Disclaimer: All the characters you recognize belong to J.K. Rowling. Also reference to Charlotte Perkins Gilman's The Yellow Wallpaper.
Author notes: Thanks again to Mistress Siana for beta-reading this fiction. I appreciate your help very, very much.
To the readers-there is some disturbing images in this fiction. I rated it out of safety.
Special
Mrs. Cole considered herself quite an expert on little children, if she did say so herself.
And why shouldn't she? It had been her calling to care for young ones, little dears, and bad eggs for most of her adult life. They always fell neatly into those three categories. Granted, some of the dears were a little too droll to tow the line between good and bad, or simply lazy, and some of the bad eggs were just too bored to be satisfied with the patron's ideas of toys, broken, porcelain dolls and three-wheeled tanks, bless them.
She never liked the war games, though, didn't abide by them. Why put bad ideas into impressionable, often witless, heads?
The orphanage changed with the times, as all things do, but at its heart, remained stoically the same. Never growing up or down, mind, and she stopped thinking about that, reaching more for the bottle with each year. The pressing 'neverever' feeling in the faded blue bird wallpaper drove her mad.
Now, Mrs. Cole didn't believe in a completely good child. When anyone claimed otherwise, she imagined asking them politely if they knew what a fool looked like and holding up a mirror. To their credit, the people who voiced such an opinion usually didn't have any children of their own.
Mrs. Cole would have also prescribed to the belief that there wasn't a…well, a bad child.
But that was before the incidents. She had taken on the face in the wallpaper, finally. Needing something to blame, she blamed him. Secretly, never openly.
If anything, she was as good as she dared to be, you know. Kids died, from some illness she couldn't pronounce every now and then. Terrible things. More tragic when they were older too, when she grew accustom to them. Mrs. Cole always checked the beds, to prevent the unfortunate light sleepers from happening upon the poor, lost souls.
Never get attached, she warned the fresh faces, nurses and young hopeful women. Kids leave: get adopted, run away, or die. Non-attachment did not equate cruelty or the like. Some of the women took to nurturing like fish to water. It was a business, first of all, she liked to think. She was efficient, even more so than if she was always cooing over the lot. Nothing escaped her notice. No funny business, she thought, and laughed.
And her business was the in and outs of those little minds. Lord help her, she knew each and every child: their weaknesses, scabs, scrapes, lies, fears, and loves. Who spit up what flavor of medicine, had accidents in their beds, and glued their fingers up their noses.
Except for one.
That was the year the fish and the bottle tempted her. Well, she had to get away from him somehow. Trapped in this house with him those long years.
They all were. Out of all the faces, she never forgot his and she wished, oh how she wished she could.
&&&
"Tom," she called out into the play yard. "Tom, I have to have a discussion with you." Mrs. Cole called it discussions; keeps the nonsense down to a minimum.
She suspected she knew he was under the stairs, and that was fine. She could outwait him, and thought he was smart enough not to try. He'd been with her since he was born and they'd avoided each other like a plague. But it was getting…it was getting worse, from what she heard. The stories were getting worse.
A head poked out from under the stoop. His hair was a mess, and he had a book in his hand, one with a broken spine and grass-stained cover. She did not enquire where he had gotten it. She did not recognize it from their own supply of books. Her mood darkened.
His grin did not reach his eyes. He had uncommonly dark eyes. Not in color but in essence. "Yes, Mrs. Cole?"
She let him think she was surprised. "Been getting dirty, have you, Tom?"
"I wanted a quiet place to read. I wasn't bothering anyone."
"Come inside. Wipe your feet."
He didn't, tracking a dark, wet mud down the carpet. He pushed past her, made her feel…feel something about her weight; she felt it in her head, oddly enough. Something about the mud and her under it, things in the mud waiting for her, and there was a hissing under the steps of something that looked for an unguarded ankle.
Tom led the way to her office, opening the door for her and still smiling.
"Why, thank you. You could become a fine, little gentlemen, you know."
He shrugged, taking a seat and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Rightly so.
"I worry about your eyes, reading in such dark places. You'll have to wear spectacles," she threatened. He shrugged again, smirking.
"I don't mind, Mrs. Cole. Funny things you can do with glass, or so I've read," he said, putting stress on the last part.
"Oh. No doubt you've gone through all the books in the library, and the attic. Yes, I know about it, no use lying to me, Tom. A young boy like you probably doesn't understand half those things, but it's inappropriate. I won't tell you how I knew either. But that's not what I want to discuss with you."
She straightened up, and stared at the nine year old sternly.
"You're a clever one, Tom. I suppose you have an idea of what's on my mind."
"The mud, right."
She jumped, blinking. "Fish. Or the drinking. Or drinking like a fish," he reeled off, watching her closely.
"Isn't it wrong for a woman like you to have bottles under your desk? You could fall asleep, catch this place on fire with all of us inside. It has been rotting, this house and the wood for a long time. I imagine such a discovery would displease that man who comes by to check on the orphanage. Sets a bad example, like Mr. Thompson says. I would hate it if you had to leave, Mrs. Cole."
Dear bleeding... She had locked the cupboard; she had never left out a glass. That little sneak, he must have watched her through the window. And he had the nerve to look concerned about it.
"There's no need to lie to get out of trouble. Mr. Thompson's a good friend of mine, and he has enough sense not to listen to lying boys who play tricks on their fellows."
"Tricks?" Tom asked. He looked wholesomely innocent. "Like magic tricks? I don't know any. That's Adam. He's very good at cards. Have you seen him at dinner?"
"Oh, hang Adam. He's not the one telling tall tales, is he? It's all right to play but you can't scare the younger children. They can't always tell the difference between make-believe and reality, bless them."
"I don't understand, ma'am."
"I hope for your sake you do. I hope you can tell the difference, Tom."
He looked at his feet.
"I can't abide by flying objects and missing things. The little ones look up to you. You're older and you've always been he-."
She cut herself off, shocked at what she had almost said. He didn't move an inch. "They love you in their way. Don't spoil it by telling scary stories and the like."
He smiled. "All right. I won't tell them scary stories."
She didn't like how he said that. Not in the least. He meant trouble, this one.
"You're a good lad, Tom," she said, not meaning a word.
Please, she thought. Make him behave, or let me catch him at it.
&&&
Tom had always known he was different. It didn't bring him pride or sorrow or anything. It was just a constant state of existence, like the sun rising everyday or the leaves falling when it was cold.
Of course, the sun could stop rising, it was a possibility. People used to sacrifice their victims of war to make the sun rise. So he supposed it could be different, but you know, he was content. He liked his solitude, he liked his books (they were his, utterly, only he knew what it meant, those words). He could see the adults for what they were, and he understood he was a permanent fixture in this place.
He couldn't leave. If he did, he had the odd feeling this place would go with him. It was a theory, anyway. Tom was a great theorizer. He wouldn't touch the title of philosopher, though. Love indeed, of ideas. Ideas weren't very loving or hateful.
Tom had several theories about the weird things that happened around him. At first, he thought it was honest to goodness ghosts about. His parents, perhaps, or even the ghosts in this old house. There were funny noises in the attic and basement, and it was always a bit chilling. A trademark haunting, he suspected, and he had been very excited and flattered until it started to seem unlikely.
First off, the incidents, or exhibits as he referred to them, were linked to his moods. Ghosts have moods of their own, so he was forced to discard that explanation. His birth parents were a mystery. Could they have been unusual? Could they have never existed? He could have been on the doorstep for Christmas, for all he knew. Most of the parents sent things, pictures and so on, even if they didn't want their children. Most of the children had tokens and family rings to connect them to the past or haunt them forever.
