit of her body. She felt like she had been dumped in a bucket of glue and frozen in a single position. ”What is happening” She cried.
”Oh calm down.” A voice from above said. ”None of us can move.”, The voice came from the letter “A”. When Speck had been placed on the fridge her head came into contact with the bottom of the letter. Scattered around her body were the other letters of the alphabet.
”What is happening?!” Speck repeated this time with more enthusiasm.
”You are a magnet. You are on a fridge. That is what has happened.”, A replied.
”A What?” Speck felt frantic at this point. She had endured a toy box, a monster, an oven, what next? A did not reply. ”Please speak to me.” Speck spoke with desperation, but A would not reply. There was nothing more to explain. Speck spent the rest of the night in dying silence.
The sun rose and with it a tiny brunette girl. Lena always greeted the morning with much joy. She sprung from her bed and leapt onto the soft, cotton carpet beneath her. She then ran out to the main area of the house and from across the kitchen spotted the new addition to the fridge. ”MOM!!!!!” Lena yelled as she ran over to the pony magnet. ”I love her!!”. Lena pulled the pony off the fridge and rolled it around in the palm of her hand. It was beautiful and perfect to Lena and she gave the tiny toy a giant hug.
Over the next few days Speck was enjoyed in her frozen form. Lena sat at the kitchen counter and colored pictures of meadows and forests to later be stuck under Speck. One picture in particular reminded Speck of her home. Lena drew rolling hills onto a flat white sheet of paper. Once she colored in a bright blue sky she held the paper against the fridge and placed Speck over it. Speck looked like she was running through the green grasses. It was an image she missed although she greatly enjoyed making the little girl, Lena, smile and laugh. Speck was getting used to being a magnet. At night she floated above the ground, and during the day she ran across make shift lands. She expected that the frozen life would be her entire life until the third day passed and Lena decided to take Speck on a bigger adventure. ”Kelly wants to see you. I told her all about you.” Lena sang sweetly when she pulled Speck from her spot on the fridge.
Lena held tightly onto the pony magnet. She skipped through the kitchen and opened up the tall side door that led to the garage. Once in the garage Lena place Speck’s flattened hooves onto the wall and rolled them along the rough edge as if she was running on the wall like a real horse. Lena played with Speck on the wall until she reached the end of the garage. Once on the driveway she once again tucked Speck to her side.
Kelly, her neighbor, was another brown haired girl with bright green eyes. She held a confidant smile as Lena approached. Lena smiled in return and was happy to see her friend. Lena walked toward Kelly until a blonde haired bully appeared out of nowhere. Nerissa had hid behind Kelly’s stout form. Lena felt her heart race and she did her best to tuck Speck behind her back, but Speck’s lime green tail was still clearly visible.
"Oh no. Another one. Poor dear." the words sound like they're impossibly far away, as though he's at the bottom of a deep pool and hearing others remarking about his limp, deformed body from far above. It's not entirely metaphorical – he is limp and deformed, and this voice is far above him – but it's the melting process that has made him hear as though underwater.
He feels fingers again, and the sensation is a strange combination of numbness and unbearable pain – he can't feel any contact with his skin, just a dull fire that blooms like pain does when pressure is applied to a fresh burn. Semi-conscious as he is, he reflexively steels himself for whatever fresh torture this woman might have devised. Poor thing, the damage from his tea party experience is so extensive that he can't even tell that he's in good hands. His skin was boiled so thoroughly that all sensation of touch has been destroyed, he cannot tell that these hands are larger and rougher. His ears were boiled so thoroughly that he can barely hear her words, let alone pick out specifics of how her voice might sound. And his eyes were among the first to go, melted right off before the kettle had even whistled, so he cannot see that she is not Nerissa.
"She really did a number on you, huh, little one?" He wonders if the voice is talking to him. I'll see what I can do to put you back together. Or…well, barring that, at least turn you into something beautiful again." At last, he begins to realize that, perhaps, at least for now, he has been saved. The hands that touch him may feel like fire, but they don't swing him around by forelegs that aren't meant to be handles. They cradle him, almost gently, as gently as they can - it's not enough, of course, nothing is when you're scalded like he is – but she's trying, and she's speaking soothing words, and the boy wonders if his fortunes are about to turn. He's too much of a realist (and far too broken) to truly hope, but he allows himself to wonder – just for a moment.
She slips him into a place where something cool presses against his sides, and it is nice and cold. He can't see it, but he's against the silky lining in the interior of the purse. The cool, silky material is heaven on his burned sides, and he is as content as a burn victim can be to wait there until he meets whatever fate awaits him next.
To his surprise, he is awakened with a jolt. Perhaps he'd been sleeping, or perhaps he'd finally felt relaxed enough that endorphins and adrenaline (or whatever their substitute is in a plastic horse, or horse shaped object) had finally ebbed away and allowed him to succumb to his injuries and pass out. But now he is moving, and he is instantly worried again. He can still feel the cooling pressure on the sides of his body, and nothing immediately near him is moving- it's as though he is within some kind of case, and the entire case is being moved and lifted. He is immediately concerned about this new development – dimly he hears strange noises, footsteps on a floor, the creaking of a door, far-off night noises that remind him too much of home. He hears it all as though it is in another world, and it might as well be considering how impossible it is for him to reach it.
A door creaks again, and he hears the voice from before (or at least, he thinks it's the voice from before. He can't be entirely sure anymore). "Lena?" he feels a quick thump, and then the container around him stops moving. "Mama!" this voice is different, but it's still not Nerissa's (or at least, he's pretty confident it's not. "Mama, I've got dinner ready. I made your favorite. And I didn't have to buy a single thing to make it either." No, definitely not Nerissa. Far off in the distance, something metallic clatters. If Erebor had been able to smell, he might pick up the aroma of a hearty stew. Heavy on the spices, less heavy on the vegetables, and light on too-expensive meat, but made with such care and love that it can't help but warm the bones. "Oh, it smells wonderful. Thank you, sweetheart."
Their voices drift into a quiet, relaxing mumble, and Erebor drifts back into unconsciousness.
He awakens to find a blessed coldness running across his skin. It is punctuated by sharp rubbing, and it takes him only a moment to realize that he's being washed. It takes him slightly longer to realize that he's being talked to as he is being washed. "Poor thing. But don't you worry, we'll get you fixed up." the tones are soothing, and he realizes he can hear better than he could before. Fixed up…was she going to heal him somehow? Could he even be healed? What had even happened to him? How damaged was he? He hadn't been able to move since he'd felt as though his flesh was being seared from his bones, and he hadn't been able to see since being dumped into the infernal contraption. Numbed and afire as his nerves are, it's really impossible for him to gauge the damage.
Of course, the kindly housekeeper can see how ruined this poor horse toy had been. She doesn't know how it had happened, but the poor thing had clearly been melted. It is still vaguely horse-shaped, but the legs are warped, the ears are more lumps than points, and it no longer has its eyes. Its mane and tail are entirely gone. All detailing – the feathering around the hooves, the nostrils, the mouth – have all melted away. And strangest of all, it seems to have scratches and pinpricks all over it. They aren't sharp anymore, so she assumes that the scratching and pinpricking must have happened before the melting. Even deformed, it's still clear that it was once a pony, and the woman sighs gently.
The door creaks open, and Petunia comes in, still wearing her work clothes. "Petunia, she greets, her voice soft, turning off the water that she had been using to gently clean the scarred pony. It doesn't take a mother's intuition to see that the girl has had a hard day. "Oh mom." Petunia replies, sitting down on a bench across the craft room. "It was awful. She accidentally ruined another toy by boiling it – boiling it! – and then blamed me and threw a tantrum." Petunia buries her head in her hands, overcome with stress. The kindly housekeeper sets the pony down on the counter and embraces her daughter. "I'm sorry dear."
The hold each other for a moment, and when they break the embrace, the housekeeper smiles gently. "How would you like to help me fix up that toy so we can give it to your sister?" Petunia looks at her for a moment in surprise, and then smiles widely – the first time she's smiled today. "Mom, I'd love to." The older woman picks up the pony again, her rough hands still gentle, and sets her down next to her older daughter. "That's good, because I'm afraid we might have our work cut out for us with this one. I re-shaped her ears a little bit and scrubbed off all the loose bits from those little pinpricks, but she's still got a lot of damage."
Erebor is not surprised to hear that his ears had been damaged, and that his ears had been fixed. That would explain why everything had sounded muffled before, and why it was so much clearer now. "It looks like she's still got some of her pretty color. What a lovely shade of red. She used to have her mane and tail navy blue and dark green." He recognizes the girl's voice from that wretched tea party, but she hadn't been the one to harm him there. She hadn't stopped it, but he didn't hold her inaction against her.
"None of these scratches and holes look too terribly deep, but I'd like to get them filled. Do you think nail polish would work? There is silence for a moment. "Yeah, nail polish, let that dry, and then acrylic sealant?" There is the sound of footsteps and movement, and a few moments later Erebor feels something cool against his skin. He wonders if perhaps this "nail polish" is some kind of advanced wound salve. Wherever it touches, the fire in his nerves seems to dull just a little bit. "There we go." the older voice coos soothingly to him. "Looking a lot better. Glad those cuts and such weren't too deep or I think that might not've worked."
"Let's see about the mane and tail while that dries. It looks like some of the original plastic mane and tail got melted in there, so I don't think we can just replace it. I was thinking we could braid yarn and glue it down?" He can feel gentle fingers touching along his crest and his haunches. How had he not noticed his lack of mane or tail? "I think that's a lovely idea Petunia. We could even mix the colors of yarn, that'd look nice." He hears them move away, hears their hushed voices interspersed with the scratching, thumping sounds of different items being shifted around as they search for what they're looking for. "That's very close to the original navy." Petunia comments at one point. The shifting sounds continue. "Oh, and that's quite like the dark green. Let's use those two."
The next few minutes pass in a gentle hum of voices. The two women speak gently to each other, bumping the table every so often, but generally not disturbing Erebor. After a bit, he hears footsteps approaching again, and feels a gentle touch against his shoulder. "Looks like the polish is dry, mom." He feels himself handed over to the housekeeper with her callouses. She presses gently on several injured spots, which now feel more like pressing on a bruise than the extreme fire he'd felt before. "Mm. I wonder if we should sand her down a bit, make sure that she's all nice and smooth?" The two are quiet for a moment. "Probably a good idea. But not too much or anything. Just to even the polish out."
Erebor does not like the idea of sandpaper. The last thing he needs is more aggravation, and just when he was starting to heal. But he knows by now that the people cannot hear him, that he cannot move, and that there is nothing to be done but to stay where he is and hope against hope for the best.
The sandpaper is quick and careful, and although it sets his skin on fire everywhere they use it, he's felt so much worse since he landed in this strange, impossible place. And once they're done, they rinse him with the cool water again, soothing his skin and calming the nerves once more.
"It looks like between the boiling and the sandpaper most of the gloss is off of her coat. Nothing a coat of sealant won't fix though." He hears the crinkle of a dropcloth being unrolled, and then a strange hiss. A mist surrounds him, but it is cooling and lovely. It seems to soothe his skin wherever it settles, almost as though it is restoring what had been scalded and singed away. They turn him this way and that, making sure that the mist can cover every inch of his mangled body.
And when the mist settles, he feels almost whole again.
"Now we just need her mane, her tail, and her eyes." Petunia's voice is gentle. Erebor wonders whether anyone in this world knows that horses can be male – a thought that speaks volumes about his recovery. "And a little bit else, I think." he can hear the smile in the older woman's voice. "I'm thinking we can give her some clothes. Lena would love that, don't you think? And I've got some scraps left over from the last dress I made her." One of the women laughs in delight. He cannot tell which. "That's a great idea! I wonder…do you think we could give her wings? You know how Lena loves the butterflies and birds." Her mother doesn't hesitate. "I think that's a lovely idea. Why don't you work on the wings while I work on the rest of her body?"
