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Entry tags:
DW ficlet: Closing Day, PG
Disclaimer: not mine
rating: PG? for disturbing thoughts, I guess
genre: creeping horror
length: 800. I wanted longer, but it laughed in my face.
set: IP/DoM - spoilers for, well, events.
character: Dr. Renfrew
Closing Day
by ALC Punk!
"Just a few more hours," he says. "Then the word'll come down, and we'll be closed for good."
There's a smile on his face.
A few hours pass, but the phones don't work when he tries them.
-
There are paint cans. He doesn't remember buying them, but he's ok with that. He's getting used to not remembering. There's no paintbrushes, and he feels almost hopeless when the first tin won't open won't open what are you doing won't open--
It's his fingers that make the first lines You are here for the child. You must stop now.
When he's stronger, when it's daylight and there's distractions (for what he doesn't know), he manages almost a whole sentence. He tries to tell himself to remember it, but the feeling of something crawling over his skin tells him he won't. Then he wonders what he was even thinking at all. "They're going to close the place down, you know."
He doesn't think to ask himself whom he's talking to.
-
At first, he didn't really notice the forgetting. But night that became day with no warning was worrying, and sometimes, he'd wake in rooms he didn't remember going to.
He tried to leave, once (many times).
But the door was locked and when he looked behind, when there was a creaking on the stairs you would like breakfast all he could think about was that he hadn't made the coffee yet. The rest of the staff were going to be annoyed. If any of them showed to help pull the place apart.
-
The words just appear, and he doesn't remember (he would remember if he could always see them, but he can't help but blink or look away and then he doesn't remember because there's paint on the walls, and he should clean it off).
"Why did you write that?"
She sounds scared and alone, and he'd love to reassure her, but he doesn't know. "It's the others--they did it."
(he doesn't remember the last time he heard the laughter of children)
"You'll be going soon. They're closing the place down, you know."
-
He doesn't sleep. Or he thinks he doesn't (he can't even remember his name, some days).
Walking the halls, the stairs, sometimes finding himself in the basement you will look away now, or on the roof don't jump
Emblazoned in bright red, the paint still dripping down, he sees the letters the children must have painted. It makes him laugh, and the sound is hysterical.
He has nowhere to go.
-
What are you doing?
"I need some smokes." He hasn't smoked since, since--they're closing in '67. Then he can smoke again.
But it's raining now, and the car won't start.
So he takes a sponge to the newest line of graffiti.
-
"GET OUT," he shouts, painting and painting, frenzied (he has to remember this, he's almost got it)
Bright red turns to dark red as the day slides away (it was breakfast not long ago).
-
"The kids did it," he says, to no one in particular.
-
He actually manages to get onto the chair, once (he can't remember if there were other times)
You will get down
The rope is rough against his hands as he worries about which of the children attempted suicide.
-
"I like peanut butter and jelly," he tells her, crouched down so he's on her level (he doesn't know why she's crying). "If I had some, I'd make it right now."
She doesn't smile up at him, and he feels like a failure.
He used to be able to get the children to smile. "Don't worry," he says, standing up and looking towards the bright sunlight spilling through the window, "We'll be closing down soon."
-
He was a very well-respected child psychologist. "I'm flattered by your offer to stay, but the home is being shut down. All of the children are gone, save one. We're expecting someone to retrieve her shortly."
Looking towards a window, he wonders who he was talking to.
-
There are times he's almost certain he remembers painting the words on the walls. He's gotten tired of cleaning them off--there's no point in the upkeep. Mold is growing on the baseboards and the last time he used the vacuum, it sputtered and died (he doesn't know where it went after that).
With the wallpaper falling off in strips, he thinks of making a call to have it replaced. Maybe later, we don't have the money.
-
"You're not my parents," she tells him once, a sad look in her eyes, "Will you remember me?"
"Of course I will."
-
The wind and the rain tear at him as he stands on the roof. The girl and the man, they're gone now (the other girl is gone, too, but he only remembers her in night terrors).
How many times has he told himself to run?
We still have need of you.
-
The sponge is red and damp as he scrubs the walls, whistling tunelessly. Tomorrow, the government will be here to shut them down. Tomorrow, he will be able to go home.