He, on the other hand, had absolutely nothing. Tom loved his suspicions but equally feared them. As he loved reading in the dark but couldn't quite conquer his discomfort in the dark. He endured it of sheer spite, under the hot stoop, believing he could sweat out the weakness. Only babies were afraid of the dark, after all, he reasoned.
Now, he had to consider the situation anew; Mrs. Cole was becoming troublesome. The woman was becoming…discontent is the word. Tom always tried to keep her blissful and ignorant. She came to this place out of her free will. This place was unequivocally a part of him, so it didn't hurt to do exactly as he pleased.
He had learned it was easy to make the other children bend. Just a few choice words and motivations would work wonders. He could get around them, easily; it was like parting water.
The stories were quite true. Tom could have informed her if he had wished. One day, there was a spark in him, like the other incidents, and Gregory Albright's nose started to bleed. And not just a little. He had ended up fainting, if Tom recalled correctly, and he very well did. It was like David taking on Goliath; he had started to reason with this power.
If he wasn't to have it, to use it, he would not have been given it. There were rules, of course. They could hurt him if they knew for sure, and he would suffer for it. Getting caught or noticed in that way would…yes, it would hurt and something bad would happen.
This place would go with him, he suspected.
&&&
Tom remained agreeable for a few fortnights, wondering who could have told Mrs. Cole. Who could have seen?
What he believed was told was rather embarrassing to him; well, as embarrassed as he could be. From what he picked up from her thoughts,even if the actitself was similar to shifting through litter and rubbish, was the shadows. In the shadows and monsters.
To be fair, and Tom was very fair with himself, it hadn't entirely been on purpose. He thought he could make it right, to will the world continue to flow around him peacefully. Tom never slept well, and the shadows over his bed had bothered him. They seemed nefarious to him, like the gargoyles on the churches he had seen. If he could do unnatural things, then why couldn't a shadow jump out and seize him? Such a feat was reason personified.
So naturally, Tom seized it first. The shadows became his puppets; he tamed them. And soon the girl who cried every night and refused to be silenced started to sniffle. It seemed just to annoy him, honestly. It was always when he came to his bed, which was right besides hers, and she never cried when he was gone. Adam had said so.
And so, naturally, he asked the shadows to silence her. It was not his fault he had not considered how they would silence her. The result was rather extraordinary. It started with her cries of confusion. While he watched, he thought he would not have reacted like a squawking bird if he were to be attacked.
Tom withdrew them after a spell, and the twit sat up and really did start to blubber.
"I wouldn't do that, Elizabeth," Tom commented, in the voice of the wise, older child. "That will only make them angry."
She sobbed.
"They hate noise, and they hate cry babies. They'll take you away under your bed. Trust me, I know these things. Be quiet."
The rest of the night was relatively peaceful, all things considered.
Mrs. Cole didn't make her move until Sunday. He found that Mr. Thompson's sermon had some interesting subtext.
Tom usually amused himself by separating the baptism water behind the weeping statue. He could, you know, and it made him…rather sick and rather well. If he stopped to think about the implications, he would be sick. But it had become an addiction for him. He would mull over the possibility of performing a miracle in the church. He never did.
"The Prince of Lies takes many forms," the older man rattled on. "Sometimes even the form of children like yourselves."
This made all the boys and girls straighten in their seats. Tom, for a different reason, slumped further down in his seat.
"Do you know, all of you, what could let darkness into your soul? Empty places, the cracks in your soul."
Could the soul crack? Tom wondered.
"LYING LIPS ARE ABOMINATION TO THE LORD!" he called out, and they all jumped. "Out of the seven things, the seven abominations, lies are among them. Where he will wait for you, and fill your insides with the lake of fire and brimstone."
There was a silence, and Tom felt eyes upon him. For one wild moment, he thought it was the statue, but it was Mrs. Cole, wearing her Sunday's best and her lips like parchment.
He didn't mediate on his future actions. Of course not. It became as an instinct. What did that man know? What would he do if he saw a real miracle? Tom thought it was best to find out before he took his words to heart.
&&&
That Sunday night, Mr. Thompson took to dining within the church itself. He had fashioned himself a quaint little room near the back. There, he could see the trees and the lights fluttering in between the branches.
Mr. Thompson had been in the Royal Navy until his bad leg had prevented him from continuing. No sea legs for him, no sir. He had never married, preferring to keep his options open. John had been afraid of being tied down, afraid of letting someone down.
He had taken on making sermons to whoever would listen; he felt he had quite a bit to say. Somehow he had thought about all of the glories and pains of the world, though not consciously. As far as men go, he thought he was a fairly good man. Never lied, cheated, or stolen in his life.
Quiet and slightly superstitious, he was a man of solitude. At night, it was more obvious and odious. He now shook and shivered, and his leg was always punctual with the weather forecast. And now, watching the spots dot his hand like tea stains, he regretted it a bit.
When Mrs. Cole requested a weekly message for the children in the nearby orphanage, he had indulged her. She would pick the topic, pulling inspiration from the wayward children she had dealt with. In his opinion, boys would be boys, and he had told her as much. He could refuse the woman however. Nothing would be more harrowing to youth than a sermon about their previous sins. Pinch a spare piece of apple, then he would rattle the windows with cries against gluttony.
He liked the children, however; they made him feel like a grandfather with a particularly large and diverse family. To keep that, he would have even said that the Lord didn't mind gambling and was not averse to sampling a snuff box. Really, the presence of people who might care about him was the closest to God he could be.
Tonight, he sat in his nightclothes, eating some of the pudding and biscuits Mrs. Cole had brought with her.
Half blind, he didn't see the small figure of a boy darting between the trees, still in his church clothes, clothes black as sin.
Sir John Thompson was just sampling some wine when he heard the bang. He eyed the bottle suspiciously, then heard the sound again, only more persistent. Outside, the tree limbshadn't shivered, not even an inch. He grabbed his walking stick, and went out to face whatever foe might wait for him. He was a good speaker, but he was a born fighter.
The chapel was cloaked in reds, purples, and gold. The altar was draped with a familiar white cloth; he had cut into his dear mother's wedding gown for it, brought some of home with him. Now it didn't seem like such a good idea, the clothes of an earthly woman on the holy stone.
Why he thought that was because the doors were banging open and shut very steadily, rather similar to his pulse at the moment. There was no trace of wind. Just the intent and sense of an invisible hand. He leaned against his stick and ventured further into the room, watching the shadows.
"STOP THAT BlOODY BEDLAM!" he burst out, shaking his cane in the air.
The doors did stop, apparently cowed. Some arrogant berk was behind this nonsense, he thought. "Well, you've had your fun, off to bed with you," he said, talking to whomever was responsible. "I'm not that easy to frighten, lad. Terribly sorry."
He did indeed feel it was a boy behind it; what proper girl would play a trick on an old gentlemen? And any divine or infernal force wouldn't have given a damn about his opinion on noise.
A wail rose from behind the curtain, and he spun around, cane at the ready.
His mother's white gown had turned a ghastly red. A dark, brownish red blooming in the most horrible, suggestive areas imaginable, mocking him; Mr. Thompson, veteran of one war and a brief skirmish that had lasted only three hours, dropped his cane.
