Patches (Part 1)

1: Patching a New Pal 

In a world so bland, some wish to find a world much better than their own. Well, there is a way to find one. If one goes down deep into the woods of olde, they will meet a man in a black waistcoat with a top hat. A man much stranger than the ones of norm, but worry not - he's friendly, not evil. He invites those who are lost to stay in a fantastical world of his creation. A place where those who do not belong in such a boring world can be themselves and free. "So come, children with your smiles so wide. Come stay in a magical world where all your dreams become real. Come meet Mr. Needlework, the man of surreal."

***

The celebration had just begun and the performers were putting on their best show. There were two of them – a black rat and a chocolate-colored hare. They were made of felt and each had two button eyes, two hats total on their rodent heads, and two floppy ears on each side. The hare held a single card on an engraved silver spoon while the rat began to pile up playing cards one by one. The stack got larger and larger, the rat increasing his speed and the stack climbing its way above their heads until the hare decided to fling the collection at the rat. The rat flinched and fell flat on his back as the cards quivered everywhere. The little girl chuckled, twirling her golden locks and giving a plump smile to the two silly dolls on the table. The two gave a quick bow and continued onto their next act.

Her white rabbit shivered in her arms, her dark red pupils dilated. She did not like the two dolls. The little one wanted not to see the cheerful actors. The rabbit was startled by her senses and she flew out of her owner’s arms, despite the girl’s protests.

“Velveteen, please come back!” she whined, but the rabbit was already cowering behind the teapot. “Velveteen, why won’t you listen to me?” The girl reached across the table, but Velveteen shook and hissed at her as a warning for her to stop or she’d take off again. She’d have to get her after the show.

The dolls disregarded the rabbit and continued to toss around playing cards, showing off their talent to the naïve child. Velveteen sat on the cloth and watched as the two mysterious dolls danced in strange patterns in unison in front of her owner, the cards flowing in a flawless crisscrossing pattern. After a while, the creatures began repeating the same tricks over and over again, but the child did not lose her interest.

The children they meet can be amused with the smallest form of entertainment.

Velveteen watched as the minutes ticked by and the little girl was absorbed into what they were doing as her clock came closer to twelve. The rabbit had calmed down enough to come out from behind the teapot and watch the performers with her beady eyes. They seemed to lose interest in the girl after a while and just stuck with the same trick, yet the girl was still captivated by the two.

The children they meet are so naïve.

The faux display was coming to a close. There was something far more sinister than the two dolls that lurked underneath the table. It was an ominous creature that loomed in the darkness as it snaked around the girl’s chair and a pair of glowing yellow eyes peered between the clusters of black dust. “Keep your fingers crossed and make a wish,” said the dust as spectral talons reached out and grasped the child’s throat.

The girl's clock struck twelve.

A gurgled scream reverberated against the walls as the little girl’s voice was drained from her body. Blood splattered across the table as her head went flying past the fleeing Velveteen and onto the floor, trailing blood as it rolled into a chair’s leg. The rabbit had already bounded off the table and scurried underneath the table cloth to conceal itself from the monster who had beheaded her beloved owner.

Her heart skipped a beat as a thud hit the marble above her.

“What did you wish for, our precious Poppy?”

Her heart raced as a thud hit the marble above her.

The creature banged the dead body against the table repeatedly demanding, “Tell us what you wished for, you bastard!” Bang! Bang! Bang! “We invite you into our home, let you play with our wonderful sweethearts and yet, you refuse to answer one simple question?” After a few moments of silence there was a rasp crow-like growl, “If that’s how you’re going to be–” Ceramic cups hit the floor as the girl’s body was hurled down to the tile. “–Then we have no further reason to speak with you, you scrounger!”

Tap, tap, tap, went a spoon against a glass and the disfigured silhouettes of two animals approached the dead girl’s body. The crunching of bones and the grinding of teeth tore through Velveteen’s ear as her caretaker was viciously devoured by the faux entertainers. Night black feathers slipped underneath the table as a dim whisper filled the air – a whisper that sounded like the desperate soul of a little girl crying out for help – before it was muffled out by a loud crack. Blood snaked its way towards Velveteen, threatening to consume her pure fur. Velveteen cried out as she backed away from the red liquid like it was acid. The two animals heard her yelps and slithered beneath the cloth. The hare and rat were no longer in their costumes. Instead, they were clothed in the child’s blood, and speckled with pieces of her guts. Strips of rejected flesh hung from their razor sharp teeth as they hissed at the frightened Velveteen, ravening for more meat. The rabbit ran as fast as her legs could carry her, falling out of Hell and into a hotter fire.

A pair of white gloves scooped up the innocent rabbit and held her up to a pair of red eyes that impaled her heart. She bit down on the gloves, a grunt exiting her captor’s mouth, but no blood seeped from the wound that she’d given the honey-toned skin. He let out sarcastic remark, “What a perky Primrose! You’re such a sweet little darling! We're going to keep you!”

The gloves stroked her white fur and her heart ceased its panic. She shut her eyes and delighted in her new owner’s thoughtfulness, forgetting about the previous in an instant.

Her eyes fluttered open as a finger tapped his chin while he pondered his decision. His darlings came out from underneath the table with a muddled expression from the rat and an angry one from the hare. Jealously had planted its seed.

