Disclaimer: Toby belongs to the genius's who created the greatest broadway musical, Sweeney Todd
A/N: Toby's my favourite character in Sweeney Todd, but I'm not used to writing in a ten year old's point of view. Constructive critisism is welcome, along with any sort of review you would like to give.
At the Workhouse
Toby's POV
The screaming subsided somewhat after John handed out the gin. The new boys were divided into two types. The ones who drank it and screamed, gasping as it ripped down their throats, and the ones who didn't want to drink in fear of experiencing more pain… I had been in the second group as a child. But I wasn't a child anymore. I had learned quickly that the short fire in your throat is much better than the pure torture of the hell of night. In the workhouse, there wasn't much room for sleep, so they piled all of us in a large room, with rotting wood floors and sickly walls. The stench from the floorboards was revolting, and at night, it seemed to intensify. John said this was because when you lost a sense (eyesight, seeing as it was completely black by the time we were to go to bed.) all the others intensified. So you could smell the rotting wood and gore of the workhouse at night when it was dark. The rats fought in the corners, and those of us who didn't want to drink the gin would squeal and cry at the sound of small bodies ripping at each other. Sometimes, the rats would get tired of fighting each other and would come after one of us boys. They came after me once. I lost my toe on my right foot. So John bandaged it up real nice, and gave me some gin, then he told me to get back to work.
Through the thin walls, you could sometimes hear the whores and prostitutes scream as men tried to take them. Their voices were thick with age; ribbon stranded with husky seduction as they called out to one another, or offered themselves to the drunken men walking past. The drunken men were even worse. They would yelp with joy when a whore would offer, then they would slam them against the walls of the workhouse and take them in the street and then throw them, along with the coins, on the ground to recover. Sometimes the men would come into the workhouse and pick off a boy to take him away. I was always torn when this happened. Being in the workhouse was desecrating, it was torture to work eighteen hours a day just to sleep on a rotting wooden floorboard and listen to the cries and demons of the night. But those men were terrifying, their eyes filled with malice, their blood boiling over with liquor, and their teeth, pointed like a jack-o-lantern on Halloween, and yellow skin that stretched over their bones tight, always tugging tighter when they smiled as they found the boy they planned on taking. Then Signor Pirelli came, his eyes rolling, his stomach filled with alcohol, and he pointed to me, told me to get up. When I didn't, he came over to me, smiled a malicious smile, and grabbed my arm and tugged. I heard something crack but I was afraid to think of what it was. The boys that were still awake were screaming. He pulled on my arm harder, grunting in an effort to pull me away from the workhouse. I was afraid to leave. Then I heard the rats, they were coming for me, scuffling along the rotted wood to my side, teeth bared and dripping with spit, waiting to sink into my flesh. I screamed and Signor Pirelli yanked me to my feet and dragged me out of there. As he closed the door, I wrapped my arms around his waist. "Thank you, sir, thank you so much." I cried. He pulled out of my grasp and grabbed my chin.
"Don't cry, you bloody bastard!" he said, and he pushed me hard, onto the ground in front of him. He kicked my back. "Get up, you lump!" I did as I was told. He grabbed my injured arm again and dragged me away. I could still hear the screaming.
A/N: I really do hate Pirelli. Please review!