"Dear, sweet…" he muttered, feeling his heart tremble threateningly. He clutched at his chest. "Leave me be, I beg of you. I've done nothing to…"
Hadn't he? All those unspeakable places, with those girls, even though he wasn't married, it could have been enough to have-have made him due with a reckoning. He tore the cloth over the altar quickly, to salvage what was left of the lace. Those were lies, it never happened; his mother was kind and good and venerable, a saint in her time, and those petty rumors in the dark corners of the town came from the jealous and homely, as his mother pointed out. She had never paid that man, not at all, she would never go that far to get married.
"Coward," he cried. "Damnable coward." No kind hand would have done this; nothing good would have done this. "I'll fight you," he screamed.
The water behind the statue began to stir, parting and re-parting. He didn't look at any of the statues. If one moved, his heart would stop. If the water turned red, he would shatter and sob like a child on the floor, and if he did that, he would be lost.
Hurrying to the doors, he tugged on the handles. It didn't budge.
"I'm near dead!" he screamed. "If it's my life you want, take it. If not, let me go."
The doors relented, perhaps disgusted by his human hands, and he fell out onto the steps. He slid down them, his body nothing but a discarded toy. He had the weird sensation of being outside of his old mesh of flesh, and seeing his body fall and tumble. It had rained, and he lay down in the mud, his eyes wide open and unseeing. His mouth was numb to the point where he couldn't even scream or call for help.
And that is exactly how they found him. The only change was a small blanket that covered him.
When questioned, Mr. Thompson did not know where it came from; however, he knew it was not for his wellbeing.
&&&
"I'm sorry to hear you'll be leaving us, Mr. Thompson."
His stroke had thankfully left all his motor functions intact, but his mind was in a fog.
"I'm not," he answered slowly, fighting it. "This place is like a waterhole—the one where they hunt the animals. There are crocodiles in the water."
Lizards, he had played with lizards as a boy, once. His mother had knocked him off her lap, once too. Was it before or after?
Mrs. Cole smiled falsely, her eyes starting over his head. He knew what he was; he knew what he looked like, and how he must revolt her.
He turned and almost couldn't bear to touch the handle on the door, looked like a shell of some sort, and he would be in that church forever. Some part of his mind, the one that controlled his mouth and made him acceptable as a human being, was in the church.
Mr. Thompson fought that too, and heard her call a weak, fluttering good-bye. Not a good luck, he noticed. Right, good show.
He clicked into the main hall, wondering vaguely if the woman had ever been fond of him, and stopped at the sight of the young man sitting on the stairs. The railing gave the strong impression of someone in a cage. The boy, behind the bars, gave him a desperate look, as if under water.
It was too early for a child to be up, he knew. Somehow this boy had been waiting for him to come back for a drink of water, for a sip after his mind had been scorched.
They stared at each other, and he gripped his cane as if it was his last refuge to his humanity.
"Sir," the boy spoke first, and he shuddered with relief. When the boy spoke, his fear broke like a bad fever. "I heard you were ill. Are you better?"
"Gradually," he answered. "My health's coming. In small steps. A miracle."
The boy tilted his head, studying him for some secret weakness. "You believe in miracles? I wouldn't think so."
The man stopped, puzzled. His mouth felt wet and his tongue swollen as if it had been stung by bees.
"I mean, not in a good way, right. Not after the incident."
"What-do you kn."
"Well, I heard there was such a horrible noise they thought the tombs under the church had broken open. People live near the church, I think, didn't you know? They talked about it. Do you know they think that what happened was a miracle?"
"It wasn't."
The boy froze, gripping the banister tightly. "Why not? It was a sign of something special. Something not of this earth, and it had to let you know. It had to test you, someone of faith. You were outside. You ran."
"There-more to miracles than-….what you can see. A true miracle—is kindness in this world," he said, and suddenly a huge weight was lifted off his shoulders and his tongue felt whole. "Why do you think they talk of good, my lad? Because in the world, selfishness and deceit are the way of survival. Sometimes these things are necessary, hence the common nature of vices. Goodness is special."
The boy stared at him, as though he had been hit. "And moving doors and bloody water is not? Ethics are a human invention. A true manifestation of power is beyond human. Whether it wants to be or not. There has to be a reason, don't you think, to it. And that very reason makes it separated from the rest; it can not connect to the world. It couldn't, it would destroy it."
"Ah, so you think."
He paused, and offered some last consolation. "Someday you will learn you have to live your life in a way that will leave you with the least regrets."
"I regret nothing. I must be good, then," he said insolently.
"Yes, you must be, lad."
Mr. Thompson was too old. Too tired. But he couldn't help but feel a surge of pity and dismay. At what, he couldn't say.
On his death bed, a mere two years later, that boy's eyes were the only and last thing to enter his mind.
Now, with the clarity that comes with the end, he saw that they had not been altogether predatory. They had been begging, pleading, and needing, and in his last moment of consciousness, he left with doubt.
&&&
Tom's life regained its familiar pattern.
He didn't mind breaking the rules now and then, but the ever present threat-Caught! I'm caught!-kept him from doing anything too drastic to test his limits.
Then, near the end of May, Billy Stubbs turned up on the doorstep, wearing his father's faded blue Eton jacket and holding a large, metal cage in one chubby hand.
Billy's mother had died in childbirth. Tom would have considered the similarities to his own birth if he had cared to see them. His father, however, had left that year to chase his own fortune and Billy had remained behind with the elderly couple next door. This arrangement lasted for months until the small house had caught on fire.
It turned out that the picture books Billy regularly crumpled by the hearth had tempted fate one too many times. Maybe it was the loss of the house alone that had curbed the couple's affectionate regard for young Billy.
Either way, the rest of Billy's family had moved away or were dead. So, as a last resort, Billy's father had contacted Mrs. Cole with a letter and an investment. If she was unsure of his concern for his son's welfare, of course.
Tom himself had not greeted Billy that day. He had been lost in his daydreams, smiling in that half-secretive way, under the steps. He couldn't just crawl out in front of everyone. It seemed personal and private.
Instead, from under Billy's feet, Tom had regarded the boy as somewhat boorish. He spoke softly.. Unknown to Tom, William Alfred Stubbs had developed a mile wide stubborn streak; he always got what he wanted, and he had become used to everyone's pleasant agreement with him.
Tom realized a moment too late why Billy was a threat to him. Despite his stubborn and willful nature, Billy was generally quite friendly and agreeable. And Tom hadn't seen what was in the cage.
He climbed out of his hiding place, getting the familiar smudges on his nose and chin. Tom brushed his knees off and rearranged his treasures under the stoop; this ritual usually took three minutes. He was fastidious about it, nearly obsessive, and if he were to find one item moved, it would be the gravest treachery. It would make him unusually vulnerable, and he took a risk with this ritual.
Tom journeyed inside the orphanage expecting things to be as they were this morning. The orphanage was in an uproar.
Amy Benson called to him over the balcony. "Tom, it's a phabbit! A real phabbit! Come and see!"
Then she hopped up and down, wriggled her nose at him, and disappeared into the main hall. Inside, instead of the promised phabbit, there was a black rabbit encircled by a row of laughing children. Every hand descended on the animal who tried to escape to no avail. Tom supposed he knew how it felt and fervently wished it would bite someone.
At last, after changing hands for a full fifteen minutes, the game ended with Amy cradling it and cooing in the most simpering way imaginable.
"His name is Major," Billy said proudly. "My dad gave him to me, he's my responsibility. He's a special rabbit."
"How? He just looks like any old animal," Benjamin observed. Tom agreed but remained near the door, disturbed. No one had looked at him once except for Amy. He didn't seek attention; it came naturally to him. Now it seemed as if he didn't exist. He pinched his left arm just in case.