“Ah! By a bear’s bouncing arse, We've got it!” He pointed the finger in the air as he came to a realization. “Velveteen Patchwork! It’s perfect!” He showed his new precious actress to the other two whose expressions did not change. “Give a humble huzzah to your new partner, our shining Sunflowers!” Although there was no response, he still acted as though they responded. “That’s right, it’s good! Good! Good! It’s all good!” he laughed – they didn’t find it the least bit funny.

The madman set the rabbit on the table and the two critters dispersed. They wanted nothing to do with the newcomer who had taken their owner’s heart so quickly. 

Tisk, tisk, tisk. He stroked Velveteen’s fur again and rambled on, “Your fur is so beautiful! It’s like the stars…or like the center of a soul! Did the little girl make it this color or is it natural…? She didn’t…? Are you albino…? Oh, you are?! Ooooooh, there’s so much we can talk about. AH! You’re such a delightful Daisy when you smile like that!” He gasped, covering his mouth. “OH, WE'VE ALMOST FORGOTTEN!” The madcap clapped his hands, excited within his lunacy. “We need to let you make a wish! Can…rabbits wish, and if they did wish what would they wish for, or could they never wish in the first place, and if they could wish, would they even wish at all?”

Velveteen gave him a blank look, as her conscious could not understand nor process what he meant – she was listening to the words as any animal would. When he went to reach for her fur again she instinctively thumped her hind legs in anger. He withdrew the unwanted attention and let her be. The man coughed and composed himself, believing that he had overwhelmed the poor dear with the overactive side of his personality.

“Excuse us, but we do get a tad joyful when we see one of you wonderful critters,” he chuckled, “but everyone is filled with joy when they see us, whether it be with a frown or a smile. It always starts off with a smile and ends with a smile – either ours or theirs, but rabbits don’t smile, do they? You must be so unhappy.” He leaned into Velveteen’s face, causing her to take a few steps back and let out a peep. “We can make you happy since that’s your wish. We are going to make you smile, our sugary Snowdrop.”

It happened so fast. Velveteen expected a stroke on the head when he reached down for her. She hissed at him again, but this time her threatening did not stop him. His hands formed into long, five-fingered birdlike talons, black dust scattering from his skin as feathers sprouted from his wrists. Velveteen inhaled it, her lungs crippling underneath the foreign substance as an illness took over her body. She immediately became frail and broke down into a coughing fit. She was greeted with pain as the gloves stretched out her body until it was skinny and her bones were broken and unnaturally reassembled. Her forehead was pushed inward as a thumb pressed against her skull – POP! It cracked back up when he lifted the thumb. He proceeded to force a thick obsidian material down her throat. It hit the bottom of her stomach like iron. Her body finally gave out and her arms and legs went limp. The now disfigured creature writhed on her side in sheer agony, a distorted click breaking through her dry lips.

“Now that’s the smile we want to see, Patchwork!” He clapped his hands together, smirking at his new flower. “Did we fulfill your wish then?” He gasped. “WAIT! Don’t answer that!”  Tisk, tisk, tisk. “What we really want to ask is: did your wish make you happy?”

Patchwork didn't respond to him. She let her eyes shut as the pain took over her body and her old life drifted away.

A talon stroked Patchwork’s now spiny grey fur. “You’ll answer when you wake up from your dream then.”


2: Rain That Was So Cold 

December 3rd, 1806, early Victorian England

Rain – that was the only thing he could remember from that night. It was a bitter, cold liquid that fell from the grey sky and singed a piercing cold into his rosy cheeks with its sharp, frigid nails. It reminded him that he was unwanted and all alone in this world. That he was abandoned there by his caretakers – the ones who were supposed to love, care for him, and give him a happy life, but they left him here, lying on the porch, crying for someone to cut him from the downpour’s grasp and give him the affection that he deserved. He gazed at the red rose bushes underneath the window and saw that the buds embraced the rain – that they loved it – while he was stuck in one spot, unable to move, suffering in the night’s chill. He cringed and shut his eyes as the rain began to reach in and claw at his eyes with unseen hands.

A sudden loud crash and a flash of bright light caused his eyes to jolt open. He attempted to call out for help, but only disturbing clamors rolled past his tongue. He scrunched his eyebrows and began to sob, whimpering grunts escaping his mouth, hardly a cough in comparison to the dins that were defiling the air. He heard a creak as the golden light of a wax candle flickered on his face and embraced him. His sobbing dwindled when he saw a man standing at the door with a very discouraged look on his face. 

“My God…it’s a baby!”

The baby attempted to speak to him, yet the distorted, crooked babbles slipped out once more. The candle went out as the man stepped out into the rain and lifted the baby from the porch and cradled him in his warm arms. He smiled and the little one smiled right back up him, bursting into short giggles. Good, he wasn’t sick.

“Let’s get you inside, shall we?” 

With no further responses from the child, he turned back towards the door, entered the building, and shut the door behind him. A small, torn piece of parchment slid out of the child’s shirt and floated down to the floor. The man made certain that he had a good grip on the baby before bending over and picking up the note. The paper was slightly wet from the rain and some of the ink was bleeding across the page, however most of the smudge letters were still somewhat readable, so he made out what he could. He skimmed through it, finding out the reasons why his original caretakers were unable to take care of him. It was made clear that their situation didn’t allow them to raise a child. This was the best decision that they could make for their child’s safety. The name that they’d given him was…

“Gilbert Warrens,” he smiled. “Well, you’re welcome here Gilbert. May we find you a good home in the forthcoming days.”

