Chapter Text
It turned out that, besides the green sweater, Tobey didn’t have any other clothing that didn’t resemble what he’d worn That Night.
Vests, short pants, sweaters, high socks, and bow ties - all in lighter shades that stuck out. Just seeing them in his closet was enough to make his stomach churn with disgust. He didn’t have a panic attack, but if he could barely look at the clothes on his hangers without feeling nauseous, he doubted he could wear them and feel even a shred of comfort.
After Becky had finally left, he had decided to change into pajamas and curl up in bed with a book. Upon further inspection, he realized that, besides the tasteless thing he’d been forced to wear all day, the rest of his apparel looked too similar to his general ensemble. Holding the soft fabric between his fingertips, he could almost feel the wet rain seeping through, the blood staining the edge, the scent of soaked earth in the air.
And so it was that he chose to discard every garment that brought bile up his throat. He’d hold one up in front of him, briefly remembering where’d he gotten it and the memories locked in its threads, before the nostalgia was overshadowed by smaller details, like how the sky blue on one sweater was only a few shades away from his usual Maya blue, how one of his vests had the same number of buttons as its predecessor, how the shine of a pair of dress shoes looked a little too much like water dribbling down its side.
Once, he had looked upon his wardrobe with indifference, sometimes a haughty sort of affection, since he liked standing out, and his bizarre, archaic fashion was one way of doing so. Now he could only bare to look at them for a few moments before shoving them into a musty box to be thrown away. It seemed that his own mind was trying its very best to make him miserable. He hadn’t even recognized the small bud of joy that came from dressing the way he did, but the moment he felt its presence bloom within, the reaper – that’s what he called the immense weakness grasping him by the shoulders, the thing killing his meager hope – came and tore his exaltation from its roots, letting it wither and die.
But what was he to do about it? Tobey had always considered himself a powerful person, but this adversary knew how to sharpen every dainty gift the world had to offer into a weapon, knew how to send him to his knees, have him shaking like a crumbling autumn leaf and leaking streams like the tear-wracked Niobe.
Tobey stifled a sigh, glancing at the box now propped against his desk. His hands were clammy and hot, the chilly air snapping off his toes, which had lost the blanket’s warmth when he’d dragged it over his head. Another nightmare, this one just before morning, so he couldn’t grasp a few extra sands of time before getting up. Not that he expected any peaceful sleep; he’d been fighting wars in his dreams.
Sliding out of bed, he dressed in the green sweater again, keeping his pajama pants on since he’d thrown away everything but a pair of sleek black trousers. He couldn’t lift the box, nor would he continue to spend time staring at it and cursing himself. He drowsily walked towards the bathroom, cleaned up, sparsely ran a comb through his naturally soft hair, and sluggishly entered the kitchen.
He wasn’t sure what surprised him most – the fact that his mother was there, that Becky was sitting next to her, or that they were chatting animatedly like longtime friends.
Claire noticed his presence first. “Tobey, dear! Good morning!”
“Morning,” Becky waved, her eyes fixed on the sugar cubes stacked on their porcelain tea tray.
“Good morning,” he replied, sliding into a chair. From one of the plates, he tore off a slice of margarine toast. Chewing thoughtfully, he noticed that all the jam jars were open, their lids propped up beside them.
Becky avoided his gaze.
“How are you feeling?” his mother asked, eyes filled with concern. She held her teacup up to her lips, but didn’t sip, awaiting a response.
“Fine,” he lied. “Mother, I have something to-”
“Are you sure?” she interrupted. “I heard you get up last night.”
A slight wave of irritation brushed over him. “Only to retrieve a glass of water. And I need-”
“But you got up thrice!” Claire exclaimed. “Were you especially thirsty? Did you have a hard time getting the water? Oh, I’m so daft, I should have placed the bottles on the floor-”
“Mother-”
“But you can’t open those, and you don’t drink tap water – should I leave them open? Would that be better?”
“ Mother -”
A hand came to rest atop Claire’s. Becky smiled thinly; a thread of hope stitched between her lips. “Mrs. McCallister, I think there’s something Tobey wants to tell you.”
His mother regained her bearings, taking in a deep breath. She nodded at him, and it was then that he noticed the dreary eyebags dragging down her once high, prolific cheekbones.