"Hah, that's what you think! He survived a fire. He broke out of his cage when we had all run outside. I thought he was done for until someone found him in the bushes."
"I don't believe it," Benjamin replied huffily. "A rabbit can't open a cage. They don't have thumbs!"
"Well, Major did, he's a lucky, magical rabbit."
That was the stupidest phrase Tom had ever heard and he stifled a laugh.
"Tom hasn't had his turn to hold him" Amy said, and still cradling it like she would a doll, she moved to dump it on Tom. He shook his head, but the rabbit had already begun to struggle in Amy's thin arms. Its eyes showed white rims around the pupils, and it dropped to the ground, darting under the beds.
"I didn't want to hold it," Tom informed the silent room. The children, superstitious in their youth, looked at one another.
"He doesn't normally act like that. He's usually really friendly," Billy said, giving him an odd look. Tom knew why; he was the oldest one here. "I'm-."
"Billy Stubbs, I know."
"Oh. Right. Well, I-."
Tom turned his back on him. Amy whispered to Billy, "That's just old, mad Tom. Mrs. Cole says to leave him alone."
Tom heard her, and made a note of it as he went back to his room. They avoided one another as long as they could, which lasted two hours.
He took his accustom place near the front of the dining line, daydreaming all the while. He noticed an odd design on the rim of the plate and studied it.
"Hey you, mad Tom. Mrs. Cole said the older kids last, I believe," Billy called from the end of the line, snapping him out of his reverie. Someone gasped. The hair on his neck prickled, and his heart sped up.
"What did you say?" he asked, softly. He felt a heavy pressure behind his eyes.
"You heard me. Get in the back with me, all right."
Mrs. Cole had her back to them, but Tom could tell she was listening hard. Her head was tilted. Tom hesitated; he was trapped.
"Go around him, you lot, he can't do anything to you."
And so they did, with little Amy Benson leading the way. They shuffled by him, some grinning from ear to ear. Tom again had the impression of not existing. Did he? If he was a figment or an empty space, he was a rather stupid one, holding a plate like an idiot.
He stared at each one, willing them to stop, to look at him, to remember. Remember, don't forget how it is. Don't forget me.
But they did, fluttering around the table, not even bothering to spare him a word. Billy suddenly clapped him on the back, almost making him drop the plate.
"Sorry, but those are the rules."
Tom wasn't angry about the rules. But he could bend them, and his existence…they could erase him so easily. Out of fear, (notrealnotreal) he flung the dish to the ground. It shattered into thousand of fine pieces and then, ha ha, he existed again.
Look, it's magic, he thought viciously, elated. His eyes shone strangely.
"You bastard!" Billy screamed, covering his face to protect it from the flying shards of porcelain. He caught the expression on Tom's face, and stepped back instinctively. He studied Tom as something, something dark and foreboding, began to occur to him.
"You…"
"Tom Marvolo Riddle!" Mrs. Cole cried out, a note of triumph in her voice. "I want every piece of that dish picked up right now. No dinner for you."
Tom insolently crossed his arms, forcing his body not to shake of out the sheer torrent of his emotions.
"I'll do it, ma'am," Billy said, and to Tom's—chagrin, embarrassment, anger, fear? (for he did not know himself), the blond boy picked up one large shard.
"Thank you, Billy, bless you. You boy, out of my sight."
Out of sight, out of mind.
For the first time in his life, he nearly cried. Hating himself, he fled to the main room and clasped his arms even tighter, not caring about the marks his nails made. Weak to be erased, that's what he was, and that boy had hurt him. Somehow, and he shook with anger and embarrassment, his ears dark red at the tips.
He heard the burrowing in the cage while he pretended to sleep, and there, in his sleep, formed the idea.
He knew exactly how to hurt Billy Stubbs.
&&&
Tom chuckled, placing both hands on the smaller boy's shoulders in a seemingly brotherly manner. Adam's face became round and open with fear. There, Tom thought, finding the hole in that fear and slipping through it.
"Do you really think," he said, adding a little more laughter. "That Stubbs can keep you safe from me? Can he stay up at all hours of the night? Every night? I doubt that. Or can he keep your food safe, not tainted with rat poison from the shed? Hold your hand to walk you to chapel? Whatever kind of marvel you believe Stubbs to be, he can't be everywhere at once. Now, let's try again. What will you say if questioned by the matron?"
"I-," the boy choked out, imagining the slow intrusive pain of poison with his small body. "I will tell her you were with me the whole time. Playing with my spare deck of cards."
"Good…" Tom paused. "I didn't know you had cards. I've had to use the second-hand ones, you know, donated from our benefactors, out of the kindness of their hearts. You, though, you had some the whole time…" He placed a hand to his chest, acting wounded.
Adam gulped, and looked away. "You can use them whenever you want, Tom."
"Like I would want anything of yours," he said sullenly. "Do you think me that desperate?"
Adam shook his head, casting his mind around in hope for a good enough response. Tom pictured a wet dog shaking to get the mud out of his fur. He shuddered at the sounds this image invoked in his mind, hot breath and yellow teeth.
"Oh, never mind. Listen, don't go to chapel today. You're skiving off, so we can have an alibi. And if I get caught, you do too. Now, get lost."
Adam fled the scene, and Tom watched the round boy stumble on his way out of the attic. Tom leaned back and admired the city from here. Compared to the dingy atmosphere of the orphanage, Tom longed for freedom. But first, he had to get out of here, and someday he would. He would take care of his position here, and Tom remembered the dark, humiliation that had almost made him cry.
He waited the nightly prayers with dread and anticipation. Dread at being caught, and anticipation to see if he could do it. Really do it.
&&&
"Hello, Major," he said softly, giving the rabbit a mock salute.
The rabbit was stock still in its cage, as if sensing danger or better yet, his difference from the familiar human, ordinary presence of his master. Animals can sense that sort of thing, Tom thought, and it made him feel a spark of satisfaction.
He moved the cage from the shelf and placed it on the floor. He sat down and with his chin cupped in his hand, eyed the thing for a minute, especially its quivering sides. His mind was blank, like floating in a fog, and then he focused on his task at hand.
"I've heard tale, you see, that you're a lucky rabbit." He tapped the cage knowingly. "I hate to tell you. It just breaks my heart, but you're very, very unlucky. To have survived a fire. Impressive, yes, well done. I should keep your foot with a record like that. Pity you have such a stupid bastard for a master. I almost feel sorry for you."
He opened the cage, and waited. He didn't have to will the rabbit to come out. Even a lucky rabbit could not resist the temptation of food. He merely kept his hand closed and outstretched, and he was patient. The rabbit inched forwards, and nudged his hand open with a cold, soft nose. It was an odd sensation, as the animal pressed itself against his palm, all the while looking hopeful. He bit his lip and allowed himself to touch its ears. They were soft and velvety and…
He shook his head, shuddering and pushing the thing away. Almost at least. It put both front feet on his knee and sniffed at him, trying to find some scent of a treat.
"You want something? First you have to earn it. Let's see if you can learn a new trick. Roll over," he said, with the commanding tone, and the glazed calmness engulfed him.
And it did it. As simply as that. It rolled over. The rabbit rolled over. He laughed, amused by the sight. "Hopscotch. Put some effort into it."
The rabbit, to his increasing amazement, began to hop on one leg to the other, apparently with discomfort. "Enough. Jump through my arms."
He made a perfect gaping o with his long arms and the rabbit jumped through, narrowly missing the jaws of failure. He was tempted to go on, an unfamiliar bubble of joy pulsing through him. He was so curious about his limits, but the rabbit was starting to hobble a bit and that wouldn't do. Not yet.