3: Why Must the Roses Be Red?

Gilbert’s years went by and children came and went, but he remained there, unwanted and alone just as he was ten years ago on the night he’d been taken in by the orphanage. As he was growing up, he was quite different from the other orphans, or for lack of the better word, a somewhat unusual child. He had obsidian black hair and glossy emerald green eyes, almost like the orbs of a porcelain doll. The boy tried to get along with the others in the orphanage, but he always ended up being the odd one out because he was ‘too strange to play with,’ as he liked certain things that the other boys found eerie. They disliked his acute fascination with bugs and how Gilbert treated them like they were another human, holding one-sided conversations with them and inviting them to play with the other children. It caused them feel uncomfortable whenever they were around him, so they tended to keep their distance from him with the exception of suppertime and bedtime. He eventually drifted away from them when he figured out that they didn’t want to be near him. It didn’t really bother him all that much. He was more interested in what was going on inside his mind's eye rather than what the others were doing. The owners tried to get him to play with the others more often, but he kindheartedly refused their offers. The children didn’t want him near them anyway, so why should he associate with them? He didn't see a reason to. Instead, he would always sit on the floor, watching the ants walk back and forth with crumbs that the children left behind. He believed that they had their own society behind the wall and he was waiting for them to slip up and reveal their little world, just as he wanted to be in his own world and have nothing to do with the people around him.

He observed the ants as they weaved around him like an obstacle and carried their morsels back to their town. He peered in through the tiny crack, attempting to see what was back there. It was too dark, so he let out a sigh, pouted, and sat there for hours as the ants did the same thing over and over again without budging from his spot crouched in the corner.

“Gilbert,” said a deep voice, a hand settling itself on his shoulder.

He jolted at the sudden disturbance, his ceramic eyes weaving over his shoulder as he scrambled to his feet in panic. “M-M-Mr. Hayward?”

“Sorry, it wasn’t my intention to startle you,” apologized Mr. Hayward. “I need to speak with you for a moment.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Not at all,” he assured. “I need you to follow me.”

“What did I do? Am I in trouble?”

“No,” he chuckled, flashing a smile. “Please, follow me.”

With no other options, he followed Mr. Hayward out of the kitchen and through the hallway, giving the boys at play by the fireplace a jaded glance, then quickly snapping his head away when one spitefully stuck his tongue out at him while another pretended his hand was a spider and crept it up another boy’s back. He faintly heard someone say, “Bug Bugger,” as he was led into a small schoolroom aligned with long tables and short stools. At the front end of the room, Mrs. Hayward was sitting across from an attentive couple looking…right…at…him.

Don’t look at me, Gilbert thought to himself. His eyes met with theirs and he looked down at the floor to avoid their stare. Why are they there? Who are they? I don’t want to be here! He hid behind Mr. Hayward as he sat next down to his placid-faced wife, hunching on his knees so they couldn’t see a speck of him. He reluctantly peeked over the man’s shoulder to see that the two strangers were still staring at him. Gilbert recoiled and shouted in his mind, Stop staring at me!

“Why don’t you take a seat?” suggested Mr. Hayward.

“But I–”

“Sit,” snapped Mrs. Hayward.

He flinched at the still tone of the woman’s voice. Dreading punishment for defiance, he obediently sat next to Mr. Hayward, directing his eyes at the hollows in the table. His body tensed and his heart thudded against his ribcage. He hated meeting new people. Even with Mr. Hayward’s presence, he didn’t like being trapped in a room with people who he’d never met nor seen a day in his life. He was so used to snubbing everyone around him that he couldn’t stand the sight of unfamiliar faces to the point that it upset every nerve in his body – it was a core peeve of his. He needed air.

They’re so close to me. I don’t understand why I’m here. There’s no reason for me to be here, is there? Gilbert took a deep breath, not allowing his emotions to get the best of him. Just don’t look at them and it will be fine.

“Gilbert,” began Mr. Hayward, lifting up the boy’s chin, forcing his eyes directly at the couple. “These are some relatives of mine from a few towns over, Mr. Wheelwright and Mrs. Wheelwright.” 

When he released Gilbert’s chin he returned to his previous position, his vision troubled with the auburn-stained wood. He focused on the hollows of the table. That would get his mind off of other things.

“Sit up,” growled Mrs. Hayward, and out of fear, he obeyed.

Mr. Hayward cleared his throat, disregarding the impoliteness of his wife, returning his attention to the disconcerted Wheelwrights. “They cannot have children, so they came to us, knowing that we worked here. Mrs. Hayward and I have been sending letters to them for the past week. We came to terms and agreed that they could come here and….”

He lost his interest in Mr. Hayward’s words and his mind wandered off over towards the children’s sketches on the chalkboard. There was a stick figure swordsman fighting with a poorly drawn bird. Twinkle, twinkle, little star. The swordsman approached the beast, his sword in his hand, prepared to go against all odds. How I wonder what you are! The creature eyed him menacingly, grasping his weapon in his beak, waiting for the swordsman to make his move. Gilbert! Up above the word so high, like a diamond in the sky. He charged at the bird, slashing at its neck, but the bird swung out of the way and stabbed him in the back. When the blazing sun is gone, when he nothing shines upon…Gilbert! He fell to his knees, clutching his side in pain, a white blood seeping from his wound. Then you show your little light, twinkle, twinkle, all the night. The bird released a victorious screech and–

BAM! Mrs. Hayward’s hand merged with the table. “Gilbert! Would you stop that bloody humming and pay attention?”  