-f-
Inspired by this:
rating: PG? for disturbing thoughts, I guess
genre: creeping horror
length: 800. I wanted longer, but it laughed in my face.
set: IP/DoM - spoilers for, well, events.
character: Dr. Renfrew
Closing Day
by ALC Punk!
"Just a few more hours," he says. "Then the word'll come down, and we'll be closed for good."
There's a smile on his face.
A few hours pass, but the phones don't work when he tries them.
-
There are paint cans. He doesn't remember buying them, but he's ok with that. He's getting used to not remembering. There's no paintbrushes, and he feels almost hopeless when the first tin won't open won't open what are you doing won't open--
It's his fingers that make the first lines You are here for the child. You must stop now.
When he's stronger, when it's daylight and there's distractions (for what he doesn't know), he manages almost a whole sentence. He tries to tell himself to remember it, but the feeling of something crawling over his skin tells him he won't. Then he wonders what he was even thinking at all. "They're going to close the place down, you know."
He doesn't think to ask himself whom he's talking to.
-
At first, he didn't really notice the forgetting. But night that became day with no warning was worrying, and sometimes, he'd wake in rooms he didn't remember going to.
He tried to leave, once (many times).
But the door was locked and when he looked behind, when there was a creaking on the stairs you would like breakfast all he could think about was that he hadn't made the coffee yet. The rest of the staff were going to be annoyed. If any of them showed to help pull the place apart.
-
The words just appear, and he doesn't remember (he would remember if he could always see them, but he can't help but blink or look away and then he doesn't remember because there's paint on the walls, and he should clean it off).
"Why did you write that?"
She sounds scared and alone, and he'd love to reassure her, but he doesn't know. "It's the others--they did it."
(he doesn't remember the last time he heard the laughter of children)
"You'll be going soon. They're closing the place down, you know."
-
He doesn't sleep. Or he thinks he doesn't (he can't even remember his name, some days).
Walking the halls, the stairs, sometimes finding himself in the basement you will look away now, or on the roof don't jump
Emblazoned in bright red, the paint still dripping down, he sees the letters the children must have painted. It makes him laugh, and the sound is hysterical.
He has nowhere to go.
-
What are you doing?
"I need some smokes." He hasn't smoked since, since--they're closing in '67. Then he can smoke again.
But it's raining now, and the car won't start.
So he takes a sponge to the newest line of graffiti.
-
"GET OUT," he shouts, painting and painting, frenzied (he has to remember this, he's almost got it)
Bright red turns to dark red as the day slides away (it was breakfast not long ago).
-
"The kids did it," he says, to no one in particular.
-
He actually manages to get onto the chair, once (he can't remember if there were other times)
You will get down
The rope is rough against his hands as he worries about which of the children attempted suicide.
-
"I like peanut butter and jelly," he tells her, crouched down so he's on her level (he doesn't know why she's crying). "If I had some, I'd make it right now."
She doesn't smile up at him, and he feels like a failure.
He used to be able to get the children to smile. "Don't worry," he says, standing up and looking towards the bright sunlight spilling through the window, "We'll be closing down soon."
-
He was a very well-respected child psychologist. "I'm flattered by your offer to stay, but the home is being shut down. All of the children are gone, save one. We're expecting someone to retrieve her shortly."
Looking towards a window, he wonders who he was talking to.
-
There are times he's almost certain he remembers painting the words on the walls. He's gotten tired of cleaning them off--there's no point in the upkeep. Mold is growing on the baseboards and the last time he used the vacuum, it sputtered and died (he doesn't know where it went after that).
With the wallpaper falling off in strips, he thinks of making a call to have it replaced. Maybe later, we don't have the money.
-
"You're not my parents," she tells him once, a sad look in her eyes, "Will you remember me?"
"Of course I will."
-
The wind and the rain tear at him as he stands on the roof. The girl and the man, they're gone now (the other girl is gone, too, but he only remembers her in night terrors).
How many times has he told himself to run?
We still have need of you.
-
The sponge is red and damp as he scrubs the walls, whistling tunelessly. Tomorrow, the government will be here to shut them down. Tomorrow, he will be able to go home.
-f-
Inspired by this:
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Thank you.
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(And now, reading the name again, I'm reminded of Dracula's sidekick, who is also frequently depicted as fragments of a man. I wonder if the Silence is where our vampire legends comes from?)