He hears a set of footsteps walk away and feels the gentle hands on him once more. He notices that the mist seems to have not just soothed, but healed as well. The surface numbness seems to be gone, and being touched isn't painful. He's not completely as he was before the damage, but he feels as though he can function again.
"All right lovely girl, let's see if we can't get you seeing again." before he can think to object that he is in fact not a lovely girl, he feels a strange tickle on his face, as though someone is gently running a feather across the space where his eyes should be. It tickles for a few moments and then –
He can see. It's blurry, but he can see.
The feather returns, and after a short period of additional tickling, the blurriness is gone and he can see just as well as he'd ever seen before. He can see the kindly face of the housekeeper with the rough hands, smiling down at him. He can see Petunia across the room, her face a mask of concentration as she bends over something that glitters vaguely in the light. He can see the darkened craft room, lit by many small lamps, but windowless and cold besides – a basement room, he figures. The room is tidy, but small.
His other eye is soon restored in the same way. The housekeeper takes one braid of navy with a streak of green and glues it in place along his crest, then takes another longer braid and glues it into place where his tail should be. By this time, Petunia has joined her mother, looking over the housekeeper's shoulder at Erebor. "She looks so good. Lena is going to love her." The younger woman half-whispers with a smile. Wordlessly, she hands her mother the project she'd been working on.
It is a glorious little harness, complete with a delicate set of wings. It's obviously homemade; the wings don't exactly match, and the stitching is exposed and uneven in places. But when the housekeeper slips it over Erebor's body, he finds it surprisingly comfortable. There is a strap that passes around his barrel like a girth, tying underneath. There is another that connects to that one at a right angle, passing around his front across his chest, and around his back, beneath his tail. Attached to the girth-like strap, right at the withers, are the wings themselves. They are made from pantyhose covered with glitter, stretched over pipe cleaners molded in an approximation of wings. They're pretty, but they're very clearly homespun. The wings are green, while the rest of the harness is navy, almost matching his mane and tail but not quite.
The two women step back and look at him, examining their work. The housekeeper smiles and turns to her older daughter. "Not bad, considering how she looked before. You can still see some of the damage, but I think Lena will love her." She pauses for a moment, still looking at her older daughter. "We'll give Lena her pony tomorrow before work. Now, it's quite late. Let's get to bed." The younger woman nods, and the two tidy up, turn off the lights, and leave the room.
For the first time in more than a day, Erebor can move – and yet, finding himself in a place that finally feels safe, all he wants to do is rest. Sleep comes easily.
The next morning, Erebor awakes to footsteps and the creak of the door opening. The two women from the night before enter the room, both of them wearing the maid's uniform that he'd first seen Petunia wear the day of the disastrous tea party. The housekeeper picks him up, but places him firmly in Petunia's hands, smiling at her older daughter before they start up the stairs. As they walk, Erebor drinks in the sight of the house with greedy eyes – now that he can see again, he's eager to see everything. The cottage is tidy but small, and everything in it is threadbare and worn. Obviously clean and well cared for, but a hand-me-down, or something that's been used beyond its natural useful life.
"Lena, we've got a surprise for you." the kindly housekeeper says. Petunia's gentle hands move Erebor from behind her back to in front of her chest, where Lena can easily see him. "She's all yours." He can hear the smile in Petunia's voice.
Lena, who had been standing at the stove, is staring at Erebor in disbelief. "For…me?" She obviously can't believe it. "But…she looks so expensive…how did you…" the girl's mother moves forward, taking Lena's hands in her own and kissing the girl atop her head. "Don't you worry. She's a gift." Petunia walks forward, pressing Erebor into her sister's disbelieving embrace. The three of them hug, and when they break apart, Lena's face is radiant and smiling. "I can't believe it! She's so beautiful! She looks just like a butterfly, or, a fairy!" even when excited, her voice is still quiet and sweet. And as she holds Erebor, she holds him as though he's a treasure, delicately and carefully cradling him as though she's aware that he can feel. "Oh, thank you both! I've got the most wonderful mother and sister in the world!"
She sets him down on the counter, careful not to jar him, and hugs both of them again. After that, she returns to Erebor on the counter, moving him carefully into a corner so he's out of harm's way as they make breakfast. "I have to make sure they get all set for work now, but I promise we'll play today once I finish my chores. I'm sorry…it must be boring just sitting there. But I'll be back soon!" she whispers to him gently, before bouncing off to help finish breakfast, pack lunches and all the other assorted duties that need to happen in a house each morning.
It is nearly lunchtime before she is able to return to him. He sees her now and then, sweeping, tidying, doing some schoolwork, mending clothing – and always whistling, always cheery. When she returns for him, she apologizes to him for taking so long. "I'm so sorry, I hope you weren't too terribly bored all alone over here." she pets him gently, running her hand along his spine (or where his spine would be, he's not at all sure how bones work in this form) and he finds the sensation quite enjoyable. "I was thinking we could go down into the cellar and play imagination. What do you think?" She waits, as though listening for his response, and when there is only silence she laughs. "It's okay, you don't have to talk. Let's try playing imagination – if you don't like it, we can always do something else."
They spend hours down there in the cellar, playing in a world made mostly from Lena's imagination. In her world, the carrots in the root cellar are trees, and the potatoes are rocks. Some boxes become a castle, and the small, cold rocks on the earthen floor become a river. She makes Erebor his very own castle, naming him the princess. But unlike the world Nerissa created, Lena's world is perfectly peaceful. There are no tournaments and no tea parties here. Erebor spends the morning presiding over plans for a springtime festival, to be run primarily by the rabbits.
The leader of the rabbits is Lena's oldest (and only other) toy, a rabbit by the name of Mr. Fluffy. Mr. Fluffy is handmade, understuffed, ancient and threadbare with two mismatched button eyes and patchwork spots where he's been repaired, but in the best of condition (all things considered). He is the style of rabbit that looks more humanoid than rabbitlike, with two long legs, a humanesque torso, and a human head and eyes – but long, fluffy rabbit ears. He has many rabbit friends, who are made of pieces of stuffing that have slipped out from Mr. Fluffy himself over the years, and then been repurposed after Lena has sewed him up herself. Lena explains this all to Erebor when she introduces him to Mr. Fluffy. "And this is Mr. Fluffy, king of all the rabbits. He's my oldest friend. My mom made him for me so long ago I can't even remember." her voice is gentle, softened by the memory. "Sometimes Mr. Fluffy gets a little sick, and needs to be stitched together again. But I've gotten pretty good at fixing him on my own. I just hate to bother mother or Petunia about it – they already work so hard." she looks down at the dirt for a moment, her voice sad. When she looks back up, she is smiling and cheery again. "But we've managed, haven't we Mr. Fluffy?" she pats him gently on the head. "And every time you do get hurt, we get a new rabbit friend!" The pieces of stuffing that escape from Mr. Fluffy are white and fluffy themselves, just like rabbits should be, and with her imagination that’s more than enough.
Looking to Erebor, she gasps suddenly and covers her mouth with her hands. "Oh my goodness, I never asked you what your name was!" You'd think she'd done something truly wrong. "I'm terribly sorry. Will you tell me now?" she leans down, as though expecting to get an answer. And although Erebor knows she won't hear him, because the humans don't hear him, he speaks anyway. "Erebor. I'm Erebor." She smiles and sits back up. "Ellie!" she says triumphantly. It's close enough that he wonders if maybe she did hear him, just a little bit. "Ellie. That's a lovely name. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ellie." She smiles gently, and although they're sitting on the floor, bows to him as much as she can. "Mr. Fluffy says so too."
And so they continue on through the afternoon. The rabbits explain to Mr. Fluffy and Miss Ellie what they intend to do for the festival. As they describe it, Lena makes it happen as much as she can using the items from the cellar – dried herbs for the garlands of flowers they're going to set out, canned jams and jellies for the tables and the chairs. "But," she explains, speaking for one of the fluff-balls that is actually a rabbit, "The best part of all is going to be the singing and the games." She smiles. "There will be so many of them. We'll have a maypole, and we'll have a campfire. There will be tag, and hide and seek, and all the children of the realm will be able to play together. It'll be marvelous, you'll see."
Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimes, and Lena gasps and looks toward the stairs. "Oh my gosh! Mom will be home soon! I need to get dinner ready!" She looks back to the assembled toys (and non-toy things standing in as toys). "Mr. Fluffy, it's not good for you to go up to the kitchen. Can you wait down here for me? I'll come get you before bedtime, I promise." she kisses him gently on the top of his head. "Ellie, would you like to come help me cook dinner?" she picks him up gently, holding him at eye level and smiling. "Don't worry, I'll make sure you don't get hurt." Still cradling him gently in both hands, careful not to so much as graze his wings, she carries him up the stairs back into the small kitchen.
She places him on the kitchen table, in a spot that allows him to watch her as she works. The table is tucked into the far corner of the room, with walls to the "north" and "west side", the stove and cooking area off to the "east" side, and a heavier, exterior type door (which he assumes goes to the outside of the house) on the "south" side. He figures this table must have been where he was set down the night before.
From his current position he can see almost the entirety of the kitchen, including her and the door. She talks to him excitedly as she warms up the soup from the day before. They don't have a microwave, she tells him, but their stove works just fine most of the time. You just have to talk to it nicely, and it'll do right for you. Having seen what Nerissa has, and now seeing what Lena and her family have, Erebor begins to understand a concept that is usually foreign to horses: the idea of richness and poverty. He finds himself wishing desperately that he could take everything that Nerissa had and give it to Lena. He is certain it would be better for the toys in Nerissa's toybox – look what Lena's mother and sister had been able to do with him, and he'd been more badly damaged than any of them. Playtime with Lena was pleasant, even for Erebor, who is not a toy at heart and doesn't value playtime like the rest of them. With Lena, no toy need be afraid. And perhaps if Nerissa were suddenly to have less, or to have nothing, she'd start to appreciate-
The exterior door bursts open, and Lena turns around "Mother, you're-"WHERE IS PETUNIA?! The voice is not her mother's. The voice is not her sister's. The color immediately drains from Lena's face and she seems to shrink into herself. Erebor has seen it before – it's exactly how Samaine had behaved when confronted with danger. Exactly how Samaine had behaved when confronted with-
"Nerissa." Lena's voice is small, meek, mousy. Erebor feels panic rise in his throat, both for himself and for Lena – what happens if Nerissa sees him? Surely she'll recognize him, and he does not want to be taken away from Lena. "I ASKED YOU A QUESTION." Nerissa sighs theatrically. "Ugh, you're so thick. Honestly I don't know how you can even do anything." She is casually cruel, and Erebor can see how it stings his new friend. "Let's try again. Where. Is. Your. Sister." she accentuates each word as though Lena were hard of hearing, or found it difficult to understand. "I..I…She's up at the house somewhere. She hasn't, hasn't been here all day." Lena's voice grows quieter still. Nerissa just sighs in exasperation "I'm sorry." Lena apologizes, despite having done nothing wrong. Erebor wishes he were able to trample Nerissa then and there. "Whatever. Dummy." Nerissa harumps, turning to go. And Erebor thinks that perhaps he's made it, perhaps her fury has made her so focused on finding her nanny Petunia that she didn't even notice. But he isn't so lucky.
He isn't so lucky because as she turns, Nerissa catches sight of him on the table.
He hopes she doesn't recognize him, but the look in her eyes tells him that hope is futile.
The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?- E.A.P.
All is still as Wichita is consumed by the nothingness that is now her head. Have I died? She thinks, laying or existing against the sea of garbage. Did she exist even? She wasn’t sure, she felt like nothing and something all at the very same time. The pain was gone, for that much she was grateful. Her sense of touch seemed to have left her, the moment her body had separated from her head.