"Alright," he dug in his pockets and offered a spare bit of carrot he had snagged from the kitchens. "Take it, enjoy it. You deserve a final meal."
Tom stood and looked up at the rafters.
"Right by the window is perfect for you. Right where they can see you," he said, stepping on the cabinet and imagining a step. The warmth flooded him and there were stars behind his eyes, and they fell on him. His feet tingled, and he willed it. Made it.
He closed his eyes and took the first step. It held. He gasped, and almost fell from shock, but managed to grab on to the nearest rafter. He dangled there, and found the step again, and couldn't stop laughing. He meticulously tied the rope, noting every detail. There, a small noose. He let go, and bounced on the bed under him for a moment, landing on his back.
The rope swayed back and forth, as if shaking a finger in his face. He smiled back jauntily.
"Proof, Major? There's your bloody proof."
The rabbit feasted, ignoring him with practiced ease that came with living with a houseful of lost children.
Tom waited, peering over the bed post as the rabbit finished and turned its greedy eyes upon him.
"Now, Major, that's gluttony," he said solemnly. "Do you know you should be punished?" He proffered his hand again, letting it hang over the side of the bed in a similar fashion to the noose above him.
It inched forwards again, to his hand and nudged him. He caught it. It did not struggle as it should have but let itself be picked up, probably expecting a rapid fire of petting.
"And for his next trick," he said, in his best ring master voice though he had never been to the circus. "The high dive. Walk the rope, Major. Jump through the hoop," Tom said, willing it to be. And it was.
The rabbit suddenly jumped in a feat of aerodynamics that was unimaginable, straining its hind legs to the point where Tom thought his muscles would tear. It looked like a dive-bomber, literally, diving downwards in midair. Yet it actually made it.
His heart stopped when it gave a tremendous screech of pain and started to struggle.
"You stupid thing," he said, and tried to reach for it to pull it down, batting its hind legs in frustration. He had wished he hadn't tried it, and the screeching was mind-numbing. He almost couldn't take it and someone would hear this. Surely they had to. He had meant for its neck to break, not a prolonged scene of agony.
"Be quiet," he hissed, but the glaze would not come, and the rabbit squealed and kicked, practically painted his hands red with guilt if someone should…he fled, taking one last look at the struggling shadow against the window, fighting for life and losing by a landslide.
Adam was in his room, pale and hugging his knees to his chest. He had heard.
"W-what is that? What did you do?" he sobbed, clasping his hands around his ears.
"What we did," Tom said harshly, tugging Adam's hands free. "What you helped me do."
"Make it stop, please, make it stop."
"I can't," he snapped. "Get up. We have to get to the attic. We can't be where we should have overheard it. Where are your damn cards, where are they!"
"You're a monster, I don't carry if I get caught, I don't care-."
"You'll sound like that, then, if you dare go back on your word," Tom said, his eyes cold.
Adam got his cards from under his mattress, and though it was a battle, Tom pushed him up the ladder to the attic where the wind was howling, drowning out the sounds of the dying animal. As he watched the slightly out-of-breath boy struggle up the ladder, an act made difficult by his sweat, Tom had a realization, that only the two of them in here would give them away.
He dashed off while the boy was almost near the top, and thundered down the stairs. He gave the door a push, the part where his mind burned in exhaustion. He struggled back to the landing, his vision started to dot out. His hands felt like rubber gloves (stained ones) and he made himself move…and saw Adam pulling up the ladder as quickly as his chubby hands would allow him. With flare of fury, betrayal, and fear, he lunged and desperately clung to the ladder, his weight almost pulling Adam through the opening.
His face, for a moment, contorted into a snarl, and he felt it but couldn't stop it. He could have killed the treacherous, lying boy without batting an eye, and Adam, not used to such undiluted hatred being directed at him, turned to the color of sour milk.
"I-I", he stuttered, once again shaking his head. This time though, he was truly begging, afraid of what Tom could do to him, or so it seemed. He looked like a small rodent cowering before a cobra after scurrying over its tail.
Tom's mind was a mantra of criticism. The horror he felt at being stupid enough to turn his back on Adam, to allow the younger, stupider boy to almost succeed in out-maneuvering him. Also, though, there was an unexpected dose of surprise. Surprise, that the one who had been so frightened by him would have dared to make such a move. He had not thought it possible.
He climbed it hastily, hearing the voices from downstairs, and with one arm outstretched, made sure that Adam couldn't hit him over the head with one of his old chessboards he had hidden up there.
The image of being discovered in the hall covered with broken pawns and only half conscious was too much for him to bear. He was practically crying with rage by the time he pulled up the ladder. Adam was curled up in the corner, weeping, looking so much like the rabbit Tom had just hung that he had to blink.
"I'm…I'm not going to forget this," he said, meaning several things at once. Never turn your back, never. Foolish, the end of his world almost came to pass over a stupid oversight. How could he have been so stupid? He never made mistakes like this. He clenched his fist, feeling pain and blood on his palms. "I'll never forget."
"Just leave me alone. I won't tell, just leave me alone," Adam sobbed.
"Of course," Tom said, feeling detached. Was he so repulsive? He must be. Things were caving in now. "Right. Wipe your eyes and we won't get punished."
"Is that all you think about?" Adam asked. "After killing Major, that's all you have to say? You're mad, Tom."
He blinked, not understanding and at the same time, knowing too much.
"The cards."
He shifted through the old cards mechanically, waiting.
"Tom, Adam, where are you hiding?" Mrs. Cole called upstairs, angrily. "Why aren't you two roundabouts at the service?"
Adam's lip quivered. Tom remained stoic.
"Oh…oh merciful God," Mrs. Cole screamed. "Who! Mr. Gardener! Come quickly, oh, someone's hung themselves!"
How on earth the women mistook a rabbit for a child was beyond Tom's comprehension. But he pushed Adam down the ladder and arranged his face into horror at hearing Mrs. Cole's cries. Somehow he thought Mrs. Cole sounded relieved. Somehow did the old woman mistake the rabbit for him? His mind fermented into a quick poison.
Mr. Gardener raced up the steps. Tom and Adam skidded behind Mrs. Cole, who pointed at the rabbit and clutched at her throat.
"It's…it-s," Tom said, imagining the cook's horrible food and becoming convincingly teary-eyed. "It l-looks like Billy's rabbit, ma'am."
"You!" she shrieked and grabbed his ear so hard that he cried out. His heart dropped to his feet. She knew. The old biddy knew. Adam looked on silently. Hopefully.
"Wait!" Tom yelled. "Couldn't he still be here?"
Of course, Tom was referring to the bunny killer, and technically, it was the truth. The woman froze as if slapped across the face.
"Mr. Gardener! There's a pervert inside the house! He might be—!"
The grizzled man had always had the face of a toad, and he still stared dully at the mangled shape as if it were a particularly ugly chandelier, as if he couldn't quite wrap his mind around what his eyes were seeing. Tom hadn't the faintest idea what a pervert had to do with Billy's dead rabbit, but it wasn't the time to ask.
"Oh, hang it!" she cried out at him, swatting him on the head, then blanched at her choice of words. "You two, get to the chapel and tell the others to stay inside and stay together. It has to be a pervert! Mr. Gardener, do something!"
He blinked.
"Take the disgusting thing down and find him, you fool! You have to fight him away and save us all!"
Even though Mr. Gardener was naturally pale, his face suddenly resembled a tomato.
