open | prompt five | ENDINGS

[wrens]

prompt five | E N D I N G S dressing-room style. start your own thread. tag others. wash, rinse, repeat. open to all.

 

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[weallfall]

[ Viola isn't gone, least not last he saw her, tho maybe the fact he's here now and she ain't means she's gone now. That the men from Prentisstown followed and caught up and took her. Or that the people of Farbranch ain't all their calm men-Noise and knowing women-silences had led them to believe.

Todd tries very hard to think how he can explain it in words, but he ain't one for words really. No one is since the books was burned. ('Cept Aaron, and he's crazy.) In the end, he decides there's nothing for it but to do as she did, so he opens his Noise up, lets the pictures and thoughts flow through.

There's Ben, face full of worry, pushing him out the door of the farmhouse. And Viola, with her long hair and neat uniform, hiding in her silence in the swamp. And then Aaron with his bloody face and violence and the thoughts in his Noise about sacrifice and God. And then running and running and a bridge on fire and horses behind them and Hildy with her gun and then Farbranch and its safety (Or is it safety? They won't want no Prentisstown boy in Farbranch.)

And it's too much, even, for Todd himself, so he shuts it off, breathing in deeply through his nose and reminding himself I am Todd Hewitt. ]

[thousands]

[ I am Todd Hewitt.

There is a blank place inside herself where Todd Hewitt should be. Not an emptiness, because no part of Amy is empty, but not a fullness either. When he opens himself up, her mind rushes forward, looking to be enveloped, looking to slip below the surface of that buzz and feel the thrum color the spaces where no Todd Hewitt exists. She breathes him, drinks him; she makes her lungs and her belly ache with him. For Todd is a soul, he's a life full of Noise, and Amy is Her, the girl the who is legion. The one with the souls inside her; the Passage.

She takes him in until he closes up again. But even with the tap so quickly shut there is a whisper — some of him now in her or was it her inside of him — not loud, just a murmur, like a lullaby sung in a distant room, something to fill the silences. (A shaft of light in the darkness, a tear.)

It's okay if he doesn't have words and why that is, Amy shows him. (An abandoned house, only not a house at all, rows shops lining every distant hall, their contents wrecked and raided, and at the very center—) She'd lived almost a hundred years beneath the carousel at the very heart of the mall, hiding when the stars hovered in every window, only coming out when the sun was hottest and her tummy grumbled (not hunger, just upsetness).

She tilts her head to one side, some of her dark hair falling across her eyes and her face. ]

You are Todd Hewitt, [ Amy says aloud. Her heart says differently.

I am Todd Hewitt. ]