A blinding light greets one chocolate painted eye, her world awash in brilliant fluorescence. She had died, she was sure now. The voice that greats her lonely ear is sweet, soft, soothing. She is filled with a sense of contentment. “Oh no. Another one. Poor dear” The voice frets, as Wichita’s sight slowly returns. At first it is blurred, but she makes out a hand, a large hand she is relieved to note. Not a child’s. This hand is different, though it is rough, it is warm, and brown. No, not just brown, it’s like coffee and cream, running gently along her dial.
It lifts her, though she has no sense of the movement, only a sole eye to discern the occurrence. “She really did a number on you, huh, little one? I’ll see what I can do to put you back together. Or…well, barring that, at least turn you into something beautiful again.” The yellow head (that was once a mare) watches as her body is removed from the bin as well, they both are sent tumbling into a rather large purse. Wichita wonders, What did that woman mean, put me back together? Like many things, Wichita was sure she couldn’t be put back together, and if she could would she want to be? She remembered the scene in the bedroom, the girl and the dog pulling her apart. Her tail gone, probably stuck somewhere in the bowels of the golden animal now. No mane either, and only the one eye and ear. Her body had been mangled by puncture wounds, so many puncture wounds. A leg was half gone, how could that be fixed? Wichita didn’t know. What she did know was, she was in a purse, with her bodice, clanging around the bottom with the change. She could hear its soft clank clink clank as it made contact with its copper brothers. She wasn’t sure the length of the journey, time meant very little in limbo, but it didn’t seem horribly long. Not like laying in the waste bin, time seeming to stretch eons as she laid in the dark, nothing but her thoughts.
A key meets a lock. A door swings open, tapping lightly against the wall on the other side. “Lena, Mija, I’m home!” Again the woman speaks, Wichita wonders to who. Lena? Who’s that? She must admit she was worried, the sound of footsteps like ice against her conscious. “Mama,” a child’s voice dances in her ear, a sweet tone. Entirely different to the loud cacophony of shrieks and hollers that the other had presented. “I’m so glad your back mama, I missed you.” The little girl pulls her mother in for an embrace. The yellow mare only knew this because the sides of the purse caved in, the little light filtering through the top had momentarily ceased. “I missed you too Mija,” the woman says in a loving tone “I have brought you something.” More movement before the purse is set on a hard surface, ever so gently, much to Wichita’s surprise. The worn hands reach in, carefully pulling both her and her body from its contents before setting them both on a table top.
A worn face looks humbly down at her, the woman’s. Her years etched in lines, around her eyes, at the corners of her mouth. Dark pools of earth look down at her, thoughtful, a bun of dark brown hair sits atop her head. Just to the side, peering ever so innocently is a young girl. Barely older than the other child, perhaps 10? Her skin is the same coffee and cream pigments, her eyes a green tinted hazel. Waves of a lighter brown fall in curtains around her face, and past her shoulders. A cowlick evident at her crown. Her smile is soft, shy, lacking in teeth as she seems unsure whether or not to commit to it. “Oh mama,” she whispers, “what happened to her?” The child runs a finger over her missing ear. “I’m not sure Mija, but how about I fix her up, hmm? Like the others?” her mother asks gently. Wichita can see very little around her, but she does catch a glimpse of paint, different yarns, tubs of what appear to be playdoh. This was some sort of, arts and crafts table, the thought enters her mind unknown from where.
“What shall we make?” the mother places her hands on the table. An old gold ring sits on her left ring finger, they were otherwise unadorned. Lena, the little girl, turns and heads off excitedly to another room. She returns with a well-worn book, its pages yellow and its spine peeling. She flips through the delicate pages with care, before she finds whatever it is she was looking for. She shows her mother, “How about this one mama?” she asks gently, as though she does not want to ask too much. Her mother’s dark but gentle eyes float from the picture to the table, taking inventory of all that is there. “Oh yes, Mija, that is a wonderful idea.” She runs her rough hands gently along her daughter’s cheek, “now let’s have some supper before I begin. I should have her done before the weekend is over.”
Wichita is left again, for a time. She hears the clinking of pots and pans coming from what she guesses is the kitchen. Voices, as the two say a grace, laughter when they share their days. How very different this small family was, the little pony wondered if she was even on the same planet. Had she truly died and gone to the other place? Soon though the woman returns, her child had been put to bed with words of ‘good night and sweet dreams.’ A pair of plain wire rimmed glasses sit crookedly on her nose, threatening to slide down. She reaches to the side and turns on a small lamp, adjusting it until it hangs just right. “Ah, sweet Caballo, we’ll have you fixed up soon.” She lends reassurance to the tiny plastic toy, a genuine care in her voice. The book is left open somewhere on the desk, but with just one eye Wichita has no hope of seeing it. Her nimble fingers first pick up Wichita’s mangled body, a tut tut tut escaping her pursed lips as she turns the object over in her hands. There wasn’t much to save really, if anything at all, and she picks up an item out of Wichita’s line of vision. A single blade sits on the end of a stick, looking much like a scalpel, exacto knife, her thoughts somehow provide. The tiny knife slices through her chassis like butter, separating the intact forelegs (just past the shoulders) from the pock marked and missing hind end. With great satisfaction the pony felt nothing, not a single ache ravaged her body as its deformities were cut away. From somewhere else another thing is retrieved, and the mare is confused to see the body of a lion. The front legs were a melted mess, though the golden plastic was untouched at the rear, the sinewy tail curving before it ended in a tassel of black hair. From this she removes the warped front legs, much like she had with Wichita’s own body, the blade cutting through with ease.
The two halves are about the same size, and the little mare watches through her solemn eye, as the two are affixed together with some sort of, glue is it? The two pieces melded together, a soft pastel yellow at the front ending with the golden form of the lion. The woman places these aside before continuing her work. “There, there caballo, now to let it dry, you’ll see.” The woman’s espresso hands, reach into what Wichita thought were playdoh buckets, however on closer inspection she learned it was in fact polymer clay. It is then that the pony’s head is lifted, turned this way and that, before the knife is again used to remove her other ear. What? I need those to hear, Wichita thought, her words once again nothing more than thoughts in her own head. She is now not only half- blind, but to complete her disabilities she is deaf as well. Perfect, she thinks rather saucily. A smile spreads on the woman’s face, she has been pinching and rolling very small pieces of clay and is pleased with the results. She stages the pieces atop Wichita’s head to see what they will look like, and the mare is filled with realization. Ooohh, ears! She says happily. However, these were not the same ears, they were small, rounded. Wichita wondered why the woman would pick these ears for her, they didn’t look like pony ears, not like her ears. The ears are removed and placed back on the table, as the woman begins to remove what is left of her mane.
She hums a tune, a slow almost sad song, as she goes, making short work of her task. Again, Wichita was laid down but now she took quite an interest in what exactly was being done. This was an odd way to fix a pony. A pair of wings, with soft brown feathers were lain out, with special care to smooth the feathers. Things are getting really weird around here, she thought. After this was done her body was again grasped, the glue having dried, and was given a coat of paint. More so, a soft blending of colors to the midsection, where there had been such an odd contrast. Now the pale yellow met with the golden tone smoothly, instead of an abrupt change. To this the wings were added, with such care Wichita was under the impression that they may break, and while they were drying her only eye was removed. Blind, deaf, what a maddening state to be in. What is goin’ on? Hello? Ma’am I really do need those eyes, shouts and questions, just for the sake of shouts and questions.
Soft brush strokes meet her head, and slowly, slowly they become an eye. A new eye, one with which Wichita looked up through a magnifying glass. The ladies own worn and wrinkled eyes, staring back at her. A look of concentration filled them, her tongue poking out just so from her mouth. That way that they do when one is truly in the ‘zone.’ She was glad that at the end of this, she had two eyes, and not just one. Two brand new eyes, hot dog! Her little voice fluttered aimlessly inside her empty cranium. Her ears were molded to her head, the thinnest layer surrounding her jaw line, and she was at last lain to rest for the night. “Buenas noches, caballo.” Said the woman, turning off the light with a click. She touched a picture, on the way out of the room. The one with the man Wichita had not seen at all today. Where was he at anyways , she thought, as she rested in the darkness. Eyes closed as she slipped into sleep, dreams of flying….
The housekeeper returned once again late that next morning, only to begin with sanding the excess clay from her head. Gentle fingers running along the area until it was smooth and cohesive. The last thing to be done was shocks of raven colored hair, placed atop her skull. The locks were smooth, and straight as a board, Lena’s mother cut them into blunt straight edges. Lastly, she returned Wichita’s head to her body with a deft and practiced hand, the little mare overwhelmed as she once again could feel. Her new body troubled her not, she was pleased to discover. It merely felt rather foreign. She still didn’t know quite what to expect should she ever see her own reflection. The woman tugged on her wings a bit, merely making sure everything had adhered, before calling her daughter. “Mija, come here I’ve finished!” the request was soon met, a very excited round face entering the room. “Oh mama! She’s beautiful, just like the picture.” She was passed from worn hands, to soft gentle ones. The child did not squeeze her too tight, she did not pull at her hair, or throw her around. “Thank you Lena baby. “ Her mother responded, giving the child a kiss atop her head before rising from her stool. “Now you go and enjoy her sweetheart, I have a few chores to do” she smiled, before heading away.
“Look, this is you.” Lena says pulling the worn book ever closer. The strangest picture adorned the yellowing paper, a creature she had never seen. A mirror is brought to her face, the child smiling broadly. “See, just like the picture. Isn’t mama wonderful?” she asks the pony as if waiting for a response. Wichita doesn’t know if this is wonderful, not yet at least. The reflection that stares back at her is an entirely new toy. Her brown eyes have been repainted to a sparkling blue, lined with a cat’s eye and thick lashes, her eyes smoldering against her will. Her new ears she discovered, had been that of a cat, rounded at the ends and rather small compared to her old ones. She had a medium length black mane, with bangs and she was attached to a new lion winged frame. “It’s a Sphinx.” Lena says rather studiously, tapping her unpainted finger against the parchment. “You’re a bit different,” she admits “but that’s okay. That just means your special.” She presses her button nose to Wichita’s maw, rubbing them together affectionately. “Let’s go play now okay?” she says once again a question Wichita could not answer. As they made their way to Lena’s room the girl chattered away. “Sphinx’s guard temples, so you can guard the castle for me. Oh, and ask them riddles before they can pass okay?” as though to make sure Wichita understood her request. She was carried so carefully across the house, and taken into what could only be Lena’s room. It was modest, a homemade quilt lay across the made bed, a few stuffed animals (perhaps those most treasured) were propped up by the pillows. Books were held on a painted blue shelf, some more worn that others, the piece leaning if just a smidge to the right. There were no clothes laying around off their hangers, no sweets spilled or spread across any surface. Even Lena herself was humble, she finally took a moment to notice. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, down a simple red t-shirt, and a pair of blue jeans completed the look. Her feet were bare as she padded across the tile floors.