"W-well, now, let's not be hasty. He's probably long gone after he got a gander at me through the window."
"Don't stand there gaping, Tom, Adam, hurry!" She shooed them out, like a hustled big hen. "Oh, we're doomed with such a knobhead as a protector."
That night was spent in the chapel. Tom chose the bench near the back, the one with a nice view out the window. He crossed his arms and stared at the images on the ceiling; beautiful, exquisite. The details took him in, and he imagined that he wasn't on a bench among children in the same outfit. He was in another place, exploring a new world.
Billy sobbed, sniffling into his hands.
"My dear, I'm sure he didn't suffer long. I'll buy you a new rabbit as soon as the money from your father comes through the post. We already have the cage, at least the pervert didn't take that."
Tom raised an eyebrow. Typical Colian fabrications. Well, the rabbit would be replaced shortly, since the post would come in two days.
He stretched out to get more comfortable. But his hands felt as heavy as if they had mittens on them. Look what his hands have done, look how easily it had stopped breathing, moving, living. Time had stopped; that was it, there is no more. The ease of it…made him feel his own mortality all the more sharply. If he was mortal that was…if it was allowed for something like him.
"There has to be a reason," he repeated. But at the same time, someone could come for him, in the night. He stayed awake, looking into the eyes that were really holes and jewels. What if he was the only special one left, what if he made a mistake and messed up the whole of the world? Why couldn't he be good enough to cure his fears?
Tom realized he was hungry for finality; he also realized satisfaction was wherever those jeweled eyes were.
&&&
A week later, he perched on the window sill, escaping the maze of worries through a good book.
Billy had a new rabbit. It had been smaller and less impressive than the large and slightly fat Major; this one was a girl rabbit, with a perfectly pink nose. It also bit. It was safe to say Billy's popularity and position as a figure of reverence among the younger children dropped with each wounded finger.
"She must think your noses are carrots," Tom observed, as a whole batch of girls fled from the hopping terror.
But the formerly treasured rabbit was successfully forgotten.
"I know what you did, Riddle," a voice hissed in his ear, with a breath that was tainted by chewing gum. Tom winced at the heat and sensation on his neck, and jerked his head away.
Billy Stubbs face was empty of expression, disbelieving, and his lip was curled in disgust. He practically spat at Tom.
"What?" Tom asked, peering over the edge of the book curiously, all the while hiding his grin.
"You're sick. Really, really sick," Stubbs whispered. "I told Mrs. Cole as much, you can bet on it."
Tom's grin slid off his face.
"Oh, I get what you're on about now. Look, I know we've had our differences. But, you know, it could have been Adam or me strung up by our necks. It's lucky we were upstairs. Honestly, would you suspect that I could do something like that? Just over my place in the food line? Come on."
"It was more than a food line to you, Riddle. You think I didn't see the look on your face when I made you move to the back. And Adam, well, Adam isn't speaking at all. Not one bit after being alone, with you."
"I suspect he's in shock. I've had my fair share of nightmares after seeing your rabbit dangling there, Stubbs. He's younger than me so just imagine the possibility of almost being that rabbit…I couldn't hear a thing, and Adam will agree. It was really rotten that day, terrible weather, and I'm sorry. It's not my fault you left him alone, you know. You should have kept a better-."
"Shut up. You shut up right now."
"Or what? You'll hit me? Because you've been wanting to for ages and now you have some pitiful excuse? Go on. Try it."
"You know what they do to people like you," Stubbs said, changing track. "They lock them up and throw away the key. Put them in straightjackets, so they can't do harm to anyone else. And if Mrs. Cole catches you, if I catch you, then that's it."
Tom had not held any suspicion of insanity. It had never occurred to him that he might be mad. That all his acts of magic, his own private acts, could be a delusion. A form of sickness that he himself would not know of and could not detect.
"You think I'm…mad then?" he asked, hating the catch in his voice.
"Yes, Riddle, I do. And mad people always make a mistake sometime. They can't help it."
Tom sat frozen, as Stubbs stalked away. To wait.
He closed his book and hurried down the stairs, to his secret place where he spoke…
Tom stopped and leaned against the wall. Oh, just the place he regularly conversed with snakes.
Caught, his mind screamed. Caught from the inside out.
He forced himself to watch each memory, each incident again, playing them again and again in vicious repetition in his head. He punished himself, sinking to the floor and gritting his teeth together.
…Mr. Thompson had been drunk and had taken a tumble down the steps of the church His-his madness had done the rest The snakes hissed and he added the words, his treacherous sickness had colored their behavior; they were only garden snakes after all, plain and harmless Elizabeth had struggled in a bad dream and…
Tom held his head, wanting to tear the disease out of him. Did they see him? Is that why no one had adopted him, unlike countless others of average children? Had they somehow sensed that he was flawed, out of his head, and crippled, ill, his insides all rotten? Something was wrong with his brain, something didn't connect as it should have, and his parents could have been mad too. That's why they never came back, they were locked up in straightjackets, raving and sick and empty; they had passed on their cancer filled minds to him.
To save him from their fate but alas, he was eaten from the inside out, nice, slow, and undetectable. Or only one parent had been stricken and the other…the other had wanted nothing to do with him.
"Tom, what's ailing you?" Mrs. Cole asked, alarmed. She had opened her door and spotted him. "What's that on your shirt?"
Blood had welled under his nails and had dripped on his collar. He felt the marks on his face, and turned away quickly. His hands shook. She was looking for the signs of it, damn her!
"I'm…I'm tired, is all. Didn't sl--," he began and then caught himself. Don't mention the dreams, his other half warned. "I'm going to bed."
Of course, she didn't want the other children to catch it. "That's wise of you, Tom. I'll save you a plate if you change your mind."
Up the stairs again, never to outrun it. Can't run from yourself, thoughtless and cruel rule. Trapped within himself, he was all he had. The room was stifling, the season poor for merciful air. The sun, lighting on the dust that often lurked in crowded places, also drew his fevered eyes to the stain on the floor.
Mr. Gardener had scrubbed the wood like a ma-like---his mind blinked, threatening to fade on him and he fought it, rather like a certain rabbit had.
If he was only crazy: he backed away from the seemingly full space where Major had run out of luck. If his mind was only an empty desert of mirages:
You will die, a voice said cheerfully, reasonably. It was Mr. Thompson's load, buoyant voice. Why, you will die, lad.
No…NonononoNO, his mind babbled, and in the torrent of denials and pleas, he looked at the space and saw himself swinging in the mirrors, in the windows, in the shadows. Back and forth like a pendulum on a clock.
He burrowed in the other foundations of his mind; in rich forbidden jungles and old castles.
He woke to low voices and by instinct, he kept his eyes closed.
"Should we restrain him? You saw the broken glass. His hands are bleeding, you're a witness to it."
"I'm thankful you summoned me in time. I've just stopped the bleeding."
"Yes. So we should, do you think, tie his arms to the bed. To make sure he doesn't do harm to himself."
"No…he's been through a great deal tonight. We mustn't make it worse. He's cooler now. At first, I thought…I thought his fever was above a hundred and five. His forehead practically burned my hand for a moment."
The doctor (or Tom assumed so) laughed nervously.
"What is wrong with him?" Mrs. Cole asked, bluntly after walking around on egg shells long enough.
"He appeared to have suffered some sort of fit."
"From the brain?" Mrs. Cole interrupted. "He's--he's always been an odd child, doctor, even when he was just a baby. I think it's best if he's separated from the other children. Perhaps if you were to take him with you, to a place for people like him…I've done all I can, and all I can stand. If he's sick, then he should be in a place for his sickness."
