The Twisted Playground - Part Three - Tin Soldiers

The Twisted Playground - Part Three - Tin Soldiers

I awoke between the warmth of blanks, and the softness of a bed. I felt tiny cold fingers gently brush across my face.

“She’s so warm.” I heard a little girls voice say.

“Shh, you’ll wake her up.” I heard a slightly older boy tell her.

“No I wont.” The little girl said.

“Yes you will.” I heard the boy argue.

“No I wont.” The little girl pouted.

“Yes you will.” I mumbled, my eye’s fluttering open.

“No I… oh.” The little girl blushed, at the site of my half open eyes.

“I told you so!” The little boy stuck out his tongue at the little girl.

“Quit flirting.” I heard the gruff voice of Donovan from another room.

“Eeeeeeew!” The both of them cringed simultaneously.

I sat up, and struggled to focus my blurry vision. I looked down at my hands. Someone had wrapped small cloth bandages around my knuckles. I felt my forehead, there was a bandage on the gash Melantha had made with the tin soldier. I gently moved my arm across the covers, of the soft, simple bed I lay in. The frame was deep rich brown, and the pillows, sheets and blankets were white.

My eyes scanned my surroundings. Happy Clown had apparently disappeared. I was in a simple, room with off white walls, and an old fashioned dirt floor. Strangely the room was without windows, but dimly lit by candle and firelight. Beside the bed was a small dark table, with a white candle stick burning on it. Across the room was a simple polished wardrobe. In the corner of the room sat a small black desk. In front of the fire place sat a simple black rocking chair. Around me stood small children of varying ages, all eyeing me intently.

“Where am I?” I asked timidly.

“This is Donovan’s house.” The little girl informed me.

“Oh… you mean that tall boy with black hair?” I asked.

“Yes, Donovan’s taller than all of us.” The little girl replied.

“So I see.” I responded. It wasn’t particularly hard to be taller than most of these children. They were all fairly young.

I stretched a little. I felt disoriented, and fairly hungry.

“How long was I unconscious for?” I asked in dazed confusion.

“I don’t know how to tell time.” The little boy said.

“Oh.” I should have known a child that young couldn’t know.

“Was I unconscious for a long time?” I asked.

“For a very long time!” The little girl cried.

I smiled at her a little. She was energetic, and cute. She looked about 5 years old. She had very large green eyes, and short blond hair. She wore a black dress, with short puffy sleeves. I looked at all the children, all of them were wearing black. I wondered why, but chose not to ask. I arose from the bed, feeling light-headed. I looked down at my feet, and noticed my lack of footwear.

“Hey… what happened to my boots?” I frowned, puzzled.

“Donovan took them off you so you could lie down.” The little boy told me.

“Where did he put them?” I asked.

“He put them by the fire place, but then Tommy threw one at Mike, and it landed under the bed… and I think Amy put dirt in the other one.” The little boy looked up at me innocently, and pointed to the little girl he had been arguing with.

He had short, disheveled, reddish-brown hair, an upturned nose, and round pale cheeks. His face was spattered with light brown freckles. His black cloths were tattered, patched, and untidy, from playing in the dirt. His face, arms, and hands were adorned with streaks of mud. He looked approximately 6 years of age.

I laughed. The little boy looked at me, with a fairly relived expression. He must have assumed I was going to be angry. I crouched on the floor, and retrieved my boot from under the bed.

“Here’s the other one!” The little girl held it up by one of the shoelaces.

I took it from her, and turned it upside down. A small clump of dirt fell from it. I hit the soul of my boot to make sure I had removed all the dirt. I quickly brushed them off, and laced them up.

“Will you teach me to tie my shoes?” The little boy asked me.

“Um, maybe later. Do you know where Donovan is?” I asked.

“He’s in that room.” The little boy pointed across the hallway to a closed door.

I walked over, and rapped on the door with my bandaged knuckles.

“Come in.” Donovan responded from inside.

I came in. This room too, had no windows. His long body was sprawled out on a large black couch, his back towards me.

“Um, Hi.” I said timidly.

“Your awake.” He stated, not bothering to turn around.

“Yeah… How long was I unconscious for?” I asked.

“A few hours.” He responded.

“Your… your um, Donovan right?” I asked.

“Yes, and your Fay, I believe?” He responded.

“Yes… Um, W…what happened after I passed out?” I timidly inquired.

“I carried you back here, bandaged you up, and put you in bed.” He yawned.

“Do… Do you know a of a way that I could get into contact with the Mayor of this place? I need to find a way to my home.” I asked, on the verge of begging.