He returned to reality. “Yes’m!”  

She gave him a disgruntled sighed and told him, “Introduce yourself.”

“Ohh…uhh….” His head snapped to and from the many faces in the room – they were all staring at him. Every last one of them. His nails dug into his knees and sweat pooled underneath his arms as his entire body shivered. But she will yell at me again if I don’t say anything. He swallowed, buried the nervousness into the pit of his stomach, and whispered softly, “I’m Gilbert Warrens....H-How do you do?”

Mrs. Hayward reached over and smacked him in the back of the neck. “Speak up, they can’t hear you,” she barked, sending his head forward. 

“H-HOW DO YOU DO?!” he cracked. “Err…I’m Gilbert Warrens.”

Mr. Wheelwright chuckled at Gilbert’s outburst, “I’m doing well,” he smiled, extending his hand across the table, and Gilbert – under the surveillance of Mrs. Hayward – hesitantly shook it, “and I presume you are too?”

“Yes…how do you do?”

Mrs. Hayward began, “Gilbert, you ninny, stop–”

“I’m doing well too,” Mrs. Wheelwright interrupted with a chuckle and he grinned. “How are the other children here? Are they nice too?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.” He shrugged his shoulders, looking down slightly.

“You have to know at least one of them!”

“I know their names, but they’re actually not…they’re not my…they’re fine.”

“You don’t have any friends?” The woman sounded concerned.

“I do have a few,” he muttered, hesitating to stick his hand into his pocket. Is it a good idea to show them? He pondered.

“Oh? Who are they?”

Maybe they’ll accept them. If they accept them, then they’ll accept me. He smirked, his teeth widening. She seems interested in them, so why not? “I can show you them now actually.” Gilbert fished through his pocket, groping out a handful of disgusting, wilted, dead bugs – mostly ants. Many of them had been crushed in his pocket, crimpled underneath the pressure, but a few of the earthworms still managed to writhe around for air, their wet mucus immersing in his palms. “I was playing with them earlier and we were having so much–” 

Smack! Mrs. Wheelwright fumbled out of her chair as Mrs. Hayward slapped his hands and sent the bugs flying across the room. “You rat’s arse!” she scoffed, wiping her dirtied hands on her burgundy dress. She struck him. “Do you have birds in your head?” Her face was bloodshot with rage. “I should have you sent to the madhouse!”

“Ella, please…calm down,” begged Mr. Hayward, placing a hand on the angry woman’s shoulder. “My relatives are still here.”

“I give you my sincerest apologizes for my,” she breathed, pointing a long finger at Gilbert, “and his behavior.” He shrunk back a little when she sat down on the other side of him, her husband and the couple settling back into their seats as well. She was going to make sure he wasn’t going to ruin things with his nonsense again. “I promise you that nothing will occur again. It’s just that this one has a few issues…mentally.”

I do not! He wanted to shout.

The room was quiet, not a peep out of anyone’s mouths, all except for the disgruntled worms inching their way across the floor, struggling to find their way back underground. The Wheelwrights simply gave them all a hollow gawk, disturbed by the strange display that Gilbert showed them, as what kind of child would believe that tiny insects were more than pests? Not a child that they would want to raise.

Gilbert broke the stillness, cocking his head to the side, baffled by the silence. “What’s wrong?” He couldn’t understand why no one was speaking other than the fact that…Mrs. Hayward said I was mental in front of them. I’m not! I didn’t do anything wrong! “Mrs. Hayward’s lying!”

“Gilbert!” She whacked his arm. “You’re–”

Mr. Wheelwright interrupted, “Ma’am you shouldn’t continue hit–”

“It’s true!” he protested, tears clustering in his eyes. “I prefer them over everyone here! Everyone here is mean to me! They care about me and you’ve scared them off! They’re my–MR. HAYWARD…NO!”

Mr. Hayward was scooping up the bugs into his hand, trying to clean up the mess that Gilbert started. His family was disgusted as it was, and if his wife and the boy continued to argue over something so small, then they would end up leaving without another note. “I have to throw them out,” he apologized, pinching the few scurrying ants in-between his nails. “They belong outside and you are to stay here while I do it.” He proceeded to lift himself from his knees and move towards the door, giving Gilbert the eye. “I’m sorry, but I’m not allowing this to continue. Whatever is going on inside your head Gilbert, it’s going to end here. If you remain here after this – no more sitting by yourself, no more being alone at all, and absolutely no more,” he gestured to his infested hands with his head, “bugs.”

Gilbert’s heart stopped. “No!” he whimpered as he sprung up from the stool. “You can’t!”

He bounded after him, but his movement was halted by sharp fingernails. Mrs. Hayward clutched his wrist, her nails digging into his skin, raking his veins like needles. “You bugger,” she hissed into his ear. “You are to have no supper tonight.”

Those words went from one end of his mind and out the other. Gilbert was more focused on him – the one who was taking his friends from him. Mr. Hayward! Why? He was already halfway out the door with gloomy faced attire and saddened hooks curved on his cheeks. Mr. Hayward must have been so disappointed in him. Why is he disappointed? There was no reason for him to be so upset! 