"Occasionally children have these fits, Mrs. Cole, but though we don't know what causes them completely, we are sure that being odd isn't a contributing factor."
"You don't get my meaning, doctor."
"Actually, quite the opposite. But he's young. All children are a bit mad, as a rule." He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "It adds to their charm."
"I--."
"Mrs. Cole, I am…very careful not to…assume anything without thorough observation. This could be just an isolated incident. Is he violent?'
Tom cursed Billy Stubbs with all his being.
"Yes, he had an outburst some days ago. Threw a plate right at another boy, scared me out of my wits. And I think…I think he…I'm not sure. I can't say. But usually he's quiet about it, sir, he's a clever sort of mad."
She shushed herself, embarrassed.
"And he's only nine years old?"
"He'll be turning ten soon."
"I see. Well, make sure he gets his rest. Summon me if there are any incidents. Any at all. And if he is proven to have…acted irrational, I will take the proper steps."
"I will, thank you. You don't know much this means-."
The door shut behind her, blocking the rest of her words. The sick room became Tom's permanent residence at the orphanage.
&&&
Tom treasured the visits to the beach.
He would never confide this to any living soul. Despite his inner resistance, he would catch himself counting down the days to the regulated outing.
The other children loved the beach because it was a rare treat, because they liked getting sand in their hair and building sand castles, because they would tempt the tides shamelessly, running toward and then away from the white crest that crept along the shore. Nature's very own game of cat and mouse.
Tom found a different form of recreation. The yells and unyielding laughter made him weary, made something spark inside of him. The cheers and claps made him long to silence them. He sought shelter from the noise, disappearing behind the rocks and dunes.
Mrs. Cole never minded. He suspected she would not have been sorry if the waves took him; thus, he was always aware of the white crests, if not just for sheer spite. In his own way, he suspected the water would change if he stepped in. It was change from being playful, like with the other children to….he shuddered, and imagined drifting away, the currents tossing him like a doll, and Mrs. Cole watching, her hand shading her eyes. A smile on her face.
He hated her for it; even though it had never happened, he hated her for it dearly. He would observe the seemingly endless ocean, its darkness. Its depths. And relish it, despite his fear.
It was in his solitude that he had discovered the cave. At first he thought it was a tower, a bewildering sight. Then he recognized it for what it was, a cave carved out by the waves ages and ages ago. It looked like a fortress, and indeed, as if by intent rather than chance, it literally was. As far as he could tell, it would be impossible to climb up easily.
He wondered if any of the villagers he had seen on the way here would know about it. But…but no. They wouldn't. He knew it was meant, as if it had been hiding, only to reveal itself to him. Tom felt it.
He was afraid of the cave. He was drawn to it as well. He was caught, plainly and simply.
So it was only natural that during his time of self-doubt, he would think of the cave. It both threatened him and consoled him, and at this point, it would be the test.
The day was hot, and the ride was worse. Tom surveyed the others thoughtfully from his place in the back, having claimed the whole seat for himself. He stretched out, tired from his insomnia, and wondered whom he would pick.
The village was more crowded than usual; a few families fleeing from the cities and the main part of the country like frightened children. It was then that Tom realized their stagnation as people but it wasn't an outright thought. It was in a moment of disgust, nothing more or less.
Tom was afraid he would lose his chance with the crowd. He was rueful until he stopped Amy Benson. Alone.
"Hullo, Tom," she muttered shyly, blushing. "I-er-I found these, would you like them?"
She pushed the wet sandy shells into his hands. One shell was black among the rest. He considered the irony, how this world seemed to strive to speak to him. To reflect his image back to him whether he desired it or not.
Black was like the shadows on the wall, and in his subconscious mind, he feared what was waiting for him. Everything waited, and wanted him.
"Yes, I see, they are pretty," he said, casting the black shell aside. "Pretty things for pretty girls, I suppose," he added as an afterthought.
She smiled, her baby teeth holding on by thin, red threads. He winced inwardly.
"Well, you've shown me something. Now I have something special to show you. It's only fair."
"Like what?" a voice opined from his left. It was Dennis Bishop, a ruddy little boy known for his tendency to butt into everyone else's business. He was the orphanage informant. At a remarkable age, his skills for brownnosing made him both hated and feared by the older children. Yet…
…and yet, could he rely on Amy's testimony alone? With her temperament, she would likely believe anything he said. This was the girl who had inadvertently glued her finger up her nose and had to still be discouraged from pulling her yellow dress over her head. Yes, he would need the two of them. Two birds, one stone, as the saying goes.
"I can't very well tell you now, you know. It will ruin the surprise," Tom said. "But I guarantee it is unlike anything you've ever seen before."
Both pairs of eyes grew wide as saucers on the children's round faces.
"Really? Is it a buried treasure? A broken wing from a plane?" Dennis asked.
"Is it a message in a bottle? Oh, I've heard of that before!" Amy chirped.
Tom just smiled.
"Follow me."
They did, holding hands in a ridiculous fashion and skipping at intervals. The dark red feeling of wanting them to stop was building slowly, stone by terrible stone, but Tom restrained himself. He was solemn and focused (desperate). It was a trial to take each step, while the pair behind him frolicked about mindlessly. They made him realize once more how different he was.
And if:
And if…this wasn't real? And if they didn't see a thing, didn't react
in any way, and look at him blankly, Tom didn't know what would happen to him. If he was mad, a few short of the pale… The possibilities were a thicket of pain and he told himself he hated them, all of them, the collective them. He told himself that, but he felt the hate sting now. Being special was a burden, wasn't it?
All their weaknesses seemed to be his reflection, as if the world was made around him, and he couldn't fight away that impression. The sun was terribly unforgiving today, and the salty air burned and bit. It would be peaceful near the top, though, Tom knew.
They passed by several adults, chattering mindlessly, and Mrs. Cole, sitting on a chair clutching her gin, did not see the trio pass behind her. They came to the edge of the cliff. Sea birds flew over head, and Amy giggled at them.
"What's all this?" Dennis asked, eying him suspiciously. "Are you taking the mickey?"
The cliff was higher than he had previously believed. If he failed, he would break his legs for sure. Or less mend-able things.
"Tom," Amy whispered, pulling on his sleeve. "See the pretty bird. Think we can fly if we hang on to its feet." She put her thumb in her mouth, staring at the sea bird with the intensity of a surgeon under an air raid.
"Well," he said, grabbing her shoulders. "Let's find out." He leaned back.
Dennis shouted and ran forward, and Tom grabbed him by his collar. Then he let himself go, and willed it. Make it real or I have no reason. Let me have it, or I will take it.
And he took it. The trio plummeted two feet before the air gathered under his feet and held him. The two children let out a scream that caught in their throats like a hiccup. They clung to him, depended on him: needed him. Their very little hearts needed his will to continue to beat. They fluttered against him, and it was so very easy.
To let it slip through his hands, and spill forth, into the vat of time that he now knew had no place for him. It was real.
He was powerful. He was possibly the greatest manifestation of pure power on this earth. He started to laugh, out of relief and undiluted ecstasy. It bubbled out of him, flooded out of him, and everything stood out. The sky, water, and the very earth were no longer grey, and dull, and deathly. Everything was colorful and wonderful and real. Sensation after sensation assaulted him. He had reached his peak only to find countless more summits.
They struggled, like birds, within his grasp, and he came back to his senses. He was the epitome of sanity, he reasoned, his powers granted him that, had shown him that, and he had a responsibility for the rest of the madhouse.