He hadn’t been the only one not getting any sleep.
“Right,” she said shakily. Déjà vu struck him in the chest. She sounded just like Becky had, timid and meek, so unlike her strong, intimidating persona. “Go ahead, dear.”
He cleared his throats, trying to swallow the thoughts piling under his tongue. “Yes, right – I was wondering if I could go shopping today?”
His mother cocked her head. “Shopping? Why?”
“I’ve decided I could use a change in attire.” A half-truth.
She frowned. “Am I not providing you with adequate clothing?”
He blushed. “No, no. It’s not that. You see, I just...” the words clogged up in his throat. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. There were no triggers, no dripping water or crackling thunder. Just the expectant eyes of two sullen women, suddenly more terrifying than everything else he’d dealt with thus far. “...can’t wear anything I own. Not anymore.”
Please understand. Don’t make me have to explain this frailty more than I must.
Claire bit her lip, fingers fiddling with the rim of her teacup. “I see. But I’m not sure you should go alone, Tobey.”
Of course , he thought bitterly. He’d forgotten about that little detail. He could hardly open a water bottle, and his limbs continued to send burning hot spasms towards his chest even with medication. He was already ridiculously useless in a familiar environment; the comfort of his home having been turned into a mind game where everything effortless mutated into an ugly five-step plan for performing the simplest tasks. Barely managing to fix himself breakfast, he couldn’t imagine what it would be like at the city department store.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want his mother to come along, she usually did anyways, but now he didn’t have the option to go alone. Taken away, just like that. He almost laughed at the sheer unfairness of it all, but the reaper crooned in the voice of his many nurses, reminding him cruelly: it could be worse.
Things could always get worse. He could be attached to a ratchet hospital machine, life supported by the chugging of water and food slush, the only sounds of life being the droning beep of a heart monitor. He could be surrounded by the sneers of people who were supposed to help, the weight of his own monstrous guilt, a world that wanted him gone – and it could still get worse .
He didn’t know whether to cackle or cry.
“I think,” his mother murmured, her silken voice cutting through his wrecked emotions, “you shouldn’t be alone.”
“Mhm,” he mumbled, picking at his toast.
“Becky, would you be okay going with him?”
“Mhm- what ?”
The brunette nodded bashfully. “I don’t mind, ma’am. Shopping...fun!”
Her face said everything but fun. “Mother, why can’t you go with me?”
“I still have work today,” Claire admitted, “But I offered to do it at home. My co-workers or – heavens forbid – boss could call at any moment, so I have to be ready to answer.”
He jutted a finger at her. “You’ve been working non-stop. When was the last time you took a bit of time off?”
“Dear-”
“I mean it. You look like you’re about to collapse.” His tone was fragile, cracking with each letter that jostled on his tongue. “Why don’t we go to the store as recreation? You could go to that – that jewelry shop you like, maybe, and I could get the new clothes I need. You could get a break.”
His mother sighed, pulling off her glasses and rubbing at the bridge of her nose. Without the thin rims of her spectacles blocking the view, the drooping eyebags were even more apparent. “I need to make as much money as I can,” she replied tiredly. “Prosthetics aren’t cheap, dear, but you needn’t worry about that. I’m doing well enough.”
Tobey halted. He’d completely forgotten about that aspect.
“Oh,” he murmured, his accent slipping. “I...I’m sorry-”
“Please, Tobey,” she cut him off, squeezing her eyes shut. “Don’t say sorry. What’s done is done.”
He glanced down at his severed arm. What’s done is done.
Silence descended at the table, except for the odd sounds of a bird chirping outside. The tune was much too chipper for the somber mood clouding overhead. Tobey bit his lip, nearly drawing blood. He’d suffered, wallowed for what felt like days in agony, but so had his mother, and he hadn’t noticed or bothered to check. How long had she been pushing herself?
He’d been in the hospital two weeks.
Two weeks of spent in constant torment, wondering if he would survive the surgery. And when he did survive, the next worry came along – money. They weren’t poor, but neither were they rich. How much would insurance cover? How much had his mother already tried to procure, nights spend hunchbacked over a screen, zombie fingers flitting over keys, eyes filled with harsh white light. He could have made her tea, or brought her a blanket, but he hadn’t.