“Hey guys,” the girl called to her toys, as if they often spent the afternoon chatting away. “This is the Sphinx, remember I told you about her last night?” she paused as though coming up with their responses all in her head. “She’s going to guard the castle, and ask riddles. AAannnd,” she exaggerated “if you guess the riddle you get to be a knight.” Wichita was placed on a drawbridge, looking out into the room and over the faces of the other toys. One was a dinosaur, its wings repaired with a shiny fabric that clashed terribly with its green skin. There was a patchwork stuffed elephant, more patches than anything else really she discerned. A man in fatigues was held up by a wooden leg, his hair tied back in a ponytail. Clay also seemed to be used with this repair, a black eye patch covered his right eye, and atop his shoulder perched a very well made parrot. No one was tossed around, or cut up, or tortured in this game. Lena’s small hands handled each gently, careful to not fuss some of their more delicate parts. Wichita was taken then, making to pace the drawbridge back and forth back and forth. “Who dares answer my riddles?” The child spoke for her “Who is brave, and strong and worthy of knighthood.” The girl giggles at her own words, making Wichita sound rather confident and in charge. Something she had never been. “I do, Mr. Tusks at your service, oh beautiful Sphinx.” the elephant was made to bow before her. Lena cleared her throat before returning to Wichita’s ‘voice’. “Tell me, oh, Mr.Tusks. At night they come without being fetched, and by day they are lost without being stolen.”Oh, Wichita thinks, that’s a tough one. You see, she herself did not really know the answers, so it was just as much a riddle to her as anyone. The elephant is made to think, tapping an arm against his forehead. “The answer is: Stars” he responds and bows. “That is correct” the girl makes her say. Stars? Oh! Stars yes that does make sense, the pony, or sphinx rather, tells herself. She makes him dance, a jubilant little jig, upon learning he is correct. He is then permitted into the castle. Next is the Pterodactyl, whom is a lady believe it or not, and she is also permitted into the castle after having solved a riddle. Last but not least, is the pirate Lt. Longbeard he has been called, but he fails to guess his riddle. Instead he answers with a most funny joke himself, sending them all (mostly Lena) into a fit of giggles.
“Lena, come here.” The child’s mother calls from another room, and the gentle girl leaves, answering her mother’s call most promptly. Upon her absence, the pony (now Sphinx) finds she can once again move. She flexes her limbs first, stretching her new claw tipped legs in wonder. Bringing them close to her face, a more thorough examination. Next she moves her wings, just slightly, afraid of the awkward appendages. They move, rather seamlessly, flexing as though she had had them always. Well almost, she thinks, after managing to poke herself in the eye with one of them. Curiously she steps towards the green dinosaur, and it awakens with a sqwaaaak . “So sorry, but can you help me please. See, I’ve never had wings before and- I- well, how do they work exactly?” The creature clacks her beak nodding, “Ah yes, welcome, welcome. What were you before my dear hmm?” it asks. “I was a pony before, just a pony.” She responds delicately the subject still rather bizarre to her. “Oh a pony you say? Well, you must have gotten roughed up a good bit, yes indeed.” Fluttering its wings, as it begins to amble about, a bit of a waddle to its gait. “Not me see, just a couple of torn wings. Lena’s mom fixed me right up though, and now I have the prettiest wings on the block.” She swishes them about, before realizing what she had just said. “I mean yours are lovely too dear, I didn’t mean to insult.” “No ,no” Wichita cuts in ”yers are right nice ma’am.” she assures her with a quick word. They have an impromptu flying lesson, Tessa (as Wichita learns her name) is a very informative and patient teacher. During the lesson, Wichita wakes each toy, and the atmosphere is warm and inviting. The elephant offers words of encouragement, with each failed attempt, celebrating her triumphs with his best dances. The soldier or is he a pirate lends his own words of encouragement though Wichita can’t decipher most of them, he spoke as if he had a pint too much rum. No one hurts her though, perhaps because they are happy here. She thinks she could be happy too, but she missed her friends. She wondered if they would still like her like this, this Frankenstein body that made her something else. A fairytale creature from a book.
Their festivities end as the door opens and Lena re- enters the room. “Well guys, momma says she needs me to tend the garden. We will have to finish our game later,“ she announces as she digs in a drawer. She slips a worn pair of garden gloves over her too small hands, and a straw sun hat covers her head. “You can come with me though” she scoops Wichita up and heads out the door. The afternoon sun is warm, as Wichita rests watching Lena from her place beneath a tomato plant. The girl works quietly, and with intent, not a tear or a frown from the labor. This girl is good Wichita thinks, she could live in the Gates if she wanted. The girls mother too, she adds but she doesn’t linger on pipe dreams. A bone chilling sight passes her vision, and conveniently she is already frozen in place. Rounding the corner, is Nerissa, her eyes wide and full of hate as they rest on Wichita’s familiar dial.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing doubting… -E.A.P.
The cupboard opens, letting a thin stream of light rain down from above. Syl closes her eyes, preparing herself for the garbage that she’s sure will follow. Perhaps she will be joined by more expired food, or even another damaged toy. What a depressing end.
But instead of garbage, she feels a rough hand close about the pieces of her body. A soft and kindly voice filters down into her ears. “Oh, no. Another one. Poor dear.” The hand lifts her gently, bringing her out into the light of the kitchen. A pair of watery hazel eyes peer in at her. “She really did a number on you, huh, little one? I’ll see what I can do to put you back together. Or … well, barring that, at least turn you into something beautiful again.” The words sound promising, but Syl can’t bring herself to hope any more. She’s horribly damaged and broken - her ear snipped, her head off, her body chewed and squashed, and her legs cracked and sticking out at odd angles. Surely she is beyond fixing. Why hasn’t she woken up out of this nightmare yet?
The person with the watery eyes slips her into a bag, where she remains for what seems like hours. The person bustles around, bumping the bag every once in a while, and sending shocks of pain through Syl’s shattered body. Once again she finds herself wishing for death.
Eventually, finally, the hand returns and scoops her pieces out of the bag. It sets her down on a wooden table and disappears. Syl simply lies there and waits - what’s the point of even trying any more?
After a few moments, the person returns to the room and begins bustling around, collecting items and placing them on the table beside her. Syl opens her eyes to try to catch a glimpse of the person. It’s a middle-aged woman with greying brown hair and a very exhausted air about her. If Syl had been able to feel anything besides pain, she probably would have felt a little sympathetic.
The woman suddenly turns back to Syl and picks her up her body, leaving her head on the table. “Now lets see what we can do.” The hazel eyes peer in close, studying. “Hmmm probably nothing I can do about the squashing.” She turns Syl upside down, face still close. “But the legs and the paint …” Her eyes travel to Syl’s head back on the table and apparently notices the bandaid, which she rips off. Syl’s ear burns in pain. “A little bit of paint on that …” She’s clearly talking to herself more than anyone else, trying to figure out the puzzle that is Syl’s broken body. “The head’s going to be a challenge though.” The pink mouth twists in thought. “Okay, lets give this a try.”
She places Syl’s body next to her head and sets about mixing together something in a silver bowl. Syl would have grimaced if she could - it smells foul. The lady hums as she mixes, a small smile on her lips. Syl has the feeling that this is something she’s done before. After a few minutes, the woman pulls out a little putty knife, puts some of the mixture on it, and picks up Syl’s body. She smooths the mixture on the stub of Syl’s neck. It’s an odd sensation. Syl has to wonder how she’s even feeling it when her head is no longer attached. Then, the woman picks up Syl’s head and crams it on. She works quickly - first making sure that the seams on Syl’s neck match up, then pressing the two pieces together with some force. “Thank god this dries quickly.” Next, she turns Syl over to look at her legs. “Hmmmmm …” She dabs a little bit of the mixture on one of the breaks with a q-tip, then suddenly grabs the leg and wrenches it.
Everything is pain. Syl’s leg burns and she tries to let out an almighty scream. But her mouth of course, is still frozen. The pain ebbs a little and the woman dabs the mixture on the cracks in her other three legs. Then, in quick succession, she wrenches them into place as well. Syl almost blacks out from the pain.
When she regains her senses, the woman is still holding her. “Pretty good if I don’t say so myself!” Then she sets Syl down, pushes the silver bowl, putty knife and q-tips away and begins fiddling with a bottle and a tiny, thin paintbrush. She dibs the paintbrush in the bottle and begins dabbing all over Syl’s body, covering the seams from the repairs and all of the little dings, scratches and toothmarks from her day with Nerissa. The purple paint is a almost an exact match to the amethyst purple of Syl’s body - the woman has a good eye. Then when she’s done, the woman stands back to admire her handiwork. “There! Almost as good as new!” She grins and wipes off her hands with a dirty rag. “Lena is going to love you! But we’ll have to wait until morning.” Then she turns out the light and walks out of the room. Syl waits, unmoving, on the table all night. There’s no point in trying to escape - where would she even go? And besides, the woman at least seems friendly.
When morning finally comes, the woman returns and collects Syl. She brings her out into the kitchen (so much smaller than in the other house) and places her in the waiting hands of a little girl. Syl’s heart sinks immediately. Not another child!
“Ohhhhh …” The girl exhales in wonder. “Mummy she’s beautiful.” She peers in at Syl with pale hazel eyes that are so similar to her mother’s. Her hair, is long, straight and brown. The mother smiles and places a gentle hand on top of the girl’s head. “She was a little worse for wear after Miss Nerissa was done with her, but I think she’s in good shape now. So, what do you think Lena?” The girl’s eyes are glowing and she looks up at her mother with a giant smile. “I love her! Thank you Mummy!” The woman’s smile widens, but she takes a step back. “Now, go play! I need to get to work. But make sure Miss Nerissa doesn’t see you with that. You know what happened last time …” The girl nods sadly, and with that, her mother turns and walks out the door.
Lena lifts Syl up to her eyes, peering at the patchwork pony with an intensity that is far different than Nerissa’s had been. “I’m going to call you Violet.” Syl’s heart sinks even further. Here we go again. She’s already being held together by the glue that the woman put on her the night before. There’s no way she can survive another round of rough treatment.
But, much to her surprise, the girl is far, far different.
Lena starts by taking Syl to her room, and introducing her to every single one of her toys. There’s a beautiful china doll with cracks running all through her face (another victim of Nerissa’s), a whole collection of repainted plastic animals (also rescued from the garbage can) and, clearly the most treasured of all - an old, worn brown teddy bear.
Then she begins to play and it’s nothing like the torture Nerissa’s ‘playtime’ had been. Syl and the plastic animals (including a menagerie of cats and dogs, and a brightly coloured elephant) have tea, go on adventures in the ‘mountains’ (also known as Lena’s bed), find a magical treasure, rescue a prince (yes, a prince), and when it’s finally Lena’s bedtime, are gently placed on a bookshelf beside her bed. Not once is Syl slammed into the ground, snipped at with scissors, smashed into a toy dragon, dropped down a set of stairs, chewed on by a dog, or run over by a car. And as Lena’s soft little snores begin to fill the room, Syl begins to reflect that she hadn’t minded it. In a way, it’d actually been sort of fun. She’d felt … loved. Cared for. Prized.
It’s something she’d never gotten from her mother.
Lena loves her the way she is, even if she’s not ‘talented.’ Even if she’s now only a little hunk of plastic being held together by Lena’s mother’s glue.
And as the days go by, Syl begins to love her too. She begins to look forward to the mornings, when Lena gives her a little kiss before heading off to school. She waits excitedly for every afternoon, when Lena comes home from school and heads straight to her room to say, “I missed you Violet!” She adores playtime, when Lena makes up multitudes of new adventures for her and the other toys to go on. And she loves bedtime, when Lena holds her tight to her chest and sings herself to sleep.
A week passes like this. A week of wonderful bliss. Syl no longer cares if she wakes up. She’s happy here. She’s loved far more than she ever was in the real world. She would rather stay here forever, than return to Beqanna where she is the granddaughter of a mass murderer.
But of course, it was never meant to be.
One day, during Syl’s second week of living with her, Lena decides to take a risk. The little girl decides to take her new favourite toy to show and tell at school, so that she can show all her friends the beautiful pony that her mother fixed up for her. She just knows that they will love her too. She doesn’t worry at all about Nerissa - Nerissa goes to an expensive private school, not a public school like Lena, so there’s no fear of her ever seeing her old, fixed up toy.
She places Syl gently in her backpack, along with her lunch and her school things and heads out the front door in the direction of the road - she has a good fifteen minute walk before she reaches the bus stop.
It’s as she’s reaching the end of the driveway that she makes her fatal mistake. Worried about whether or not her favourite toy is comfortable, she stops, places her back on the ground, and takes Syl out to check on her. “Are you ok in there Violet?”
The sound of leather shoes on cement makes her look up, and her gasp of shock alerts Syl to the fact that something’s wrong. There, standing right in front of them, is Nerissa. And she’s staring right at Syl.