"I did promise, didn't I? To show you something you'll never, ever forget. I will keep my word."
Their eyes were glorious, and he drank their depths in, the white rims around their pupils. They stared at him, and the helplessness…oh, the helplessness, the feebleness of them…he would eradicate that flaw. Vulnerable and raw and imperfect, though he savored each blemish with the eye of connoisseur.
In utter silence, they drifted towards the ground. The children groped for the ground, and fell to their knees. Wet eyes. Shining eyes like jewels.
He was calm in the face of the cave that stared at him like a great monster, a great abyss. The shadows could not longer touch him.
"Get up, you two. Have some backbone. You are at the edge now. I have taken you there, I have chosen you two to experience this. Don't tell me you're too weak to stand."
He held out his hand towards Amy. "Trust me, Amy, I have never hurt you before. Get up."
She took his hand, with not the slightest degree of affection or trust for him, he knew. She just needed someone's presence right now. Her mind, quite possibly, could not grasp what had just occurred; it was slipping, sliding, and skipping down the endless slope of instability. Her eyes, fading from their former luster, now looked empty, peaceful as if her focus had fled out of necessity.
Amy was responding to his familiarity. Dennis was all too focused, and Tom saw that the boy had soiled himself. Disgusted, Tom drew Amy closer to him, and left Dennis on the ledge.
It grew darker as they ventured inside. Tom willed himself to see, and he did. He tightened his grip on Amy's hand. If he had been lead here to meet his end…if that is why he saw this place, he would have to flee. Her presence was a comfort, he thought wrathfully.
The cave ended, and they came to the edge of the lake. He could not have seen a more beautiful sight. The lake was perfectly formed and unimaginably deep. It was like an ancient lake from a long ago epic. The roof of the cave sparked with deep, emerald stalactites; there were formation of rocks like sacred veils and waterfalls, and there were rows of shapes like icy frost. It was a perpetual storm. The lake was deep for he could not see the bottom. There was another ledge of sorts, where the rocks almost made a long table, a fitting end to the perfection.
His knees were weak, and his pleasure was nearly as deep as the water.
Amy let go and threw herself by the shore, her small, cherubic face staring back at her vacantly. She shuddered.
He moved her hair out of her face, and looked into the water with her. Her eyes looked on his face in the water, and she seemed to want to back away. She started to make a scream at the very back of her tiny throat, and he listened, gripping her hair.
"Amy. I see you."
Her lips trembled like a string of a violin.
"Don't be afraid. Have you heard the stories about me? You're a smart girl. I'm sure you have. Too smart to believe in anything without seeing it first, right. Watch carefully."
He raised his hand, and instead of merely willing it, tore into it instead, imagining himself a warrior in a battle, swinging.
The water rippled at first then cleaved neatly in two.
"Look, do you see the shapes? The animals that were forgotten here? Do you suppose they're hungry? This place wants you. It has been waiting for you. It is what you have dreamed of."
Dark shadows began to dart across the forced divide, like lace in an old dress. Her eyes followed them, and she started to choke.
"Stop that, breathe. It's alright," he said, cupping her face. "Just breathe and you will leave this place a good little girl. Just keep watch, keep showing me the truth."
She breathed, trying to bury her face into her shoulder, and when he wouldn't let her, she hid her face in his shirt.
"Tell me what you saw, and I will let you go. Back to your silly dolls and your silly thoughts. Tell me the truth, Amy."
"…They're not real," she whispered, and he felt an icy jolt in his heart. "Please, Tom, take me back. I'm scared."
Her plea was met with silence, and she stared up at him. "I like you, Tom. Please. You're like my brother, that's what Mrs. Cole said, we're a family. Please."
"I can't," he said, dizzy and sick. "I…"
A shout came from the entrance of the cave, and Tom looked only to feel something hit his forehead. His vision did really turn dizzy, and he put his hand up to feel blood. Dennis appeared, yelling wildly and cradling a handful of stones.
As he let go of her, Amy fell between the parted walls of water, and his concentration, that focused point, faded. The walls came together without protest or mercy.
Dennis only screamed louder, a constant screeching sound much like the rabbit, and Amy's vague shape spiraled downward without a sound.
"You dumb little wretch!" Tom screamed at him. "Look what you've done."
"You arsehole," Dennis screeched. "You monster. You freak. You murderer!"
With each curse, a new stone flew with increased intensity, and Tom dodged them, and willed. One of Dennis's own weapons turned to catch him between the eyes. And the shadows hissed, and the real things that lived there heard Tom's command and slivered to surround and cover the boy.
Tom, near exhaustion, pulled her up, and almost lost her as his endurance was spent. He thought of the doctor and the locked room.
He grabbed her hand and pulled her ashore. The dark shapes clung to her and followed her movements. He pounded his fists on her back, and she coughed up water, her eyelids blue and venous.
Dennis had passed out, the serpents still collected on his small frame like a blanket. He led the wandering girl into the sun, and drug the boy out. Amy looked on the verge of an epiphany, her mouth half forming a word and her cheeks now scarlet. Her eyes held tears, though Tom supposed it would be the lake water.
He took her shoulders, took her into his arms, and rocked her back and forth. Much like she had done to Major. That was what it was to him. That's what she was to him. It was his right to show her how she looked, when such a difference of existence was between the two.
He placed his finger against her mouth. "Don't betray me. I'll have to bring you back here. A part of you will always be here."
Dennis blinked at him, half blinded by the sun, and Tom issued the same warning. However, he placed a cave pearl inside Amy's pocket. So she wouldn't forget.
They had wandered half sleepily and half vacantly towards Mrs. Cole by chance, and Tom kept his distance and his silence on the way home. He had never been so tired and his head hurt.
&&&
"I won't have you leave this room beyond the scheduled hours or without my permission, Tom," Mrs. Cole said. "Do you understand? I can't catch you but I know. Do you hear me? I know. Amy Benson can hardly string two sentences together. If I had my way, I would beat this out of you. I would make you stop this, whatever you do. Stay to yourself. You're good at that, aren't you."
He murmured sleepily from the sick bed. "Yes, Mrs. Cole. Goodnight, Mrs. Cole."
And that was that. Tom enjoyed the peace, the cat-like grey that had descended upon him. Calm followed him for a spell. He snuck out to the city for his books and to think about his future. When would that final piece of the puzzle fall into place?
The other orphans disappeared. Adoption, mostly. He was in his sick room, and heard the families laughing. He couldn't entirely understand it, and he ignored the slight pain. It was very slight. He couldn't be hugged now, he knew. He had transcended, and by sight, any person of sense would know instinctively and they would stop short.
Double-edged sword, yes. He dived into his books, reaped from the small local bookshops, remembering the one woman who came close to adopting him when he had been two. Maybe she took him home for a day.
He remembers a coat. An overcoat. Perhaps it was raining that day. Perhaps the sky had torn open and had washed the idea away.
Didn't realize he was such a…strange child. He didn't react to…
An odd memory, an untouched memory. He buried it with words. Words of all patterns. Meanings, in the words, like in the legends and the stories. It became a pastime.
Made my husband uncomfortable. Our cat wouldn't go near him.
He turned eleven, and felt it strongly. Time was stealing by him, and he was unsure if he should fear it.
A Mistake.
He read on, seeking a clue in whatever form it would appear before him. In times of turmoil, there arises the need for…
A sign.
He was pulled from his readings by two sharp knocks.
"Tom? You've got a visitor."
-Thank you for reading!