“LET GO OF ME!” He pleaded, tugging at Mrs. Hayward’s unbending grasp like a hound on a tight leash. “YOU CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN’T!”

Creeeakk! One last fleeting look….Ker-shoom….and he was gone.

His voice curdled, “NOOOOOOO!” The tears ran down his cheeks and trickled onto his neck. He sponged his face with his sleeve as his tears were replaced with fresh droplets by the second. The mucus clustered within his nose and slinked into his throat. He coughed as he spoke in a clouded voice, “Let go of me! Let go of me! Please!” He spat the mucus on the floor without any regards for the Wheelwrights, yanking at her arm, trying so desperately to break free of his fleshy chains, but to no avail. “Pleeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaase! UWAHHHHHHHH!”

“Forgive me,” she sighed, tugging Gilbert away, “I’ll be back shortly.”

Mrs. Hayward lugged him by the arm, opened the door, and slammed it behind her. All the children were watching the tears roll down his face as he was forced across the hall. Some of them wore empty faces while others were grinning and chuckling at him – they knew someone was in big trouble again and Mrs. Hayward’s punishments weren’t soft, not even in the slightest. The moment he’d be upstairs was the moment he’d be at her superficial mercy. Gilbert fought to free himself from her grasp, but his childish strength didn’t compare with hers. He wasn’t going anywhere. The woman gripped his arm tighter with a snakelike hold and little whimpers spluttered from his throat, begging the serpent to let him go. She ignored his pleas and took him into the children’s bedroom, – SLAM – hauling him to his bed and shoving him onto the mattress. His head hit the wall with a loud thud, his mind scattering as the pain surged through the back of his head and neck. More tears made their way into his eyes and he curled his body into a ball so he didn’t have to see her anymore.

“ENOUGH!” she kicked the bed harder and he sniveled. “You squawk like a fowl!” The boy opened his mouth to speak, but Mrs. Hayward interrupted him again, “Are there any more bugs?!”

No response.

“If you tell me now, then you can go downstairs and be back with all the other boys.”

What am I going to do?

“Tell me where they are!” she demanded, spit pattering his face.

I have to. I don’t want her to beat me again. I just want to be left alone. He breathed, swallowed, and pointed towards the nightstand with a wobbly finger. “T-The top drawer – that one’s mine,” he said in a quiet voice.

Mrs. Hayward raised a black brow. “Yours?”

“No one else wants to use it.”

Gilbert curled up tighter, waiting for her to turn around and yell at him…or hit him, but instead she shrugged her shoulders and went, “Hmph,” accepting the response as it was. “Well, let’s see what’s in it, shall we?” 

She made her way towards the wooden dresser, grabbed the tarnished knob, and opened his drawer. She suddenly paused midway and sucked in air, covering her mouth in repugnance, and taking in the horrid sight before pulling it all the way out. Her mouth was agape – she couldn’t believe her eyes. This was disgusting – this child was disgusting!

“You bloody idiot!” she hissed.

Wood splintered and severed into dust as she tore the drawer out with all her might, roaring in a deafening tone as though she’d gone mad. Decayed, silvery night butterflies were flung into the air as the drawer crashed into the wall, leaving a dent in the straw-yellow paint. The butterflies landed on the floor, a red reflection illuminating the wood. Bits and pieces of legs, appendages, and dust covered the floor like a blanket of noxious ice. On each butterfly, there was a lacy material sewn onto the backside of its wings and burgundy cloth tailored to its abdomen to create the illusion of clothing. They were a gruesome set of decayed figurines, dark ballerinas on the ice, showing off their blood red colors, and Gilbert was the lead.

She began pacing around the bedroom like a prowling cat, eyeing Gilbert intently with her hazel orbs. “Have you been in our room lately?” she asked.

Gilbert was still in a ball. Twinkle, twinkle, little star. He was so engrossed in his fear that he didn’t want to budge from the safety of his own arms. How I wonder what you are! Mrs. Hayward came over and forced him out of his shell, sitting him up with her sharp fingernails. He was the cornered mouse and the cat was about to kill him.

“You know children aren’t allowed in there. That’s why it’s always locked. Where did you find the keys, you runt?”

“I wasn’t in your room,” he finally answered in a shaken voice. Up above the word so high, like a diamond in the sky.

“That’s interesting because that,” she pointed to the scattered butterflies, “fabric looks like the design from one of my dresses that went missing a few months ago.”

When the blazing sun is gone, when he nothing shines upon, then you show your little light, twinkle, twinkle, all the night. He breathed, calming himself down enough to slightly compose a question, “What dress?” 

“What dress?” she scoffed, narrowing her brows. “What dress?!” Her nails clawed into his shoulder blades, barely digging underneath the surface of the skin around his neck. “You’re lying to me, Gilbert! You stole that dress from me!” She shoved him onto to the mattress out of needless spite, spitting in his face. “You bloody liar!”

“I didn’t steal it! George and the others gave it to me! They said they found it lying in the streets in the mud! They were keeping it in the closet and they were going to attempt to sneak out and sell it, but it was already eaten by moths. They told me I would look good in it and left it on my bed. I didn’t want it, so I made clothes for the moths! I didn’t know it was yours!”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“But I didn’t steal anything!”

