After Near left me, in the stuffy room, Roger returned. The table was removed, the chairs moved back into their original positions, and the toys, were taken. They came for us, they came for us all. We were all put back into the confined cupboard once again. Locked away, imprisoned. Until we forgot who we were. we used to talk, and sing. We used to pray, and share tales of the days we were played with. But slowly, we grew old, and cobwebs gathered around us. No longer had we the energy to talk, or share tales of troubled pasts, and so we had to try all we could just to stay alive.

Cobwebs gathered around my musty ears, and dust formed. We were no longer the 'young ones' that we used to be, but old decrepit creatures. No longer we listened to the young ones telling of the old tales, and legends, for we were the old tales. Us, myself, Ellie the doll with half an arm missing, Lila the patchwork elephant, Mungo the old monkey with only half an ear, and of course the jack in the box, jack. We were the oldest in the cupboard, the ones who no longer talked. Instead, we listened to the young ones, rabble.

They talked of a better world, of an island somewhere, were all toys could be toys, and always be played with. Of course, if I had had the energy, to tell them, that without humans no one would play with us I would have. The babbled on about leaving the cupboard one day, and being loved by a child. They dreamed, and they hoped. They found candles and lights. They were the new generation, hybrids maybe, and maybe, just maybe they had the right to dream. For they were the new toys, toys who could think, more developed toys. Maybe, one day, a human, a child would come and play with them.

They had found out how to read. Against my better judgement. Nothing good would come from over thinking, but the toys had been eager to learn. They'd found a book, called "Tom and Alice" which, as far as I'm concerned, was about the most pathetic attempt at writing a book possible. But they liked it. Even before they could read, they'd looked at the pictures. It was a colourful book, with bright pictures, and vivid illustrations. Ellie had shown it to them, and explained exactly what was going on in each picture. She'd prompted them when they read, her blonde tattered pigtails wagging back and forth as she read to them.

The young ones had stared at the pictures, in the cupboard, and they'd asked so many questions. How was it possible for humans and toys to live and talk together? How did that work? The toys were talking to the humans, why? It wasn't right. And the adults joined in to. And when, the Mr Bunsy the teddy bear hurt his paw, Alice took him to her mother, and sowed it back again. The book, was unrealistic. It had come from a shop, run by humans, so that lead to the assumption, it was made by humans. But they wouldn't write a book about talking to toys, when they didn't, would they?

The new toys, made rules for themselves. As us, elders slept the days away, waiting to be thrown away, they formed a civilisation. They cheered when each new toy was put into the cupboard, and hailed toys as they left, to be played with. They made a list of rules, not to break, not to steal, all toys are equal, not to contemplate global domination without first consulting the squirrel federation, and not to play with matches. They elected leaders for themselves, of course, as elders we reigned highest, which defied the whole "all toys are equal" rule.

These rules, seemed to work, for a while. Toys lived in peace, and no arguments broke out. Every once in a while they would debate, and hold a council, but for a while there was silence. Nothingness. We all drifted into a darkness, we didn't use more candles, didn't read the book of lies. Our minds freed from our bodies, undisturbed. Nothingness was all we had. No one came to the cupboard, no toys were taken. We heard no sounds, they all died away. We heard no news. No children were to be heard running around Wammy's. Out of the tiny crack in the door, no light or human life was to be seen.

The events of those forgotten months were many, and I could list them. But they are not for this tale, this tale is for the L, and his heirs. Not for me, or my family. So I will say this. We were the forgotten, the only sign that Wammy's had ever had life there. Nothing happened in that dreary place, for it seemed like a graveyard. Perhaps it was. Or a slaughter house. As if it were cursed, it killed of it's wards, first leading them on like lams to the slaughter. Yes, that's the right simile. Wammy's house, a slaughter house.

But the days were peaceful, at least we may hold onto that. They passed, in the dozen, until none of could tell the passage of time. Time meant nothing. Until they came, until they came, to take us away..