Not that he would’ve been able to make her tea, or hold the blanket without barbed quills spearing his skin and yanking at his nerve endings, but he should have been there .
He was used to being selfish; that was what he was. He wasn’t used to feeling this horrible about it.
Becky suddenly spoke up. Her words were steady, something he desperately needed at that moment. “I understand you need to save, but Tobey...he has a point. You should take a small break, ma’am. Overworking will lead to burnout. Balance is key.”
Claire cracked on eye open, a wry smile splitting between her red lips. “Don’t tell me fifth grade has worn you out this much, Becky?”
Her dark eyelashes fluttered rapidly, errant hands stroking the wide sleeves of her green off-the-shoulder cardigan. “Oh, well, I just...” she scratched her face, flustered. “Read about it in a book! And my mom gave me some advice once.”
“It’s good guidance,” his mother noted approvingly. She quickly got up, perching her feline’s glasses over the dark pits dug underneath her eyelids. “Perhaps I’ll take a short kip before starting, but I can’t leave home. You two will just have to go on your own. If you can make it back before elevenses, please do.”
“Elevenses?” Becky asked.
“Tea-time,” Tobey replied curtly. It was a tradition that they skipped out on often, but he needed the routine back. Something solid in his schedule to look forward to. “I’ll retrieve the dishes.”
“I can -”
“No,” he told her firmly. He still had one good arm. He would make use of it. “I can take care of it.”
Her lips parted, but the argument didn’t come. She nodded and left to use the bathroom, his mom exiting soon after. Tobey set the crumb-caked plates next to the sink, emptied the sugar tin and wiped down the tea tray with a folded wet napkin. He opened the dishwasher to see if there was any room for it in there and gasped in surprise, nearly dropping the prized family heirloom.
On the bottom row was one of his mother’s skillets, part of a copper iron collection that she’d gotten for Christmas, the handle completely warped.
His breathing grew shallow. Carefully setting the tray down, he grasped the twisted handle, its burnt bronze looking like mangled amber.
What in tarnation?
His head jolted upright when a certain memory from yesterday resurfaced. He’d heard a crash, and the only other person there had been Becky.
I was...putting away dishes.
Putting away the dishes? Maybe she’d dropped it on the floor? But even so, that wasn’t enough force to cause this amount of damage. The worst it would do is chip the rim, to which it would barely be noticeable. She might have gotten it stuck between something, but even that required a long-winded explanation that made no sense at all.
His thumb traced over the ruined metalwork, over the deep grooves and palm-shaped indents. It was as though someone had squeezed it too hard.
“Tobey?” Becky’s voice drifted down the hall. “Are you ready to go?”
“Coming!” he shouted. He opened a cabinet, shoved aside a wall of paper towel rolls, and stuck the skillet behind them. He sped towards the door, yanking his jacket off the wall hooks as he did.
“What took you so long?” she asked, opening the door.
“Oh, nothing,” he replied, stepping out into the morning chill. “Just putting away the dishes.”
Thankfully, the department store hadn’t changed much in Tobey’s absence.
He and Becky walked off the escalator, idly strolling through the crush. After weeks spent in isolation, the mall’s sensations were overwhelming – the scent of fried doughnuts curling underneath this nose, the neon arcade signs attracting teens like moths, the marble-white mannequins bathed in light, their expressionless faces watching him from behind the glass as they posed. A cacophony of chortles rolled through the crowd in piercing waves that drowned his ears, and he lost Becky’s mop of brown curls multiple times. From his left were the sounds of a crying child, on the right were a gaggle of teenage girls annoyingly popping gum. The ribbon tying it all together was the raunchy lyrics to a junky pop song blaring over the speakers, which the entire mall saw fit to whisper under their breath as they shopped.
He hadn’t missed this place.
“So, Tobey,” Becky began as they took a pit stop at the central water fountain. “What exactly are you looking for?”
He peered around, his eyes landing on multiple themed clothing shops. “I’m not quite sure, actually.” He thought it would’ve been obvious once he got there, but his mother had always dictated what he wore, so he’d never developed a particular taste for anything that she hadn’t picked out beforehand.
