Doll House

XXII. Of destruction...

 Standing on the edge of the bridge inside the little girl's mind, Tom Abbott spoke his words of destruction and hoped to high Heaven they would manage to get out of here before it was too late.

On the other side, the wraiths and the boogeymen had gathered and watched his last steps, from afar. Part of him was nervous and he kept glancing at the nightmares, certain that as soon as he turned his back, they would cut the ropes and let him fall into the abyss for real.

But the nightmares just stood there, watching. Not moving, not screaming, even those whose entire existence revolved around screaming.

He knew that in a moment, he would step on to the other side of the bridge and leave this place behind, and with it, all the wisdom he now felt. Or perhaps, it wasn't wisdom. It was knowing everything that was and everything that ever would be. It was knowing how he'd come to be here, all of here, not just inside Vicky's mind.

It was knowing what lay at the bottom of the abyss and knowing it would never get out. A shame, but it was too late for her. They'd made a mistake, the voices, and sometimes mistakes can't be unmade, so she was stuck down there forever, however long that may be. Simply because she'd gone out one night into the forest and never came back. It could've happened to anyone, really, to Tom, to each and every child who ever lived inside that old, decrepit house.

It was knowing that no, it wasn't fair. And most of all, it was knowing that life rarely was.

It occurred to the boy that he would forget all of this as soon as he stepped out and frankly, he was relieved. The knowledge was like a heavy, weight made of lead, hung around his throat. He could shoulder it, that much he knew. He just didn't know for how long.

With all this in mind, the boy opened his mouth. And, with one last look at the gathered nightmares, the boy spoke.

'Victoria,' said he, his voice clear and echoing far inside the bright-white nothingness. It was hurting his eyes, and he realized he'd been squinting for a good ten minutes. 'Victoria,' he said again, to the silence.

And she didn't say anything, but she didn't really need to. He knew she was down there, hearing him, listening to him and clinging to each word. It would be the last human voice she would ever hear.

Somewhere out there, amid the dark trees and the blood and the mangled corpses and the nightmares, the thing that was once Victoria Mayall heard him, too. And it stopped, momentarily, from its yelling and its manic scratching and listened.

In the moment of silence that followed, the boy wondered if she would truly listen. He knew, with the knowledge of someone who's seen everything already, that humans, even the dispossessed, have a sickly tendency to cling unto life, even when there's not much of a life to be had. Even when they can't walk anymore and old age and disease catches up to them and claws the flesh off their bones, they still hold life dear. Wouldn't give it up for the world and he feared Victoria Mayall would do the same.

The plan was well-thought, but also dangerous. It stood on shaky ground and his very survival relied on Vicky Mayall listening to him just now, choosing not to cling.

'Vicky, I know you can hear me down there. And I know you're hurting and I know you want this to end.'

He heard his own voice getting all choked up with heavy tears, unlike any he'd ever cried before. The tears on Tom Abbott's young cheek were no longer the tears of a child.

'They will keep you there forever, they will use you to haunt others. To hurt others. You don't want to hurt others, do you, Vic? You never wanted to hurt anyone, I know that. You just wanted to be with your friend.'