Mood

A toy shop.

She wanders in, cautiously. She has outgrown toys; they hold no charm, no delight for her any more.

But these are not for children.

She stands before the shelf of dolls. The dim light streams in through the film of dust on the glass windows of the shop. Behind her is a platoon of toy soldiers, poised for a battle they would never fight.

The dolls stare into space. They are hidden in the shadows of the shop; she cannot see them clearly, but she can see that there are many kinds, of all shapes and sizes and colours.

She reaches up and takes hold of one.

She grips it into her hand, trying to hurt it, like she feels hurt. She knows she has no good reason to hurt, and that makes her even more bitter.

She looks at the doll. It looks like her enemy. Or like her parents. Or like her friends. And she hates them all. She hates them because they don't understand she hates them. She doesn't really hate them. She just needs to be away.

She throws the doll into the others, collapsing the shelf into dust and noise. Then she kneels down and starts sobbing. She doesn't hate anyone. She expects too much. She is useless to them and to herself. She only makes them hurt. They all hurt to see her cry.

The feeling of paining a loved one's lung with each breath you draw.

She hears a crackle, like crumpling paper. At first she sees nothing. Then a little glow from the pile that was the shelf of dolls catches her eye. She stares in horror and fascination as the flames burn brighter, consuming the dolls. The fire spreads around her to take the little plastic toy soldiers. She turns and looks at them.

One of the soldiers is frozen in the position of firing his rifle. But his head is not lowered to the gun; it is raised, and in his eyes is the hopelessness of a lost man. His head appears to turn towards her as the flames reach him. As one, the soldiers' heads all turn to look at her, the instant before they are engulfed by the fire that cannot hurt her.

She stares into the soldier's eyes and cries silently. She stretches out a hand and doesn't mind the fire. She knows the fire is only in her mind. She knows it's the fire which she uses to hurt them all. She knows she has to change.

She takes the soldier into her palm. His leg is charred, his chest is burnt, but his face still looks at hers as she lifts him to her chest and hugs him terribly, cleaning him with her tears.

The fire stops. Rows after rows of dolls and soldiers look at her from the ashes, but they all love her.

They burden her with undeserved love.

She hides her face at the small soldier's chest. They will always be there to receive. He will always be here to receive.

She smiles.