Stooped
low over him, the old man was carefully sewing up the awful tear to his pant
leg, chiding him for his reckless nature.
“You
had better be more careful my boy, if someone saw this they’d be asking
questions.” The snowcapped head bobbed up and down, half-moon glasses perched
on the end of a long nose. “I didn’t tailor this for you so that you could tear
it up, you know?”
“I
know papa.”
“And
how are we going to find you a home if you keep scaring away families?” The man
asked as he bit through the thread, turning to gather his sewing equipment,
which he carefully began to put away.
“But
I don’t want to go anywhere papa, I want to stay here, with you!”
The
old man turned and smiled his yellow teeth narrow and cracked. “Ah, but I don’t
have much longer to be here on this planet my boy, we need to find you a
family, and soon!”
“I
have a family… you’re my family.”
“No
son, I’m not. A family is a group of people that love and accept one another.
I’m just the person that helps you find a family.”
“We’re
not family? You don’t… nevermind.”
“Don’t
what?” He asked, pausing as he held out scissors in front of him, the blades
pointed inwards towards his stomach.
In
a flash of anger he kicked forward, his small wooden shoe colliding with the
scissors and driving them into the man’s stomach. The old man gurgled, eyes
widened in shock before he was slapped with the force of a grown man’s punch,
knocking him off his stool.
“Wha-what
are you doing?” The old man asked through gritted teeth, spitting up blood as
he pulled himself away from his attacker as he dropped down from the bench, the
old man’s dremel in hand. As he stopped over the old man’s leg, he switched the
dremel on, the power tool whirring to life with the Philips head tool still
locked in place.
“I’m
going to create art papa, just like you did. Only mine will stay still once I’m
through with it!”
The
old man threw a hand up; trying to force his attacker back, but only received
blinding agony as the dremel carved into his arm, pouring blood down onto his
apron and chest. A wooden hand clamped onto his wrist, crushing it with nary a
thought. His attacker laughed, cackled really, as he ducked under the bleeding
arm and drove the whirring power tool into the side of the old man’s neck,
allowing it to burrow until it hit bone. Then, with a final act of either mercy
or rage, he yanked the tool free, allowing the old man to pass out and slip
blissfully into oblivion.
-*-
“And
the next item up for bid, a genuine wooden dummy crafted by Hans Gruberfield
himself, said to be his last piece before his untimely demise two years ago.
This dummy is truly one of a kind and a perfect fit for any home.”
Looking
out over the crowd, he stayed still as he had for the past two years… he
couldn’t let them know he was alive; they wouldn’t love him if they did. Papa
didn’t love him, and now he was gone.
My own fault really,
he thought as he sat inside a plastic container, held up beneath his arms by a
stand with prongs. I do have anger
issues… I guess I should work on that. Maybe my next family could help me?
Next
No comments:
Post a Comment