Before he could react, Mrs. Hayward lunged at him and ripped him off the bed like an insect off flypaper, slinging him face down on the molted night butterflies. The decay entered his wide-open mouth and slid onto his tongue, a vile, chalky taste infecting his taste buds. He immediately spat out the rot, making a throaty sound out of sheer disgust. The flavor stuck to his tongue as he used his teeth to scrape off whatever he could get and forced it out. He attempted to lift himself from the floor, but a foot met with his neck, smacking him back down into the filth.

“Clean it up.”

Mrs. Hayward monitored him like a hawk as he cleaned up the mess on the floor, scooping his creations into his hands with a sorrowful look on his face. The last of his friends were about to leave forever. He cupped the decay in his left hand and he went over to the window, unhooking it, pushing away the shutters, and throwing the night butterflies out in the yard. That was half of them – half of his soul was taken away from him against his own will. Now the rest just needed to be torn out of him like a beating heart. There wouldn’t be much left afterwards. He was ready to repeat the routine when there was a light knock on the door, followed by Mrs. Wheelwright’s voice, “Ella, is everything alright in there? I hear a lot of banging.”

“Gilbert’s just having a tantrum, throwing things around, and stomping on the floor. It’s nothing to worry about,” she replied. “He’s calming down now so there shouldn’t be any more noise.” Her eyes flickered towards him as though to say, you better not deny it. “I’ll be back down whenever I see his punishment is fit.”

Twinkle, twinkle…little star.

“Well, at the very least, everything’s fine,” she sighed. “Mr. Hayward’s looking for a boy named Thomas. He’s going to introduce him to us when he finds him and he hopes for you to be there. Is Gilbert going to be fine?”

Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, how bright you are. Those aren’t the lyrics, but what do I care? Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

“He’ll be fine. I’ll most likely send him to bed early.”

“I’ll leave you to it then,” she told her. Her footsteps faded down the hall, leaving Gilbert in his prison with his unmerciful torturer.

He watched Mrs. Hayward with wide pupils, wondering what she was about to do next. Twinkle, twinkle, little star. “M-Mrs. Hayward?”

“Clean up the rest.”

The boy did as he was told and continued to clean up the bedroom, sweeping the floor with his bare hands, and scraping through the cracks of the wood for leftover fragments. A light drizzle began to fall from the grey clouds and pricks of rain prattled onto his face as he was ridding himself from the remainder of the mess out the window. He used the water pouring from the sky to wash off the dust from his palms. He sighed, knowing that all that he’d worked to create was gone. He’d made those clothes for the night butterflies because they’d always looked so cold hiding in the closets and underneath the bed. They deserved to be warm just as he was, but everyone seemed to want them gone. He couldn’t understand why the butterflies couldn’t be happy too. How could he accept this when no one could accept him? Now that the bugs were all gone, no one understood him but himself, and it would be that way for as long as he knew them. That was fine with him though. The people here would never mean a thing to him. They were like ghosts to him – there, but not noticeable, just as he was unnoticed by them.

After he was done freshening up, he went for the door, but Mrs. Hayward was blocking his leave whilst having a stern look on her face.

“I did as you asked, now let me through!”

“You’re not leaving this room until you tell me the truth.”

“I already told you the truth, so go yell at George instead!” Gilbert tried to work his way around her, but she pushed him back with a single hand.

“Tell me the truth.”

“I told you the truth! Now move or stick your tongue up your arsehole like a whore!”

Her expression quickly went bleak and she bore her teeth at him. “Boy,” sneered Mrs. Hayward as she nabbed him by the ear and lugged him by it out the bedroom door. “How dare you get the nerve to use that kind of language towards me!”

She steered him down the stairs with him screaming in agony behind her, loud enough to make someone think the roof fell on him. The two of them hobbled by the children at play. The prying boys took notice of the scene and they giggled at his squinted brows as they heard his bloodcurdling screams. Twinkle, twinkle, little bug bugger....How I wonder what you are….bug bugger…up above the world so high like a….bug bugger. The teasing continued to drum inside his mind – he couldn’t concentrate! Those arseholes wouldn’t stop! They pounded in his ears, twisting his thoughts with their maddening laughter, ripping into the very essence of his stability until he couldn’t contain it anymore. He screamed even louder, causing the children’s giggles to detonate with joy. 

The song…the song…he couldn’t think of it! His whole world went by slowly, and he bowed his head, their grins the master of his misery. The song, how did it go again? It always kept him calm! It was about stars, wasn’t it? Twinkle, twinkle, little star...hahahahahaha! He couldn’t think past all of those giggles! How I…hahahahahahaha! It was no use. He couldn’t think of it. He took a breath, shut his eyes, and allowed his captor to lead him outside. The cold, spring rain didn’t help cure his emotional nausea, but at the very least he didn’t have to hear those children laugh at him anymore. He greeted it with pride without a smile. As long as he didn’t have to hear those children anymore, it wouldn’t matter.

Mrs. Hayward overlooked the weather and she took a turn towards the rose bushes underneath the window. She halted in front of them, digging her nails into his shoulders, and setting him into the location to where he was to stand. “You are to stand here until dark. Stare at these flowers and they’ll teach you some manners. They’re quiet, they don’t speak, and they stay still just as you should. Study with them well – you can learn an awful lot from them.”

