Toyinfestation

Prologue - Richard Dawson's back-story

September 1983

A light breeze touched over stray dead leaves scattered on cracked pavements in dire need of renovation. Another sunrise, another day. The dry, sunbaked leaves stirred, brushing over the rough cobblestones. 

Nothing worth talking about actually ever happened in the town. No one really cared; they usually went about their lives. There was no destination, only an endless road that looked the same from every point.

Richard cursed under his breath as he cleared up the mess his father and his 'friends' had made the night before. The man was perpetually drunk or having a hangover.

"Richard! Come here!" The man's hoarse voice thundered down from the second floor.

"I'm coming. Wait."

"Richard!"

"I'm coming."

Sprawled on the floor of the badly stained hardwood floor lay a scruffy looking man. Wet hair stamped on his forehead in funny shapes. Beer bottles were everywhere. With some effort, he sat up and leaned against the bedpost.

"Son, come here, pass me the pack of cigarettes."

Richard closed his eyes for a brief moment. He should have pretended he hadn't heard him. That thing on the floor was his father. It had always been this bad; ever since...

He bent down and handed the pack to the man.

" Son, come closer. Yes, closer."

Richard leaned in.

" Do you know why your mother left? It's because she just couldn't stand stand the sight of you. Look at your ugly little face. Come here,"

Richard winced.

"It's all because of you, you piece of crap. You're useless. Useless, cursed; meant to hurt others. You have no one, like me."

At this point the man was laughing like a maniac and hurling random objects at Richard. The ten year old ran away from his Papa. Papa didn't like him when he came home with the tinkling pretty bottles. His little face scrunched up as choked back little sobs heaving past the front door. The thick scar across his left arm reminded him of the last time his father had acted like this.

He wanted out of the small town; out of this man's life.

That was the last time Richard walked out of the old brick house.

Days and weeks toiled by. Richard kept going, relying on the money he had gotten out of the piggy bank that his mother had kept hidden from his father. He got by, sometimes pretending to be visiting an old uncle or an aunt. When he got bullied , he ran.

Then he came to a strange little forest
It looked lost, like him. Like it was waiting for him. Something drew him in. Maybe it was the promise of darker voices and a quieter home. He kept going, towards the heart of it all. The leaves whispered, the trees withered, Dew drops blinked back and the darkness basked in all its glory. Vast and unknown. Voices gathered around him in pretty curtains, it seemed as if the grass, trees and even the birds spoke, but he could not make out what they were saying. There was this dark , somewhat sinister aura around the center of the forest but Richard could not stop. Some kind of an invisible force drew him, like a moth towards a flame. Hidden inside a thick blanket of carpet grass was an ancient looking bottle made of yellow glass. Richard stopped, knelt down and lightly fingered the glowing bottle. The inside of it was filled with what looked like melted fireflies, glowing like fairy dust from fables.

The light from the bottle glowed eerily in the dark gloom of the forest.

Should he open it?

Richard stared at the bottle for a while, fascinated, inspecting its peculiar shape, running his hands over the rough glass. Finally, he gave in to temptation. The voices all around him grew louder as the wisps of smoke spiraled out of the bottle, spun around the little boy and entered him.

His small yelp of pain was lost in the mist of voices as the print of his small body in light was haloed by the shiloette of the dark shadows of the forest.