Tommyinnit Oneshots

Fragile Strings

To describe Tommy was to say the beginning of a riddle. What could see but couldn't speak? What could sense but couldn't feel? What could think but couldn't act? The answer, of course, was Tommy. His glassy eyes could observe the world around him, but not even a whisper could escape his painted lips. He had a vague understanding of the world around him, but emotions came and went without a name or adjective to describe them clearly. A level of sentience pulsates within the wood that his body was carved from, but not a single hint of motor skills that would allow him to show people that he was aware. He was very aware.

His first owner had been the man that carved him. Tommy was made into the likeness of a child who had died as an infant. Tommy supposed that he must have been the soul of that child, but he didn't have anything to base that assumption on. All Tommy knew was that once the last detail was etched into wood, he saw the world through marble eyes. His first owner wasn't good or bad. The woodcarver had given Tommy away within a day of his conception.

His second owner had been nice for a little while. He had brown curls and bright eyes. Though he was much larger than Tommy, the doll could tell that his second owner was nothing more than a child. And Tommy was that child's best friend. He was given his name by that child. Though the child's brother insisted on the name Theseus, the child stubbornly clung onto calling his doll 'Tommy' or 'Toms'. The doll didn't mind. He was a toy meant for his child's amusement. Whenever his child was happy, Tommy was positive that he reflected that emotion in what could have been his heart if he had one.

Tommy watched as his child went from a lyricist with a guitar to nearly empty young teenager. Tommy ached when his child (no longer a child in age) would stare with empty eyes as his fingers bleed from guitar string cuts instead of bandaging them. Tommy was washed in his child's tears, a smile permanently carved onto his face even when he felt like doing anything but smiling. Tommy watched helplessly, wishing on every star he could see from the window for the ability to speak, even for a night, to let his child know that it was okay. It would all be okay. Even though it wouldn't. Even though the stars ignored Tommy until he gave up. Until his child went from depressed to psychotic.

Tommy was the punching bag. He was thrown across the room when his child was angry. He was the only ears permitted to hear the screaming of a madman. Tommy was there, just watching, as his child crumbled into a young man that laughed at everything. Tommy was trapped in that house as his former child set it on fire. The last Tommy saw of his child was a man who looked remarkably like him being dragged away to an asylum, getting stuffed into a strait jacket.

Tommy wished he would have been given to the boy with fox ears that his former child had been fond of. Instead, he was handed over to a boy wearing a green shirt whose father had horns and a bottle of whiskey. Tommy didn't dislike his third owner, but it made him feel the same way his second owner did when he was sad. His new child would play quiet games with Tommy, and the two of them would hide under the child's bed whenever his father went on a drunken rampage. Tommy wanted desperately to do something, but no amount of willpower would make his limbs work. If they could considering the state his second owner had left them in.

After a mere two weeks of having his new child, Tommy was being given away again. His new child had caused an accident with his human friend, and the both of them were being sent to boarding school. Tommy could have waited for his child, no matter how lonesome it would be, but his child's father threw Tommy away the hour his child was gone. Tommy was left in a trashcan to rot away.

He probably would have rotted had his fourth owner not come along. Unlike his second and third, the fourth owner was a young adult. Tommy wasn't taken because the fourth owner wanted something to play with but because his recognized the craftsmanship. Tommy was made by a man named Phil, the last of the dolls Phil ever made. He was valuable his new owner had mentioned to his friends as Tommy was brought to his new home. Tommy was placed in a wooden box with a glass lid, left to collect dust in an office room. Tommy wasn't a toy. He was a collector's item. At least, Tommy thought warily, he was now useful. Unlike with his second and third owner, Tommy's fourth found Tommy to be enough as a decoration of wealth. Tommy didn't have the urge to calm emotions. He didn't feel so helpless.