She turned to leave, but Gilbert interrupted her, “but it’s raining!”

“Consider it your way of washing up for tonight then.” The woman smirked, her crow’s feet scrunching up to her cheeks, then she left him in the cold.

The rose bushes rustled as Gilbert took a step in to look at his face in the window glass. There was a rubicund bruise in the shape of a hand smothered on his right cheek and his green orbs were strained with stressed veins. He felt the window glass, his skin absorbing the cold droplets. It looked so warm inside. He watched as the children ran through the hall. Someone was holding a twig, screaming, “I am the ringmaster!” as the other children scrambled to get away from him. He shut his sore eyes, turned away, and leaned his back against the pane. 

I don’t understand why she’s upset with me, he thought. It was just a pastime I did with the moths. A pang of guilt struck the pit of his chest. But I did swear at her. Maybe it is my fault.

He crouched down into the leaves and curled into a ball. “I’m sorry, but I’m not allowing this to continue. Whatever is going on inside your head Gilbert, it’s going to end here. If you remain here after this – no more sitting by yourself, no more at being alone at all, and absolutely no more…bugs.” “LET GO OF ME! YOU CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN’T!” “NOOOOOOO! Let go of me! Let go of me! Please! Pleeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaase! UWAHHHHHHHH!”

It’s all my fault. This wouldn’t have happened if I didn’t show the Wheelwrights those bugs. I should have known that was going to happen. I could have left this place, but it’s because of them that I can’t now. To Hell with those vermin. To Hell with them all.

Gilbert sat there lost in thoughts and tears as the rain continued to trickle from the sky. It didn’t take long before his hair was sodden with rain – because a downpour was beginning to consume the streets. However, he remained there content with his thoughts. They spun back and forth between the thoughts of what happened early afternoon, images of ants on crawling in and out of their miniature town, and night butterflies dancing in a ballroom. He thought about the children running away from the ringmaster and how much more fun they were having than he’d ever did playing with creatures who couldn’t speak back to him. He was on the border of abandoning his daydreams and doing as the Haywards said – giving up on all the nonsense. Maybe he would.

A half an hour passed by before the door opened again. He leapt up; rushing out of the bushes, thinking that Mrs. Hayward was coming to retrieve him, but what he saw brought an unwelcoming frown to his face. He saw a joyous new family of three. Their pleased voices echoing in their dense air as they gave their goodbyes to Mr. Hayward. The Wheelwrights shook hands with him, the door closed, and they left with their new assumed son. He walked hand and hand with them thankfully, their lips moving as they spoke to each other – most of it was tuned out by the downpour, but he could still pick up the jubilant voice of Thomas. He was happy.

He turned around and pressed his head to the glass. Gilbert wasn’t going to look at it anymore. If I hadn’t….He drifted off into thought again and allowed the cold to drag him under.

***

Prap, prap, prap, prap, prap. Gilberrrt! Several voices were coming from the other side of the yard, repeating his name over and over again in sync with the rain like a rhythmic song. Gilbert! Prap, prap, parp. Gilbert! Prap, prap, prap. The voices were clear although the rain was coming down heavy. He was charmed by the soothing sounds of their tune and proceeded to follow his ears. Gilbert! Prap, prap. Gilbert! Prap! The musical tones were getting louder and louder, the harmony ringing in his mind like a broken record.  Gilbert! Prap, prap, parp. Gilbert! Prap, prap, prap. Gilbert! Prap, prap, parp. Gilbert! Prap, prap, prap.

Craw! Crawww! Crawww!

Please don’t leave us out here! Help! they shouted in sync.

“No,” he thought aloud. “Nooooo!”

Yet there they were, the night butterflies, being devoured by ambitious ravens. They flapped their wings and crowed, eating the repulsive white flakes like it was a huge feast. The black birds tussled over the drenched rot, pecking at each other’s throats to see who would get the biggest piece, but Gilbert charged into the fight, shouting, “Get your feathered arses away from them!” 

The ravens were taken back by the act and they fled into the air, finding the nearest tree to shield themselves from the rainstorm. He huffed, his lungs dry from the panic the birds brought, and he turned to face the night butterflies. Most of them were viciously eaten by the ravens to the point that only two of the bodies were barely left intact. One of them was missing all of its legs and its beautiful clothing was torn into shreds while the other’s antenna was crushed and its wings were completely gone. All the beauty that was left was torn from them and they were left there to die.    

You left us here like we were nothing, spoke one in a broken voice, its body unmoving as it conversed with Gilbert. You threw us out the window! We fell down and it hurt us all! Its words became more corrupt, turning into a distorted version of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. You’ve left us here to die! How could you?

“It wasn’t my fault! She made me throw you out!”

We’re all dead because of you! they rasped in unison.

Gilbert bit his tongue and whined, “Why do you have to blame me? It’s her fault! You’re no better than she is!”

We could say the same about you. If you weren’t so talkative, we wouldn’t have died! We would still be in the ballroom, but because of what you did, we’re dead!

He paused and thought for a minute, remembering that his actions did get him forced outside; however, he didn’t have any other choice but to throw them outside because Mrs. Hayward would have never let him out of the room – she would have beat him if he didn’t do as he was told. There’s no way it was his fault that this happened to them. It was beyond his control. It was most definitely hers. He was certain of it.