Both of her ears have now broken off, and her right hind leg has also caved into her side from the repeated slamming. Most of her silver and green mane and tail are on the floor when she'd been slammed. Her head has twisted all the way around on her body so that she's looking at her own rump, but she remains entirely prone. Bite marks
Front legs both caved in
Despite her ardent wishing, Ephrelle doesn’t die.
She simply stares, blank-eyed at the well-defined pectorals of the doll beside her for what feels like years. She sees the fingers twitch every now and then, and wonders if he, too, is wishing for a swift end. Can he still wish without a head? How?
The answers to her questions haven’t come to her, but before they can, she is moved. The human fingers are familiar, and Ephrelle wonders why Nerissa had decided to play with her again after declaring her to damaged. But the voice of this human is not high and shrill, but rather gentle and soothing. “Oh no. Another one. Poor dear.”
It reminds Ephrelle of the way that her mother would talk to her after she’d woken up from a nightmare. Soft and calm and reassuring. “She really did a number on you, huh, little one? I’ll see what I can do to put you back together. Or…well, barring that, at least turn you into something beautiful again” Ephrelle begins to hope again.
She is so full of hope that it must be bursting out of her battered body.
For quite a while she remains in the dark, rustling about with objects she cannot see. One she does recognize, Ken, who was pulled out of the trash with her. His headless presence is comforting, and for a while Ephrelle drifts off into what must be plastic-toy sleep.
When she wakes up she is alone on a large wooden surface. She is unable to move, and when she sees the mom-voiced human come back into the room she knows why. At least she’s not with Nerissa. Mom-voiced Human has her arms full of a wide variety of somethings, all of which she dumps onto the surface beside Ephrelle. She is humming something to herself, and while it is not like anything Ephrelle has heard before, she is sure that it is a song her own mother would know too. It seems like a mother sort of thing to sing.
Though she cannot see what is happening from where she lies on her side, Ephrelle listens to the sounds that Mom-Voice is making. There is rustling and a sharp metal slicing. When she is picked up at last she doesn’t tense – she is sure that she will be alright. The metal slicing comes very close to her twisted around head, and Ephrelle watches as the last strands of her silver and green mane fall to the table. In their place Mom-Voice tucks a bobby-pin into the slot at the top of Ehprelle’s neck. She’s tied purple thread to it, and after she’s secured it with an uncomfortably (but not entirely painful) dollop of hot glue, she brushes it smooth against Ephrelle’s purple neck. A bit of white modeling clay is glued to the place where Ephrelle’s ear would be, and she can hear again.
There’s pressure on her hindquarters and she can feel her back leg being pulled out to where it belongs. “You little ponies are tough,” the Mom-Voice says, “though I don’t’ think your front legs are going to do as well. ” Ephrelle feels fingers tugging at her recessed front legs. The left one pops out after a good bit of tugging, but the right one refuses to do the same. Clucking her tongue, the human lifts up something else that glints like the metal slicers. This is not so benevolent a tool, it would seem. Ephrelle feels the plastic on the right side of her chest being sliced open by the little X-acto knife.
She sees her leg fall onto the table and feels the air flow into the hole in her body.
It feels so strange.
“This one doesn’t quite match,” she hears, “but maybe we’ll do the same to your other one and it’ll look alright.” There is more hot glue pressed to her, this time it rings the hole where her leg had once been. Something is pressed onto the hole, but she doesn’t have time to see what it is before she’s flipped over and her other leg is being sliced off. No! She wants to shout; No, that one is fine! But she can say nothing, and waits for the glue and the thing to be attached to that side as well.
Mom-Voice stands her upright, and Ephrelle realizes that whatever the human has attached to her, they are working exactly like her legs did at holding her up. Mom-Voice starts to pick up another handful of purple thread, but then pauses and makes a thoughtful noise. She says something that sounds like “Ee-kwee-sore”, which is obviously a word that Ephrelle cannot recognize. Something solid and not at all like thread is affixed to her rump with still more hot glue, and then more modeling clay is affixed down her spine.
Mom-Voice blows on Ephrelle’s statuesque figure even as her hands snap open a tube that she squeezes onto the table. It’s gold, almost like Nayl’s eyes, and Ephrelle suddenly wonders what her friend is up to. She does not have time to wonder for long, as the paint is brushed onto her body with the delicate strokes of a paintbrush. First it covers the modeling clay on her spine, and then her ears – both the natural one and the repaired one. Mom-Voice paints all four of her legs and then the thing where her tail had once been. She puts the paintbrush down and Ephrelle thinks that perhaps she is finished with the paint. But no, she picks up a toothpick and murmurs something about “It’s all in the details. Let’s add some scales”, before dipping the end into the paint. The toothpick looks sharp but she is very gentle with Ephrelle. Mom-voice dabs it around her face for the most part, and around the edges of where she has already painted gold.
“There,” says Mom-Voice, and she pushes herself away from the table to stand over Ephrelle. Though the filly cannot turn to see what Mom-Voice is doing, the sounds she is making are pleasurable ones. Perhaps she has made Ephrelle pretty again. That would probably be too much to hope for, but Ephrelle is just so very good at hoping.
It takes several more hours for Mom-Voice to leave the room, but when she does, Ehprelle sighs happily. She has four legs again, and really that’s all she needs to be a good Amazon. But what exactly are these legs?
She lifts one up curiously. The gold paint is still a little tacky and it takes her a moment, but when she extends it in front of her at last, it looks like no leg she recognizes. Instead of a hoof there are five short, wide toes with short, hoof-like tips. The other leg is just the same. She can wiggle each of the toes individually, which is rather fun, and they hold her weight as she steps forward.
When she falls over, it is not the fault of her new legs at all. The something where her tail had been swings to the side and unbalances her. Ephrelle topples over with a grunt and feels the strange pressure of the modeling clay additions to her spine. What are those? Without standing up, Ephrelle flicks her tail to the side (or rather, does what she would have done with her regular body to flick her tail to the side). To her surprise, her tail responds.
The problem is that it is not the tail she is used to. Where is her lovely long-haired tail? This is a tail like she has never seen before! It is painted gold like her legs, and there are four spikes at the end of it. There are also alternating golden plates that run up the length of it, and are presumably just like the ones that are now on her spine. She tries, but cannot move the ones on her back. Her tail though, is responsive and she flicks it around a few times before trying to stand. Knowing now that her new tail is quite heavy, she takes a step forward with her right leg and swings her tail to the left. The motions offset each other perfectly, and after a bit more practice Ephrelle is galloping along the tabletop with her new legs.
When morning comes, and the door to the kitchen opens, it is not Mom-Voice who sees Ephrelle first. It is a smaller person, but not Nerissa. The scream that she lets out is equally as shrill though, and Ephrelle wishes that she could wince away from it. The hands that reach for her are gentle like Mom-Voice’s were. The girl starts shouting “Mom! Mom did you get this for me?!”, and Ephrelle’s world is once again a blur as the girl races through the house to find her mother.
“Yes, she’s for you.” Ephrelle hears Mom-Voice say, and the filly puts the facts together. So Mom-Voice really is a mom, and this other human must be her daughter. “She’s an Equisaur. I thought she might make a good companion for you on your paleontological expeditions.” Ephrelle doesn’t quite know what all those words mean, but she’s put on the floor for a moment while the girl hugs her mother in gratitude. “I’m so excited! Thank you Mom! I’m going to go show her the dig site right now!” Ehprelle is picked back up at carried, full speed, out the back door. The girl, who Ehprelle decides must be Lena if Mom-Voice saying: “Don’t forget your sunblock Lena,” as they left was any indicator.
Ephrelle is placed on the lip of a sandbox littered with buckets, shovels, and assorted sizes of paintbrushes. Lena talks – mostly to Ephrelle but also to herself – about the dinosaurs that they are looking for. She starts with shovels, and then when she hits something begins to brush away the sand with the paintbrushes. A dinosaur emerges from the sand one body part at a time, and the process is repeated until Lena has four lined up beside Ephrelle on the lip of the sandbox. Mom-Voice calls out the door that it is lunch time, and as Lean disappears inside Ephrelle turns to the dinosaur beside her.
“Hello.” She says, pressing her new gold nose to the Hadrosaur’s shoulder. “I’m Ehprelle.” The dinosaur blinks slowly and then shakes the sand off its sides before looking at Ephrelle. “Oh hello there miss,” He replies, tilting his narrow head as though to see her better. “You must be new, and from the looks of it another rescue. Bet you’re glad to be away from the Monster?” Ephrelle, knowing that he must mean Nerissa, nods. The Hadrosaur seems intrigued by her feet and tail, and circles her slowly. “Looks like you might have been one us at some point. Did Lean’s mom fix you up too? I think I recognize Steggo in those feet – guess she didn’t make it. That’s such a shame, she was a kind one.” Ephrelle isn’t sure how to reply. What does one say to the friend of a toy whose body parts you’re now composed of? But it doesn’t seem that the dinosaur is really looking for a reply; he’s just talking.
“No! I saw them! Those are my toys and you stole them!” The shouting comes from inside the house, and Ephrelle winces. That is not a voice that she’d wanted to hear again. “Just because I didn’t take them out of the bag for three years doesn’t mean I don’t want them! I love dinosaurs!” There are quieter voices, something about ‘don’t put things on the curb if you want them’ and ‘we could play together?’ but there’s not an answer from Nerissa before the back door swings open and the blonde monster emerges. She races over to the sandbox, walking over the half-completed tyrannosaur dig and kicking over the Hadrosaur beside Ephrelle. A pink shoe is swinging back to kick Ephrelle too when it suddenly freezes, and the filly knows that she’s been recognized.
”Oh no, another one. Poor dear…” Maria shifts the armful of crushed party hats and half-eaten plates of cake to her other hand so she can reach down and pluck the half-melted pony figurine out of the trash. She tosses the garbage into the can and takes a moment to inspect the blackened, twisted piece of plastic. The eyes are still perky and bright, and its mouth is still open in a wide pony-grin. It is missing its mane and tail, which is odd, she thinks, but not out of the ordinary for Nerissa’s discards. Maria thinks of her daughter’s own mismatched toy collection and the wild imagination Lena possess. A slight, pleased and secretive grin spreads across her lips. “She really did a number on you, huh, little one? I’ll see what I can do to put you back together. Or, well… barring that, at least turn you into something beautiful again. Yes… I think we can salvage you, my dear,” she murmurs to herself as she slides a disfigured Shaytan into her apron pocket and then her purse, to mingle with her keys and hide amongst the various hair ties and pennies and other odds and ends to be put in the right place at the end of the day. Except that this will go in her purse, and not back in Nerissa’s toybox.
Shaytan neither feels, nor hears a thing; she drifts on wings of unconsciousness, dreaming of the real-world life she once knew. Dreaming of bunnies and the Chamber and Straia and of Belgarath’s nips and Navarro’s creepy clinginess.
When Maria is done cleaning up after Nerissa’s party and making dinner, she hangs her apron up in the pantry and slips out the back door. On quiet and eager feet, she walks across the vast green lawn and past the swimming pool, to a low fence and a gate that separates the best of her world from work. When she spots her mother, Lena comes running out the door to meet her and jump into her warm, tight arms. Maria laughs and holds her daughter close. “Ooooh. I missed you, pretty girl.” Lena wraps her legs around her mother’s waist and leans back, smiling. “I missed you too, Mama! And guess what!” She grins with pride, and Maria cannot help but chuckle. “What’s that, darling?” Lena responds, “I folded allllll the clothes and made peanut butter and jelly for dinner!”
Maria gasps in delight, her warm brown eyes opening wide. “Oh! How did you know that’s exactly what I wanted? Aaaand some carrots too, yes?” Lena makes a ‘yuck’ face and then starts to wiggle, so Maria puts her down. “And if you eat all your vegetables, I have a surprise for youuu…” Lena’s eyes light up and she claps her hand excitedly. “Ok, ok , ok! I promise I will.” Her mama’s surprises were always fun and usually involved spending the rest of the night in the craft room. She then grabs her mama’s hand and tugs her towards the door of the little cottage. The quicker they eat, the quicker she gets to see the surprise!