He finally turned to me, sitting casually in a masculine manner, one arm upon the arm rest. He motioned for me to sit. I complied, nervously.

“How did you get here?” He asked.

“Well… it’s kind of strange, and complicated.” I responded uneasily.

“Everything here is strange and complicated.” He rolled his eyes.

“Well, I was looking in my mirror, and instead of my reflection, I saw Melantha.” I explained.

“I touched the mirror, and then I couldn’t move… and then… then I was in Melantha’s room.” I stuttered.

“Go on.” He looked at me intently.

“She… asked me if I would be her friend… I-I was kind of shocked at the time, and I was freaking out. I started begging her to bring me back home, and she started screaming at me. She threw one of her toys at me.” I pointed to the bandage on my forehead

“Hmm, typical of her.” He shrugged.

“Then she slammed the door and locked me in her room. So I started freaking out and crying… and then her toys… all… they all started looking at me!” I admitted uneasily.

“I know I sound crazy, but they really did!!” I blurted out, before he had a chance to respond.

“I believe you. Her toy’s spy on us all the time. Some of them even try to attack us.” He explained.

“They… they do?” I blinked, shocked that my seemingly innocent, and decidedly helpful acquaintances were capable of causing damage.

“That’s not what they did to me. The toy’s helped me out of Melantha’s room. One of them even offered to help me find the Mayor, so that I could find a way home.” I explained.

“Do you mean to say that they talked to you?” Asked Donovan.

“No. Happy Clown, the toy that helped me escape, couldn’t talk, but he could write.” I explained.

“What else did he tell you?” Donovan asked eagerly.

“He… um…” I bit my lower lip nervously.

“What?” He asked gently.

“He told me that… Melantha was your sister… and that you killed her.” I said slowly, as his ice colored eyes, penetrated into my own.

“That’s not how it happened at all.” He said sternly, and flatly.

“Well… w…what did happen? Um, If you don’t mind me asking.” I blinked at him shyly.

“In… in general, it’s considered impolite to ask people about the nature of their deaths,” Donovan’s stern voice quivered ever so slightly at the begging of his sentence.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” I reddened a bit.

“But since I don’t want you or anyone else to get the idea that I’m a murderer, I’ll tell you.” He finished.

“Oh… thank you.” I felt stupid that I had interrupted him.

“In life Melantha was not my sister, she was my half sister. My true mother died while I was being born, and my father hated me because of it.” He began.

“He never paid much attention to me. He generally left me to be taken care of by the nanny. He didn’t start beating me until Melantha was born.” He finished his last sentence in a bitter tone.

“When I was 10, he married a rich lady by the name of Catherine Cross. She hated me as much as he did, if not more, simply because I was not her own child. Melantha was born soon after their marriage and the little attention I received from my father, stopped entirely. I relied more or less upon myself, and my nanny.” He continued.

“I envied her, and soon grew to hate her for the attention she received. I voiced my opinion of her but once, and my father beat me for it. After that I never said a word against her, in front of my Father, and Catherine. As soon as Melantha began to walk, and talk, she quickly learned how to manipulate my action’s and words to get me into trouble. She would even tell lies, saying that I had done destructive things just to see if she could get her Mother to yell at me, and my Father to beat me.” Donovan went on.

“She was a pampered, spoiled child. Catherine, and my Father adored her. They spent as much time and money on her, as they could possibly afford. They referred to her, as their little Princess. She used their affection for her against me. Yet there still burned in me, one slight flame of hope; That when I had come of age, and my father no longer had power over me, that Melantha too would no longer have power over me.” He declared, in a tone of voice I thought Nobel sounding.

“I get it. She only had power over you through your parents.” I said.

“Exactly” he replied

“By the time she was 6,” He went on.

“I was convinced that her mind had completely deteriorated. She would sit by herself for hours on end, talking, seemingly to herself in the garden, by the rose bushes. I paid her little mind, for there was nothing I could do about it. My father, since the day I was born, had always disregarded every thought I had ever shared with him. It seemed pointless to tell him, that his “sweet” little girl seemed to be going mad.” He rolled his eyes at the word “sweet”.

“Each day, they had me fetch her, from the garden. This resulted in an almost daily quarrel between us. She would generally tell Catherine, and I was usually scolded. One day, during a particularly vicious argument, I became so enraged with her, that I finally made her aware that she only had power over me through her parents, and when I was older, I would be free from her. Surprisingly, she did not tell her parents of my so called “insolence.” In fact, she let me be for a few days.” He continued.

“Each day, as I was sent to fetch her, I began to notice that one of the roses would turn to black. Fascinated I inquired as to how she had done it. Predictably she refused to tell me. I began to hear snatches of the conversations she would have with herself. She seemed to have made up a character in her mind, by the name of Morgan.” He went on.

