cw: mention of child abduction/isolation/light body horror/light animal attack
It's the late side of early. You collapse face first into bed, because that's the half that hurts less, that stings more kindly. A furry snout nudges your hand, another at your foot, and your give weary assurances to the three waiting Good Boys until they trot back downstairs to snuggle with Thackery. The house is quiet in the way an old Victorian is quiet: it's not, but there's a nice mood to it. It's dark in the way an old Victorian is dark: deeply, softly stained with over a century's worth of night and shadow.
Sleep comes fast. It always does.
He's in the dark room and Mom and Dad haven't come yet. There is a dog barking outside and you wish they'd let it in. He'd like to pet the dog. He'd like to not be alone.
He's in the dark room still, eating his peanut butter sandwich in the tiniest of mouse bites. He pretends he's in a mousehole, hiding from a big, scary cat. The cat that scratched him in the back, scratched him on the side, scra-
No, no that didn't happen. There was never any scratches.
He's in the dark room and Mom and Dad haven't come yet. The dog is barking closer and he thinks that maybe it knows he's in here. It wants to make friends. He wants, very badly, to keep being good so his parents can come sooner. But it would be nicer with a friend.
He's in the dark room and he's counting. Fingers, toes, and teeth. He counts his ribs because he knows where they are. He finds a little opening and counts that too. One finger wriggles in. Two fingers. It stings so bad that he cries, but he doesn't stop. Thre-
There were not cuts. That's wrong. That did not happen. Stop it.
He's in the dark room and Mom and Dad still haven't come. Sometimes he tell stories to the door, always locked, mostly quiet. He tells the door what his parents are doing. Why they're busy. When they're coming. They're waiting for a sunny day. They're waiting for winter. They'll come on his birthday. He doesn't know how long it's been or what the world looks like outside anymore. So he creates whole months and years. Telling story after story in hopes that the right one might turn the lock.
He's in the dark room and the dog is in there with him. It comes close and closer and he holds out his arms. The dog rushes into his embrace and begins to roughly rend and tear, shaking it's head as powerful jaws bite down harde-
Incorrect. You were never in the same room as the dog. You never even saw the dog. This is from tonight and this is enough.
Blinking awake you gaze up at yourself in the mirror above your bed, eyes slowly and closely tracing the pleasant lines of your figure in silent meditation, ignoring the pains flaring along your backside. The morning sun has crept through the windows. Downstairs is the scrabble of paws on wood, eager for breakfast. For a walk. Thackery's careful to be quiet, but it's still easy to hear his steps along the corridor.
You smile up at yourself, finding the slightly haggard complexion and little smears of blood to be rather charming, really. You should let people know how terribly you were treated last night. How much you need them to be at your side in this time of awful hardship.
Today is wonderfully real and yesterday is just another bad dream to forget.