After they finish eating dinner, Maria tells Lena to close her eyes and then leads her into the small arts and crafts room that is the heart of their home. Shelves are lined with meticulously labelled boxes, denoting where glue and glitter and googley-eyes go, to name a few. There is a small table in the middle of the room, with two chairs, one on either side. Maria sets Shaytan down in the middle of table and then leads her daugher to the table and tells Lena to open her eyes. When Lena sees the what Nerissa has done to this toy, she lets out a soft “Awwww…. the poor thing. Was it one of hers?”
Lena never calls Nerissa by her first name. She’s never liked the little blonde-haired demon child.
Despite being well aware of her daughter’s dislike for Nerissa, Maria nods and smiles. “Yes, but when I saw it, I thought that maybe we could make it into something new and pretty again. What do you think, love? Up for a challenge?” She raises her eyebrows in a daring way, knowing that Lena loves a good challenge, especially when it comes to fixing things up. Their whole house is full of repainted objects, her closet a parade of patched and altered clothes, and her toys are fantastic, multicolored creatures from the depths of Lena’s imagination. Her sweet-natured daughter laughs and pulls a very early pre-teen “Duh! Of course I am!” before sitting down and picking Shaytan up.
This is how Shaytan comes to - cradled very gently in a pair of soft hands, looking up into the chocolate-colored eyes of an angel. It is her gentle, dulcet voice that wakes the unconscious pony as she ponders exactly what to do with a horse who no longer has any hind legs, or tail or mane. Lena thinks out loud while Maria busies herself at the boxes, looking for this and that and pulling a few things out, as Lena thinks of what to do.“Hmmmm… do you know what I first thought when I saw it, Mama? I thought it might be a mer-pony, like a bigger sea horse, you know? Something that Ariel might ride on…”
Sea horse…? Mer-pony…? No, I need grass. Not Ariel… Shaytan. Those gentle hands hold her up to the light and turn her from side to side and diagonally, trying to figure out how to make her bottom half look like a fish. “Mama, can we try and re-melt this? See, if take it - her - I think it’s a her - If we can reshape her hind legs, and maybe give her some fins and a yarn mane, OH! and some glitter! She would be really pretty. What do you think?” Maria already has an arm full of boxes, as if she had anticipated her daughter’s idea, and sets them down on the table. “I think that sounds perfect,” she says, and then holds out her hand for Shaytan. “Why don’t you go get an old magazine to cover the table, and I’ll get started? I’ll do the reshaping, and you can do the rest.”
Reshaping? Oh god. Ohnononono not more… At Maria’s words, Shaytan slips into the dark depths of despair. She clearly didn’t die, despite all the fiery pain of before. She didn’t think she had immortality - was it the eating of the bunnies and the drinking of their blood? Did that give her eternal life?! For a moment, she thinks that she would give up the whole bunny thing if it would end this whole ordeal… and then she thinks of the thrum of pleasure that runs through her body when she bites down, and the crunch and… fuck, it’s a hard decision that she’s unwilling to make just yet. The pain no longer exists. In fact, she can’t feel anything on her back end. It’s as if Shaytan has been paralyzed. So perhaps this reshaping wouldn’t hurt at all?
Shaytan just wanted to be a real horse again. She would try so very hard to be good in the Chamber if she could just be a real horse again.
Maria grabs a pair of tongs and turns the oven on low. In her left hand, she holds Shaytan by her head and neck, leaving her misshapen back end to be heated once more over the open flame. In her right hand, she has a pair of tweezers, with which to pull a prod and mold Shaytan’s back half into some kind of curved, fin shape. Lena stands at her mother’s side, watching for awhile, until she gets bored when nothing is happening. “Mama, how long is this going to take?” Maria pokes at the plastic with the tweezers, an it gives a little, but doesn’t really hold a shape. “Maybe a couple more minutes. Why don’t you go get the glitter ready? We’ll need to put it on while the plastic is still hot.” So Lena scampers back to the arts and crafts room and gets a glitter shaker and rips a page out of the magazine to catch the excess.
After another couple of minutes of waiting, Maria tryies to plastic again and is able to bend it fairly easily. There is a faint chemical smell in the kitchen, so she wants to get this done quickly and then open the windows. With the tweezers and a tongue depressor, Maria tries to bend and push and twist Shaytan’s hind legs and rump into something resembling a sea horse’s tail. She manages to smooth out her rump and tuck what was once her hind legs under and towards her belly. Shaytan’s hind legs are harder, but Maria is able to make them a little less lumpy, and spreads the ends out into a fin shape. It’s not perfect, and it’s still back, compared to the vibrant maroon Shaytan used to be. But Lena seems thrilled, and liberally sprinkles the black plastic with glitter (which should stick to the warm stuff). Maria then runs Shaytan under cold water to cool and harden the plastic again.
Shaytan didn’t feel a thing except for a smushed nose. Just another thing to endure. Except that cold water bath feels nice too. She sighs. Listening to the two of them, they didn’t seem so bad. Then again, she hasn’t yet come in contact with any of Lena’s toys… they would tell her the truth.
As she’s doing that, Maria turns once again to Lena. “So do we want this little merpony to have fins? And what color would you like her mane to be?” Lena’s eyebrows scrunch up as she thinks and studies the cooling Shaytan. “Hmmm… We could put a sticker on her side. Or some Balsa wood. Do you think that would stick? And maybe some green yarn to make it look like she has a mane made of seaweed?” Maria looks at the clock. It’s getting late, but these last few touches shouldn’t take too long. “Sure honey. And then I think it’s bed time. Can you go plug in the hot glue gun and cut some yarn?” Lena nods eagerly and skips back off to the craft room, while Maria removes Shaytan from the water and dries her off.
Shaytan must have drifted off for a moment (that’s how comfortable she was), because the next thing she know, there’s something burning along her ribcage and the top of her neck! No No Nooooooo not again! It hurts, though not so much as before, and the thought of going through all that again makes Shaytan want to cry like a baby. She doesn’t even realize that beauty is pain, and that with the addition of marker-colored, green balsa wood finds, and green yarn for a mane, that she is now a beautiful little mer-pony!
Of course, that’s mainly because Shaytan can’t see herself, and has never thought of herself as pretty. Straia is pretty. She is just spotted Shaytan.
Lena oohs and ahhs over her newest fantastic toy, and then helps her Mama clean up. They prop Shaytan upright so that she can dry overnight, but before she turns out the light, Lena gives her a little kiss on the nose and whispers, “I’m going to think of an awesome name for you in my dreams tonight, ok? And tomorrow you can meet everyone else. They’re going to be so excited!”
Oh boy. Shaytan is really confused now. Who are these people and are they nice or naughty?
The next day dawns bright and beautiful, and the first thing Lena does when she wakes up is run to the arts and crafts room and pick up Shaytan. “I thought of the best name for you! You are going to be Amelia, and you are Ariel’s friend and pony. Come on, she wants to meet you!” Once again, Shaytan is flying across space and is so high up and if ponies could vomit, she might. Thankfully, it is a short flight (for the cottage is small), and Shaytan is soon on the ground, surrounded by a couple of other patched up toys. There’s the red-headed barbie with mismatched limbs (her arms are clearly African American, while the rest of her is Caucasian), the transgender Potato Head (elements of both Mr and Mrs), a one-eyed, one-eared stuffed puppy, and a toy firetruck with large buttons for wheels.
Shaytan is the most busted of them all, but their voices are welcoming and warm as they chime out a ‘Hello!’ Oh. Oh. These toys are not like the other toys. They do not seem to be afraid of being out and played with. “Umm… Hello. I’m Shaytan.” she says haltingly, still proceeding with caution. The Barbie giggles in a rather high-pitched voice, and tries to put the newest member of their group at ease. “Don’t worry, Shaytan. Lena told us about how you were tortured at Nerissa’s. We all were, but now we have the best owner! Play time is AWESOME! Right guys?” They all pipe up in assent, and Shaytan barely has time to process the words ‘owner’ and ‘playtime’ and ‘awesome’ before she is swept up and pressed into playtime with the rest of the toys.
No. Shaytan is real. She doesn’t have an owner! She doesn’t do… playtime. No.
She must be losing her mind, she thinks.
Or this must be hell.
Somewhere in the background, Shaytan hears a knocking on the door. Nerissa’s voice comes screeching through it, calling for Maria. Maria, however, is in the shower, so Lena sighs and puts down the Barbie, but keeps Shaytan clutched in her hand. It is a forgetful, silly, thing to do, but Lena just wants Nerissa to be quiet and go away. She opens the door and answers with a very polite “Hello, Nerissa. Mama is in the shower, but she should be up to the house shortly.” Nerissa ‘hmphs’ and then turns to go, clearly afflicted with Hangry Syndrome. And then she stops and turns back around, her mean little eyes narrowing. Her hand shoots out to grab Lena’s wrist and turn it up, so she can see what the girl is holding. When her suspicions are confirmed, despite all the changes, she hisses, “You thief…”
Oh bloody hell! thinks Shaytan. Not again. No no no. Not again. She’ll be a good little Chamberling! Really, she’ll work very hard. Just not her again!
Shaytan
and every time she knocks I can't help but let her in
I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
(oh, no)
The words come from somewhere. He is somewhere. He is someone. Something. Around him are white, crumped papers marked with half-finished crayon drawings. The clown is not laughing anymore. Someone is in here, but it is not Nerissa (she has pounded downstairs, seamlessly vacating the room so it can be cleaned). It is a larger force.
He is in pieces, his head ripped from his purple body. It is hard to think. Hard to process. (another one)
Another what? What is he? He is a head. He is here. He is- I am, he remembers thinking, but doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. (poor dear)
The voice surrounds him and then the hands of God come down and he is scooped up, both pieces of him, and tucked gently into a leather purse where he lays among loose change and crumpled Kleenex and a piece of plastic that occasionally vibrates with an intensity that would shake his bones, if he had any.
He is taken out in pieces, head and body, as a finger runs over the space where his head used to be. There is a shift as she sees the jagged name writ large across his belly, a low tsk-ing murmur that he only hears the reverberations of.
He is laid out on a table and he wonders what now. He feels timeless and frozen; his mind cannot quite recall things, the memories dancing behind curtains. (there is a blade scratch-scratching and that’s why he can only see out of one eye, isn’t it?)
There is a sensation of heat then, a metal gun dripping hot glue along the gaping circle where his head and neck once joined.
There is a strange sense of pressure – both like and unlike his decapitation – as the woman’s hands (God’s hands)
press him back together, hold him there as the glue sets itself. The angle of his head is no longer quite right, but the sensation of wholeness sweeps over him and more memories come – (underwater, drowning, water inside and outside and everywhere, filling him up until she empties him) (‘your name is Velvet’ she whispers and he thinks – he thought – there was something else, some other name, what was the other name?)
When he dries, reconnected, the woman paints him a new eye. It is slightly larger than the original, but he feels the sight being restored as she paints it to life and he wonders on this strange magic as he takes in a more complete world.
She paints clouds on him, too, in part because Lena likes them so and in part to cover up some of the nicks and scratches, to make his wounds beautiful.
“Lena, little love, look what I have for you,” coos the woman with strong hands and a deft eye, and he is handed off again, to another girl, and he thinks for a moment Nerissa is back and (she loves us)
then he realizes it is not her, this girl is brown-haired and dressed in greens and blues, not pinks and golds. She smiles and strokes a finger to the pink streaks in his mane and he feels the connection forging, toy to owner, toy to master. Who am I? he thinks, desperate. There was a name, once, an echo shouted into the abyss but he cannot remember it. He remembers the name Velvet, purred catlike in his ears, but that was with Nerissa and he is no longer hers, the bond was severed.
