"Toby."
He sat there, his mouth firmly clamped shut, eyes looking past me with pointed determination. If he was not in a straightjacket, his arms would most likely be crossed in front of him in a pout. Some people would find that adorable.
"Toby."
His eyes flicked to my face, then away again. He was judging to see if I'd swayed at all. I hadn't. I would never sway. Years ago, this would have been amusing. Today, it was simply banal.
"Tobias."
He looked at me again, the customary fear reaching towards me. I held his gaze this time. I made him talk, at least, though he still held his mouth closed. Please, tell me you didn't just call me that, he was saying. Tell me you'll comfort me and hold me and tell me you're not him. Not him.
Sorry, Toby, but I am. I'm your villain, now.
Tobias, I corrected myself. Tobias.
"Tobias," I reiterated, "you must eat." He shook his head again, but did not stop looking at me. Progress. "If you do not eat, you will die."
Blank. The thought didn't affect him. I wasn't surprised.
"In the pies, mum..." he whispered, looking around as if he was afraid someone would overhear. "Mrs. Lovett didn' want me eatin' the pies, but when I was in the bake 'ouse, I did, I knew I wasn' supposed to, but I'd 'eard 'ow good they were, see, I told people ev'ry day and I never actually ate them, same with the elixar, but I knew the pies weren' fake like the elixar, and I wanted to taste the pies, but she wouldn' let me so when I was down in the bake 'ouse, I did, and... in the pies, mum..." He broke off, and looked at me again. It's too horrible, he was saying. It's too horrible for me to tell you, for you to know. Forgive me for going this far.
Was he trying to protect me?
"Tobias, you will eat. Either you can do it voluntarily, or I will have to force feed you." He looked back at me with a mixture of shock and disbelief. Didn't you hear what I just said? Didn't you see what I meant? How can you ignore what just happened? That moment?
"Fine." I momentarily sat the bowl and spoon down, far enough away from Toby so that his kicking legs could not reach them. As I sat him upright, against the wall, he realized that I had not been joking, and he started thrashing in protest against his straightjacket. Grabbing his shoulders and forcing them towards the wall, I straddled him so my knees held his legs tight. He glared at me, hissing, still trying to contort his body to freedom. I knelt over him, hands still pressing on his shoulders, staring - a constant. I would show no give. He could wear himself down, and I would still be strong. Then, for an immeasurably short moment, he looked at me angrily and changed tactic. He started to slam his head against the wall, hard. Soon, there was a faint spot of blood sponged on the wall, blood that was matting in his hair. He would not stop unless I let him go.
I slapped him.
He cried out softly. Though he had been inflicting far worse pain on himself, he was not expecting the hard slap across his face. He looked at me again, but this time, there were no words. Only the look of pain, confusion, and the most primal, childlike kind of hurt. Betrayal.
I was never your friend to betray you, Tobias.
With some difficulty, I reached and grabbed the bowl and spoon. At this point, I had very little trouble opening his jaw and holding it tightly. I spooned some of the oatmeal-like (though I doubted that it actually was anything as identifiable as oatmeal) mixture into his mouth, and held his jaw closed. "Swallow," I told him, and though the tears in his eyes, I could see a bit of that defiance shining through. Without so much as a sigh, I moved my hand to cover his mouth, and used my other to pinch his nose, sealing off his air. His eyes grew wide as I stayed there, watching his instinct to survive kick in. He might have lost his will to live, but the body will always do all it can to survive. He swallowed.
I should take my hands away.
I lingered. I was pressing his head against the wall, so the raw, bloody mess on back of his head was getting rougher from the brick. His eyes started to run frantically across my face, pleading with me. Again, without words. Again, just the incomprehensible shock. There were no words for the way his eyes groped for a reason that part of him knew wasn't there.
I am your enemy, Tobias.
I could kill him. Right here, right now. I could kill him with my calculated, unforgiving procedure. I could simply stare at him, not moving my hands, until he stopped moving all together. And there would be no more talking eyes, no more "mum", no more "smoothly", no more risk. It would be mercy, for both of us.
His eyelids started to flutter.
I let go.
My hands were shaking.
He gasped for air. Maybe it wasn't him, maybe it was just his body that needed the air. Maybe he had wanted me to do it.
No, he hadn't. Not with the way he looked at me.
I picked up the bowl and spoon again. This time, I did not have to hold his head. He ate voluntarily, defeated, not looking at me.
Fine.
After the bowl was empty, I grabbed his head roughly to judge the damage he'd done. It was enough to need a bandage. I carried spare cloth on me in case this was necessary. Affixing the bandage around his head, I felt his body react, confused. When I was finished, he looked up at me once more, searching my face for a reason I would help him. His eyes caught mine once more. They didn't speak. He did.
"Do you love me?"
I said nothing.
"Mrs. Lovett said that people didn' always show love, and she didn' think I knew, but I knew she was talkin' about Mister Todd, I did, she fancied him and she said 'e loved 'er, I just didn' see it, but I 'eard them some nights and some nights they'd argue and Mrs. Lovett would run down and 'old me in 'er arms and cry and say she wasn' crying, and talk about 'ow much Mister Todd loved 'er. And one time I said 'e didn' show it well and she said that no, 'e didn' but that made her love 'im more and the point was, 'e loved 'er. And sometimes cuts an' bruises showed more love than pearls and roses." Pause. "'e cut 'er really bad, once."
I should have killed him when I had the chance.
He knew. He knew that if he hit his head against the wall, it would affect me. That I would have to stop him. He knew that.
"Do you love me?"
Or maybe I was endowing him with too much intelligence.
I stood up and headed for the door. I needed to get away from this cell, away from this child, this patient. Which was all he was. A patient. Like any other.
"Do you, mum?"
Against my better judgment, I stopped, turned and looked at him. There was red mark on his face where I had slapped him.
I left the room.