“I once spied her with her wand. I thought little of it at the time, thinking it was a toy. I asked her wear she had gotten it from. She refused to tell me. The next mourning there lay in our yard, the grotesquely mangled carcass of a fox. She told her parents that I had crept from my room that night, and that she had looked out her window. She claimed she had seen me kill the fox before her very eyes. This was of course a lie. My father however believed her, and beat me because of it. Things such as these, began to happen more and more frequently, soon daily. With the daily chaos, came my daily beating. One night, she revealed to me, that it was Morgan who had turned the roses black, and given her the wand. That night I received my last, and most painful beating.” He imparted.

“Your… your father killed you?” I asked, wide eyed and horrified.

“No… Perhaps I would not be in this realm if he had. That night I took my own life…” His voice quivered ever so softly.

“I jumped from the attic window of my families house. Melantha had followed me. She was mocking me, jeering me to jump. I hesitated before I leapt,” He began to struggle to retain his calm tone.

“She… She ran to push me… but I jumped before she could, and she fell too.” He finished, his voice shaking.

“Pleas forgive me, if I have shocked you, these are not the sort of things I am in the habit of telling people, least of all to a girl.” He apologized, quickly regaining his lost calm.

“I’m fine Donovan… I’m so sorry your family drove you to that!” I cried.

“Did… did it hurt to die?” I asked.

“Death is only painful if it is slow. I was terrified however.” He responded

“Your a girl… I thought you would be appalled.” Donovan seemed surprised by my reaction.

“My gender has no effect on my reaction to your pain.” I felt confused, he was obviously intelligent. Why did he assume that I would be shocked, just because I was a girl?

“Donovan, what year was it, that you… died?” I asked gently.

“I have forgotten and lost all track of time during my existence here. Some times it feels as if life was a dream, and that in truth I have always been dead. Yet logically this cannot be so.” He responded.

“Are you sure you cant remember, what day it was? what time? the date? Was anything going on historically at the time? I just want to figure out how old you are.” I lied. In truth I wanted to find out if his sexist comment, had anything to do with his generation.

“During the rain of Queen Victoria, in England.” He responded after struggling hard to remember.

“What year is it now?” He asked.

“2001.” I replied.

“Heh, I have been dead many years then.” He laughed weakly.

“That you have.” I said softly.

There was an awkward silence between us. One that I didn’t know how to break. Our eye’s met briefly for a moment. Quickly we looked away from each other. The uneasy quiet was unexpectedly shattered by sound’s of children screaming. Donovan leapt from his seat on the couch, his expression stern and defensive. He dashed out of the room we were in, and into his own. I rushed after him, trying not to pay attention to my dizziness.

He pushed open the door to his room, anger and concern in his eye’s. The door to his wardrobe was gapping open. The children around him, were screaming, and sobbing at the site of what was inside of it. Nailed to the walls, the ceiling, and the floor of the wardrobe, were about 50 or so of Melantha’s tin soldiers.

The tin soldiers were mangled and disfigured, but still alive. Nail’s protruded from their rusted, bent, and contorted figures, making them look as if they had been curiously crucified. Some were nailed through the middle, others through their skulls. Some soldiers were bent, and battered, a few of which were missing an arm, or a leg.

Apparently, one tin soldier had escaped. In his hand, he held the nail, that had previously been run through his leg. His other leg was missing, and so was one of his arms. He hobbled about, thrashing the nail about viciously at the children, like a spear. At the site of Donovan, he assumed a look of fury.

Donovan walked over to him menacingly. There was a sort of sadistic madness in his face. He violently kicked the soldier across the room. The crippled toy lost his grip on the nail as he hit the wall. Donovan picked him up. The soldier thrashed about, and squirmed violently. Donovan took no notice of it. After obtaining a hammer and nail from his desk, he re-nailed the tin soldier to the the wall through his head, then savagely slammed the door.

I stood there, dizzy and dumbfounded. The children’s scream’s ceased, but their sobbing continued. The little boy, that had awoken me earlier, rushed forward to Donovan, holding up his hand. A red gash shone with blood on his palm. I felt an overwhelming pain in my head, accompanied by intense dizziness. My vision blurred. I cried out softly, and weakly. The pain was consuming. I felt myself losing my equilibrium. I leaned against the door way, trying to support myself. I held my forehead, and cryed out again.

“What’s wrong with the alive-girl?” Asked a little girl looked up at Donovan.

“Fay, what is it?” He asked, concerned.

I lost my balance, and toppled to the floor.