He is taken to Lena’s room. It is smaller and wood-paneled, no colors paint the walls but they are made bright by pictures cut from magazines, pictures of animals (real ones, ones like he thinks he might have once known) and of places Lena wants to visit someday.
He spots Cigar, the racehorse whose leg snapped at the knee. He is standing again, made strong by the same hot glue that holds his neck fast to his torso. There is a bandage made of electric tape wrapped around the foreleg.
He sees the cropped-hair Barbie, head reattached, clothed in a dress that looks handmade.
He sees the Cinderella doll, who is clothed now, but peeking out above the neckline of her dress is a black stich where she was sewn back together, made whole.
This is a graveyard, the island of misfit toys, and he joins them with clouds strewn across him and a girl’s name carved in his belly.
Lena is kinder, quieter. The games are more subdued. His mane is brushed often, sometimes braided with ribbons. He lives in a makeshift stable with Cigar and another Breyer, piebald and proud, one whose name he doesn’t know because she is like all the other Breyers, feral and wild-eyed, and when he tries to speak to her she snorts and shies away.
It is different, but it is the same. The same chorus, repeated, made a prayer: she loves us.
The difference here is she wants to save them. There are no scissors. She does not take them apart. She tends to false wounds (he watches her rewrap Cigar’s mended leg twice a day), feeds them pretend medicines that become real to him until he tastes them in his mouth.
She does not call him Sleaze. She does not call him Velvet.
She calls him Cloud, so Cloud he becomes, and Cloud loves her, loves her because she is kind and gentle and because he must, because this is his lot.
There are layers to his life now and they peel away when he sleeps. He thinks he does not need to sleep (not all the toys do), but part of him craves it.
He dreams of a toy box, dark and crowded, of animals coming to life all around him: a wolf with a perpetual howl, a tiger with no face. He dreams of a clown, of a Glasgow smile, of fangs. Of a laugh that makes his blood feel cold.
He dreams of a field, of a half-formed prayer, a black figure touching his withers. He always wakes up before he knows who the figure is. I am-- he thinks when he awakens, but then he looks around, finishes it, I am Cloud.
He is Cloud. He is lost.
Lena takes him outside, his mane braided with a strip of cloth, a thick rope against his neck. She takes him to the side of the house, playing under an old oak. He is made to jump tree roots and graze on clover before she erects a makeshift stall for him, a small pen of twigs stuck into the ground, as if he might run away.
He would never run from her. Cloud loves Lena, and Lena loves Cloud.
(He does not hesitate to join in with the toys, the excited chatter of the day’s activities. He cannot ever remember resisting. After all, hasn’t he always been a toy?)
There is moss beneath his feet. He feels like he remembers moss from somewhere. (‘don’t go, please, I’ll be better,’ he’s on his knees in the moss, wet and springy, and he’s watching him leave, that black figure, lit out for the west and he doesn’t know why.
‘I’m sorry, Sleaze,’ says the man – the father – his father, ‘I’m so sorry’--)
The memory is shattered like a teacup when a shadow falls over them.
Nerissa looms, shadows under her ice blue eyes, purple bags under her eyes. She hasn’t been sleeping well. She dreams about dead toys and worse things. She cries a lot because she is so tired and it makes mother mad.
And now here is her Velvet, painted with ugly splotches and with his pretty mane braided away, in the hands of the stupid nobody girl who lives out back. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. It does.
“That’s mine,” she says, then, louder, not quite a scream but flirting with the idea, “that’s mine.” She loves us, he thinks, a bit hysterically, and no longer knows which she he is thinking of.
THEN I'LL GO OUT BACK AND I'LL GET MY GUN
I'LL SAY "YOU HAVEN'T MET ME, I AM THE ONLY SON."
Munroe floated on a dark, thunderous cloud of hopelessness and despair. Maybe this garbage can was really where he belonged. He always seemed to cause problems wherever he remained. His birthmother hadn’t wanted him and then his first adoption had ended up in disaster. She had been torn apart by wolves and he had been left to starve in the blustery embrace of winter. Then along came Ima and she had rescued him from his fate. But even that wasn’t to last either. He had been lost in a freak sandstorm for what seemed like decades.
He had persevered and he had finally been reunited.
Only to be cruelly taken away and thrust into an awful world.
He had been humiliated, tortured, degraded, and finally abandoned.
He was nothing.
His rumbling thunderstorm of thoughts is then struck down with a sudden ray of sunlight. Rough hands reached down and gently cradled his aching, battered body between them. Soft, crooning words soothed his injured soul. “She really did a number on you, huh, little one? I’ll see what I can do to put you back together. Or…well, barring that, at least turn you into something beautiful again.” He was then placed in a bag of some sort and darkness surrounded him. Though he remained in the darkness for several hours, he was finally able to put both his mind and body to rest.
Munroe fell into a dreamless slumber at last.
His healing sleep is interrupted when brilliant rays of light suddenly opened up from above and those same hands revealed to him a clustered yet organized workroom. He is carefully placed onto the table which allowed him to finally observe his rescuer. She appears to be honest and hard-working at first glance. Her uniform is scuffed and wrinkled in places, dirty and dusty in others. Although she is grossly tired from her long day of work, she still intended to gift her beloved daughter with a brand new toy to shelter and love.
Munroe immediately feels as if she shares the same spirit as Ima.
She was a mother who would sacrifice and who would give all of herself to her children.
“Now let’s make you really shine, dear.”
She was relatively familiar with all the different ways that Princess Nerissa liked to torture her toys with. As a result, she had the majority of all the supplies she needed on hand to begin his process of beautifying. The stranger pulled out a small bottle of tea tree oil and began to vigorously apply it to the spots where the horrid little girl had failed at covering up his lovely seafoam green color. This was the best way she had found in removing especially stubborn permanent marker stains. She then proceeded to wipe him down with a soft cloth, making sure to remove all traces of both the marker and the oil. She needed a dry surface for the next step of his makeover.
Munroe found the eucalyptus smelling oil quite soothing and he began to relax. He still contained lingering fears from his previous experience with a human, but he was beginning to realize that perhaps not all were the same. He still didn’t particularly enjoy being handled; he could trust this stranger with her weathered hands and calming voice.
She grabbed another bottle, this time it was Surehold Plastic Surgery, which was basically super glue perfect for plastics. She began applying it across each of the tooth holes that Georgette had left and the gashes from the mishandled scissors in his torso. While she waited for the glue to dry, she gently twisted his head back into its proper place. Almost instantly, that twisted, sharp ache had been released with gentle pressure much like how a chiropractor would relieve someone’s crank in a neck. Munroe could have kissed this stranger in relief and he avoided intimacy with most others. He was simply that overwhelmed with blissful release.
It didn’t take long for the glue to dry since it had been applied in relatively thin layers to begin with. She began to gentle sandpaper the affected areas gently, smoothing them down to where they appeared even with his original skin. This process was rather irritatingly ticklish to him and he struggled within his frozen state to escape from the odd sensation. But, of course, it was all in vain as he remained within his plastic prison of nonexistent movement.
“All right, dear. Let’s try and match your lovely hair color.”
Princess Nerissa was notorious for shearing any toy that had hair which prompted the stranger into learning how to essentially put weaves back onto the various broken dolls she had rescued. She carefully selected several azure blue and black pieces and she began to thread them back on both his mane and tail. As these were mostly used for dolls, the pieces were relatively wavy and softly curled. His hair would appear vastly different from his originally unkempt and wild state.
To further cover up his various blemishes and cuts, she decided to hand paint various designs upon his body. The sandpapering would help the paint grab onto his smooth plastic body. She began to paint thin layers of blue and black in whimsical swirls and lines. The stranger had no particular theme in mind; she merely painted what she felt would look exotic and fascinating. The designs would ultimately match the azure blue paper mache wings she had prepared earlier and sealed with a waterproofing material.
As she waited for his paint to dry, she began to gather the wings and the glue once again to her side. The wings were a brilliant blue with matching swirls across them. They had been crafted of chicken wire and paper mache. The stranger then carefully applied a clear coat to all of his designs so that the paint wouldn’t be ruined. The final step consisted of carefully gluing each wing to his back. She would leave them overnight before giving the newly restored toy to her daughter.
Munroe was left in a dark room with the strangest weight upon his back. He wondered if this was how Ima felt every day with her big, wondrous golden wings. He decided there was nothing else for him to do than to try and conserve his strength and get as much rest as possible. He’d had quite the grueling day after all.
He was jolted awake with a delighted squeal. His eyes met matching hazel ones and he gazed at her with almost dreaded curiosity. He prayed that he was not about to experience another Princess Nerissa. But this little girl seemed to regard him with true delight and she took him with hands that held with him with careful regard. In fact, he barely felt the exchanging of hands.
“Oh momma, I love him!”
Lena’s mother remained amused that despite the toy’s bright coloring and fanciful wings, her daughter automatically assigned the gender of boy to the pegasus. But she wouldn’t point out this observation to her thrilled daughter. Lena cradled Munroe in her arms as she rushed to her bedroom. She softly placed him on the floor beside her in a standing position and began to hold a one-sided conversation with him. Lena accompanied all of her words with gentle touches and brushing her fingers through his hair and petting him as if he truly was a treasure.
Munroe was instantly reminded of Ima and her warm affectionate touches which always made him feel like he lived in a cocoon of love and happiness. Lena was on a whole different level when compared to Nerissa. If he was going to remain stuck in this world, he would rather it be accompanying this wonderful little girl.
“Momma said fairies can grant wishes. And since you have such pretty wings, that must mean you’re a fairy, right? Well, can I wish for just one friend? The only one around here is Nerissa and she’s so mean to me. Maybe I’ll wish for Nerissa to be happy instead. That would make her be nicer to me, I bet!”
Munroe is honestly astonished at just how lovely and pure of heart Lena truly was. But he sympathized with her as well. He hadn’t ever been good at meeting others. He tended to remain withdrawn and almost standoffish. It was difficult for him to open up and trust. He really only ever let go when Ima was around.
Their bonding session ended when Lena’s mother ordered her to play outside for just a little while. Lena avoided the outdoors like a plague. She always managed to run into Nerissa and had an all-around unpleasant experience. She much preferred to stay inside her room where it remained nice and safe. But her mother always wanted her to get some fresh air even if it was only for an hour or two.
Lena and Munroe went outside reluctantly and nervously. She held him close within her arms and she quietly made her way to the back garden of the main house. It was one of her favorite places to play outside because Nerissa tended to remain close to the house. They both sigh in relief as they reach their destination with no unhappy surprises.
The garden was based on an English garden design. There was a small pavilion covered in ivy tucked into a corner where two sand-colored stone walls met. Of course, there were plenty of flowers such as roses, irises, forget-me-nots, geraniums, poppies, and marigolds intermingled with various herbs such as lavender, basil, sage, and rosemary. There were also a couple of fig trees strategically placed throughout the garden to offer shade over the stone benches placed beneath them for weary people to rest upon.
It was a charmingly inviting place for anyone to spend time in.
Lena joyfully followed the multiple butterflies fluttering about, happily exclaiming that some of them matched his own wings. They also both enjoyed watching the honey bees buzz about. Multitudes of bird song filled the air and Lena even attempted mimicking some of them much to Munroe’s amusement. But the midday was becoming much too hot for the both of them and Lena was ready for lunch.
But Lena had let her guard fall. They were almost home-free when someone suddenly rushed at Lena from behind one of the stone walls lining the walk home and pushed her down hard. Munroe practically vibrated with a ferocious anger at the blatant force used upon her. Lena knew with dread exactly who would have the gall to push her down as it was a favorite pastime of hers. Both sets of hazel eyes gazed up at Nerissa in absolute horror.
What were once maliciously gleeful blue eyes now stared down at Munroe with outrage.