Don’t try to blame this on Mrs. Hayward when you know it’s your fault!

“Leave me alone!” he snapped back, angered that the night moths protruded his thoughts. “I thought you cared about me! We would always have fun together. Now you’re yelling at me just like every–!”

“GILBERT!!!!” Mrs. Hayward’s voice roared through the rain like thunder.

He turned and gasped, “Oh no!” Without giving a second thought to their fading words, he ran, leaving them behind like a discarded toy. The ravens squawked in excitement when they noticed that their attacker was leaving. They wavered down to the rotted prey, struggling over the corpses once more; destroying whatever was left of the rot.

Mrs. Hayward was standing in the front yard, leaning over the fence with an older boy’s wrist clasped tightly in hand. She was looking frantically between the streets for any sign of Gilbert, her eyes wide with what Gilbert saw as anger, calling out his name like one would call for a disobedient puppy.

He swallowed and approached the shrieking woman, tapping her waist with a shaky finger. “I’m right here,” he muttered, expecting to get slapped.

Her eyes flickered over to his and she gaped at him as though she’d seen a ghost. She didn’t budge a hand or yell…she just watched him. They stood there for a good while, exchanging a long shocked glance. The other boy stared up at Mrs. Hayward, then at Gilbert, then back to her again, before Mrs. Hayward grit her teeth and grabbed Gilbert’s wrist. She stormed into the orphanage, sending the door flying open, smashing the door behind her without a word to either of them. The boys exchanged glances; both confused by Mrs. Hayward’s actions, but did not question her because they did not want to make her more upset than she probably was. 

He was once again taken to the children’s bedroom. One by one, the two were both thrown to the floor, Gilbert landing onto of the older boy as he was flung down like a cheap doll. She spat upon his face, leaving him with the other delinquent, locking the door without speaking to them. However, she made it clear to them that they weren’t leaving that room for the rest of the night without having to say a word.

Gilbert realized that he was still sitting on him and he immediately jolted up. He finally recognized the boy when he stood up to fix his auburn hair. “Hugh?”

“Who else?” responded the thirteen year old boy as he dusted leftover white powder from his dampened clothing. “That bloody old cow. What is this stuff?”

“Moth powder.”

“Moth powder?” Hugh raised an eyebrow. He shook his head, chuckling, “It’s probably flour or something. I don’t care too much about it though.” He proceeded to squeeze the raindrops from his shirt and faced Gilbert, “You fine there, Gilbert?”

“Uhhh….I’m fine, um…how about you?”

“My shoulder hurts from your arse landing on it, but I don’t care,” he guffawed. “The hag’s bones are brittle anyway.” Hugh nastily cracked his back and stretched his arms. “Ahh! I like it more up here than downstairs. It’s quiet, no one’s around, and I don’t have to listen to children whine all day. Oh, and I don’t have to deal with George and his loyal knights either, so I can say I feel better than ever.” He plopped himself on one of the beds – squeaky squeaky – and spread his body out like a rug, closing his eyes. “Gilbert?” He opened an eye.

"Huh?"

“Are you going to stand there all night like a totem pole or are you going to go to sleep?”

“Oh.”

Gilbert began to make his way towards his bed, but Hugh’s voice stopped him in his tracks, “Where are you going? There’s a bed right next to mine.”

“Oh.” He took the bed across form him and twiddled his thumbs as he looked at the ceiling. One, two, three, four….Gilbert counted in his head and imagined sheep jumping over an imaginary moon, his twiddling become more rapid as he approached the higher numbers. Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two…“The cow jump’d over the Moon, the dog little dog laughed, to see such Craft, and the dish ran away with the Spoon.”

“Are you bored?”

Gilbert nodded, his eyes still at the ceiling.

“Want to hear a story?”

Nod...nod.

Hugh told his story excitedly, “While you were downstairs with the bag of bones, I searched around the building for the key to the Hayward’s bedroom. I thought since they didn’t want us in there that there must be something special they’re hiding from us. I used a stool to search through the cupboards in the kitchen, but I couldn’t find it. I was about to go upstairs when the cow found me and she asked what I was doing with the kitchen stool. I told her that I wanted to grow up tall and she slapped me, begging me to tell the truth like someone who lives on the streets. Then I said that she could go beg someone in the alley for an answer. That really tipped her teapot. She was yelling at me for over an hour and I was standing there, trying to hold in my laughter before I couldn’t hold it in anymore…and…well…you know how that turned out. Farm animals can have a sense of humor when they want to, can’t they, Gilbert?”

No response.

“Gilbert.”

Hey, diddle diddle….

“Gilbert!”   

“Sure.”

“Want to help me find the key tomorrow? I think I know where it is now, but I need your help to get it. What say you?”

The cow jump'd over the moon…seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five…“Sure,” he replied.

Hugh beamed and pulled the covers over himself, finding a position he was comfortable in. “Tomorrow morning then!” He shut his eyes, drifting off to sleep within ten minutes, a soft snore arising from his chest.

Eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety…. The cows and sheep continued to jump over the golden moon with distorted cartoonish grins on their faces, hopping like rabbits as they dived behind his bed and faded into the recesses of his mind. Ninty-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven….The moon smiled upon Gilbert and he returned the favor. The friendly stone reached down and shut his eyes for him, making sure that the boy was to be happy in his dreams. One-hundred.

They vanished.