Why You Were Left Here
A/N: My little sister is in love with this movie for a reason or reasons I just can't understand. She sat me down with her one day after I promised I would watch the movie with her and in the end I ended up with the happiest villain song ever stuck in my head for four days, ten hours, forty seven minutes, and twelve seconds. During that time, this thing began to form in my mind, which I have decided to name 'Disaster' for some reason, only to be renamed for the sake of the story.
Prologue Summary: A thneed may have been a fine thing that everyone needed at one point, but right now he just needed this child and his conscious to leave him alone, and right now she needed someone to help her.
'In this crazy little world of ours, everything is a paper drawing.
The vibrant blue watercolors of the sky touches down on the crayon green grass down below, while finger painted flowers sprout from the pads of an index finger.
Nothing is perfect about it, not even the light bulb sun that hangs on a hook in the air, forever undecided on where it would prefer to be.
So instead it ducks behind the popsicle-stick houses and in between the origami trees, casting the dancing shadows upon any who cross its pencil fixed path.
Dolls stay shut up in their houses, unable to venture outward until the strings of their limbs are pulled on by an unseen force, willing them to move in a way that it seems fit.
Any form of life is willed to live by the same force that moves us all. Some are called earlier than most, and with a lack of development, the newborn flower is withering already and weak from her short life.
A crimson red erupts from her throat like magma, crawling down her lips in a river like trickle before landing to collect around her body, browning upon drying and staining the once green, now brown earth that was below her
A thick, mud like smog now wafts up from all around her, choking whatever fight is left in her until every flickering ember is extinguished.
From a far away tower, an angel watches her with gentle eyes, holding the remains of the true blue sky before it was painted.
She will surely die should she stay in the toxic earth any longer, finding now a terror in the earth she once loved and the earth that once loved her in return.
It has forsaken her, much like the flowers among the rest of the dying field, and the angel pities her because of this.
The two are one in the same. A higher being, and a lowly mud dweller. This invisible connection wills the angel up and out of its home in the heavens, to collect the dying life and being it to a much safer haven where suffering is not allowed.
The will of the little flower has left it by now, so it closes the petals around its small head before allowing the angel to carry it away.'
The owner of a tall standing structure on the corner of the street of the lifted Lorax set down his pen and looked and away from the paper he had been working on as he peered out between the two wooden planks that held his window shut, looking for his muse or inspiration, which was still found on the ground right where he had found her since the day he first began his poem. A little girl she looked to be, about four maybe, with stringy blonde locks that fell about her pale and thin face. The dress she wore was as dark as the earth about her, making her body from the neck down blend in to the earth in such a way that it made her quite easy to miss. She laid unmoving on her side, with a thin trickle of red running down her pale lips and sinking into the dirt beneath her head. She had been that way for quite a while now, ever since she had first collapsed in front of the home just days earlier. The hermit had seen her fall, but he did nothing to try and held the little child, seeming to fear that he would end up doing the child more harm than good should he attempt anything.
'Is she dead?' He often found himself thinking as he paced about his room, silently peaking out of the window and down at the child. 'If she is, well then what good is it to leave and go check on her?'
With that in mind, he didn't go down to check on her, and instead decided to write about her, comparing her death to that of a flower, and his watching of her as that as an angel, as if trying to convince himself that he was one. Just like he had done during the time of the Lorax and the truffla trees. This thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, as he looked down at the ground below him now at the still laying little girl. It almost angered him that her body was still there, disturbing his solitude and trying to give him company and fresh ideas for a new start, which were two things that he just didn't want.
'Just leave her be. If shes dead then she will decay.' One half of his mind said, but then the other always would come back with, 'If she is alive, then wake her up and she will leave.'
"But I can't just leave her there..." He muttered to himself, looking back down and sighing.
From below, the sickly thick wind blew lowly around her, pushing both her hair and the smog around her around in an unplanned dance, bringing both the smell of blood, smog, and an unknown sound up the very top window of the building. Whimpering, was the child whimpering? Well, it surely sounded like it, and this was enough to cause panic in the man who heard it.
"Alive... Is she alive!?" He spoke outloud, pressing himself against the wooden barrier and looking down as far as he could.
Sure enough, the child had moved, now lying on her back and her squinted eyes peering blankly up at the sky. Even after all of this time of being left on the ground for dead, she was still alive, and from the sounds of things she was very scared and in need of assistance.
'Go get her!'
It was a lone thought, but it caused a force that pushed the hermit up and out of his room, down the hall, and several flights of stairs just to get to the front door.