There is nothing for her to see as a large, gentle hand scoops her from the imagined warmth of the hole torn in Buttons chest. It had been almost like curling against his heart, burrowed within the safety of the cloth and fabric, surrendered wholly to the darkness that had found her when Nerissa’s new puppy had worn away the painted green of her eyes. But this darkness was so much better than the wreckage of broken pieces, shattered fragments of both Sparkle and her own severed indigo legs that branded itself against the forefront of her thoughts, her trembling memory. For a moment, suspended in a callused palm, the air feels too strong, too cold, too alive for Malis. She aches to return to her grave dug out of the chest of a former friend.
But the cold fades suddenly as if blocked by something, and the world is once more dull, quiet. She’s been tucked into a small, soft bag. The indigo plastic husk bounces slightly as the woman walks, shifting this way and that, but Malis hardly notices. She’s curled within herself, just a tiny molecule of thought and understanding, wholly used, wholly shattered. When the jostling stops and a new quiet settles, Malis hardly notices. Somewhere, wedged deep in the recesses of her thoughts, the slight change registers. But it isn’t enough to pull her from her catatonia. Time passes agonizingly slow, and it becomes quickly apparent that this bag is to be her new prison for a while. Despite being left alone, Malis doesn’t even try to move or speak or plot an escape. Instead she can feel her thoughts sweeping ever closer like a numbing wave, stealing away more and more with each pass. She thinks of home. Of her sisters. She thinks of her parents, wonders with hope prickling like a burr in her chest, if Makai has come back yet. She knows he hasn’t. She can still feel the weight of his eyes in that last moment like an unbearably heavy promise. The more time that passes, the further she drifts, finding a new solace in this new unending blackness.
Lonely isn’t so hard.
Suddenly the bag lurches and Malis struggles beneath the weight of her mind. But the sensation of being moved pulls at her and she follows that metaphorical flickering firefly light back to the surface where the world is black because her eyes have faded, not because she’s drowning under the weight of guilt and longing and cowardly surrender. The bag stops again and Malis feels that same hand reach in to pluck her out, those fingers unnervingly gentle as they explored every flaw in the once perfect toy. “Oh dear.” A kindly voice said, and there was something about it that reminded her of her mother. “Well let’s start with your eyes, little one, some say they are the window to your soul.”
Little one. Malis crumbled inwardly, feeling as though a hole had just been punched through her gut. It was impossible in that moment not to picture a ragged Buttons laying askew in a trash can full of stuffing and used tissue. The heart-that-wasn’t trembled in the hollow cavern of her pocked chest. But a moment later, after some soft pressure on her face, Malis felt the room start to take shape. No, not felt, saw. The kindly caretaker must’ve finished painting the eyes in because suddenly the world was awash in light and color. Malis reeled inwardly, though her plastic prison offered her no such compliance. Her stomach lurched as a hand picked her up and held her closer to the light, examining the damage with a frown that seemed to create a multitude of wrinkles and lines across the woman’s face. With a sigh she grabbed a sheet of something stiff, rubbing one side along Malis’ plastic skin over each pock mark. The paper reminded Malis of sand or stone, and it easily wore away each nub of hard plastic sticking out along the surface. The woman ran a hand over Malis, checking every nook and cranny, even smoothing out the grotesque seams between Malis’ body and Sparkle’s donated legs until the transition was as seamless as possible. With nimble fingers Malis watched as she plucked the piece of missing hind leg from her bag. In one hand she held a funny device, it smelled hot and strange, and it appeared to be anchored to the wall with a narrow white chord. In the other was the piece of plastic leg. She added a dab of something from the device, glue Malis thought- though she had no idea where the word came from or what it meant, and reattached the leg nub to the part of the leg still connected to the body. Then, and in a similar fashion, she filled each pock and hole with a bead of glue, set the glue-gun aside, and sanded the toy smooth again. The ears it seemed she had decided were too far past saving as she had smoothed down the nodules and then left them be.
A small, sweet voice coaxed Malis further from her withdrawn state, and through restored eyes she watched as the delicate child stepped into view. “Lena,” the woman greeted her with a smile that seemed to light up her entire face, “we have a new guest.” In the next moment she had plucked Malis from the counter top and held her outstretched to the girl who merely looked on for a quiet moment, those soft brown eyes widening with gentle wonder and mingled delight. With small, careful hands Lena reached out and took the toy, looking at her for a moment before hugging the hunk of damaged indigo plastic to her chest. “Oh Mama,” she said breathlessly, and Malis could feel her heart trembling within her chest, “she is beautiful.”
It was strange, but despite what Nerissa had done to Malis and her friends, Malis couldn’t help but feel drawn to this other girl. Lena. She reminded Malis so much of her little sister Ilka, with that sweet, shy smile and eyes so soft and brown and full of gentle hope that you couldn’t help the smile that shaped the corners of your mouth. They had the same soul, the same heart. It made Malis miss her little sister even more.
“Lena,” Mama said, using her voice to pull those brown eyes up to her face, “let’s put her back on the table so we can finish fixing her up.” Ever so carefully Lena reached up to place Malis on the table top, safely back away from the edge, and then climbed up onto the stool beside her mother. A sudden trilling made both of them jump, and Mama leapt to her feet to answer the phone ringing in the other room. When she came back there was a look of apology written plainly across her kindly face. “I’m sorry Lena, they need me back at the main house for a little while. We can finish with her when I come back.” Lena’s face grew sad and solemn, but she didn’t argue as her mother grabbed her bag and coat and headed out the door.
For a long while Lena stayed on her stool at the table, her chin in her hands as she gazed at the toy Malis. Malis imagined she could feel the girl’s thoughts as they ran like curious fingers over the now smooth plastic and glue of her restored body. Lena must have made a decision, because suddenly she was sliding into her mother’s seat, reaching out to grab several containers of craft objects, and the still plugged-in glue gun. Fingering the short fringe of Malis’ mane, she frowned. Then, grabbing scissors to cut the few remaining tufts away for a sense of even balance, Lena smiled. Opening one of the containers, Lena reached over and spilled out the contents. Dozens of sparkling gems glittered like stars spattered in the sky, each one roughly the size of one of Lena’s small finger nails. Grabbing the gems and the glue gun, Lena glued matching gems back to back so that only the bright sparkly parts showed. Then with careful precision she squirted a line of glue down the ridge of Malis indigo neck. Moving quickly before it dried, she wedged the now double sided gems in the thin crack where the mane had been and glue now glistened. She stopped when she had finished, admiring her work with a bright smile and shining eyes. Where the mane had been, there was now a row of various shaped gems glittering and positioned like the plates found along the spine of a Stegosaurus.
Lena beamed.
A moment later she was back to work, digging through another container until she had found and removed three black pipe cleaners, folded them in half, and stuck the folded end of each one into the hole where Malis’ tail had been. Then, after gluing about a dozen random gems to the fuzzy pipe cleaners in varying places, Lena used the metal thread inside all the fluff of the pipe cleaners to shape a tail as naturally as she could. Admittedly, she fell short. This time she didn’t even pause to admire her work. Instead she reached for what appeared to be a linked chain of a dozen tiny color cups, and a small brush laying just to the side of them. Opening the cap of a color that looked to be just a slightly dark shade of indigo than Malis was, she dipped the brush in and set to work painting in all the smoothed out glue spots and scuff marks. It wasn’t perfect and the toy didn’t look like it would have if Mama had painted her, but Lena didn’t care. Instead she could feel pride welling in her chest like a bubble ready to burst. Biting back a smile, she uncapped a few more colors, touching up the black band Nerissa had painted like a blindfold around, but not over, her flat green eyes. In a few places she had tried mixing colors to better match the raw indigo, but had little success. In a flash Lena had put the caps back on the paint, scooped the decorations into their respective containers, and dropped the freshly rinsed paintbrush into the sink basin. When she hurried back to where Malis stood propped up and drying, a warmth radiated from her heart through those kind brown eyes and Malis could feel herself uncurling from the depths of this plastic prison. A small finger stretched out to stroke a line from Malis forehead to her nose. If she could have, Malis would have flinched. It didn’t matter how much this child reminded her of Ilka, the damage Nerissa had done couldn’t be undone in a single day of kindness. But it was a start.
As if Lena could sense Malis’ apprehension, she disappeared to the far corner of the room and pulled a small, dusty box off of the shelf. It was painted pink and white with a curling ‘N’ sprawled across the top in gold. Once upon a time this too had been Nerissa’s. But in a fit of rage it had been thrown across the room and into a wall, and the porcelain ballerina inside had shattered, the musical gears dislodging. When Mama had found it, the porcelain pieces had already been removed. But the box had sat lonely in the garbage waiting for rescue. So Mama had brought it home and fixed it. With some new paint and several tries tinkering with the gears, it had been restored. But at its heart, on the track beneath the lid, it was still hollow and lonely without its ballerina.
But Lena had an idea.
She returned to the table and placed the box next to Malis, opening the lid so the stand on the spinning platform was exposed. On the platform was a short post with a small flat bracket. It was meant to support the ballerina, but now it would do as much for Malis instead. Lena picked up the indigo toy and the glue gun, her face darkening ever so slightly. “I’m sorry, but I have to glue you in. You can’t stand on your own anymore because that leg is so much shorter than the others now. But you’ll be safe in here because it’s a magical music box.” Leaning in, she gave Malis a soft kiss and then glued her into place. Malis knew this should have made her feel more trapped in a sense, but how much more trapped could you be when your mind was entombed in a broken husk of plastic that didn’t seem to have any life left in it. Was one prison worse than the next? Malis didn’t think so. She could feel herself drifting again, like a piece of broken shell caught in a tide being swept further and further from the shore.
Suddenly the room lurched- she hadn’t noticed Lena reaching for the box while she had drifted in self-pity. But before Malis could make sense of the room blurring around her, they were outside. All at once her world was familiar. Aching blue skies filled with tree-tops and clouds and birds, and below, grass as green as emeralds. Or her mother’s eyes. As if Lena had halved Malis at the seams, a torrent of emotion tore from her so strong, so unbearable, the weight threatened to crush her. But it wasn’t all bad. There was fear and grief, longing and loneliness, but there was also a strange warmth needling in her chest at the girl who had called her beautiful even when she was pocked and broken, who had restored her and returned her to the comfort of a world she knew intimately. One with a sky instead of ceilings, trees instead of walls. It wasn’t home, but it was better. Malis felt the walls around her heart tremble as great fissures rose in them, tearing huge cracks in her resolve.
“I thought you might like it here.” Lena said softly as if somehow she could feel Malis’ thoughts. “If you were Nerissa’s toy, you probably lived in a dark scary toy chest.” She set the opened music box down in the grass and laid down beside it on her back. “You probably have a name already too, so I won’t give you a new one.” Lena said again, seemingly completely unperturbed that she was having a conversation with an inanimate toy. Propping herself up on her elbow, she leaned over to the box, winding the knob so that the music played like a chorus of tiny bells, and the platform turned in a circle. It took a moment to get used to, but the movement made it possible for Malis to see every last inch of the yard they rested in. It settled her. Time lost all meaning as it passed, with Lena telling story after story, and Malis listening like a diligent friend. She still felt guarded, unable to let her walls down completely, but after hearing several stories where Lena had been personally victimized by Nerissa, it was impossible not to feel some strange sort of bond, a sense of kinship. Suddenly, though it wasn’t sudden at all, the sun had dropped in the sky and the day was drawing to a close.
There were footsteps approaching in the grass and Lena sat up and reached for the box without looking at who approached. “Oh Mama look what I made, look how beautiful!” But a small gasp, a sound like butterfly wings being torn in half, whistled through Lena’s open mouth. Having finally turned to face her mother with the box proffered like a gift in small outstretched hands, Lena realized her mistake. Standing before her with a face so red, so contorted with ugly rage and jealously, was none other than Nerissa.
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