Becky’s eyes sparkled. “This is your chance, Tobey!”
“My chance?”
“Yeah! You get to create a whole new you!”
He gave her a flat stare. “A whole new me. I could surely use that at the moment, hm?”
She winced. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”
“It’s fine, Botsford. I’m not asking you to reevaluate everything you say,” he waved her off, ignoring the sting of his left shoulder nub hidden beneath the lanky sleeve of his coat. Nobody had paused to stare at him long enough to notice the lack of limb - not that he cared what anyone thought. “Continue.”
Becky nodded. “You didn’t really get a chance to choose your own clothes, right? Your mom usually does that for you. Now you get to re-do your entire wardrobe! You could re-make your image. Fashion says a lot about a person, you know.”
“Is that so?” he drawled. “What did my previous fashion say about me, then?”
She hadn’t seemed to register his sarcasm, because her tone was genuine when she remarked, “Well, it was pretty obvious your mom dressed you. I mean, who wears pants that short? And your glasses were super big, kind of dorky, and-”
“Okay!” he shouted, flustered. “I think I’ve had enough of your opinion. Besides, you aren’t a fashion connoisseur yourself.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Green and purple? Really, Becky?”
“They’re my favorite colors!” she sputtered, hands planted firmly on her hips. “And you wear blue and orange!”
“Because they’re complimentary .”
“Not on you they aren’t!”
“That’s not how color theory works, Becky,” he groused. “We’re wasting time. Mother wants me back home in an hour or two.”
She huffed, turning her head away from him so he got an eyeful of glossy brown locks. “Fine, then.” Her irises flitted across the top floor. “How about there?”
He followed her line of sight to a cheerful shop front with bubbly letters and blinking string lights draped over its entrance. A quartet of mannequins posed daintily behind the glass, dressed in pastel skirts and soft parkas; fuzzy striped socks and artificial wigs tied up loosely with cutesy hair clips and velvet scrunchies. Each model held an accessory – polaroid camera, miniature back pack, pearly white sunglasses – in their immaculate hands.
Tobey slowly met Becky’s face. She had one trembling palm covering her mouth, giggles spilling out, and her eyes shook with silent laughter.
“Hi-larious,” he drew out. “Don’t shove your tacky taste onto me, Botsford.”
She wheezed, clutching her stomach, a wobbly smile teetering on her face. “Oh - oh my gosh, the look on your face -”
“Yes,” he deadpanned. “I’m very handsome, but don’t look for too long.”
Becky snorted, but her embarrassment unfortunately didn’t squash the snickers brimming at her lips. She grinned coyly. “I just thought you could use something fresh. Are you sure you don’t want to go inside? They have a sale on nail polish and lace sarongs-”
“ Botsford ,” he hissed.
She batted her eyelashes, peering up at him with mock modesty. “Yes?”
Tobey jerked his head away, cheeks burning like he’d dunked himself in a vat of hot water. Her mischievous smirk was a sight to behold, the way her perky lips tilted upwards in taunting gesture, the twinkle that sparked like melting sugar in her teasing mocha eye; how she innocently twirled a lock of soft hair around her finger in the same way her entire presence was doing to his heartstrings.
God, he hated it. He hated her .
“Onwards,” he muttered gravely, swiftly walking away.
He could hear her light steps behind him, practically feel the warmth radiating from her sly smile. “And where is ‘onwards,’ Tobey?”
“Anywhere far away from you .” He muttered indignantly. Without thinking, he dipped into the closest store, hoping to dive away from her burning gaze, and came face-to-face with what could only be described as raw sophistication.
The scene had completely transformed. The store was low-lit, amber lights spilling over dark accented walls like honey oozing down bark. His body stilled to a stop on smooth black tile, chilled air brushing against his ankles. Glossy wooden arches stretched over his head, bearing soft bulbs that cast his face in butterscotch-gold. Racks filled with clothing took up a quarter of the room, but there were also bookshelves laden with paperbacks that smelt of ink and wisdom, stationary sets filled with stamps and post cards with images plucked from wild dreams, and a coffee shop tucked into the far left corner, little black tables coffee cups and abandoned sponge cake wrappers yet to be cleaned up.
The place glowed with subtle elegance, a classic painting in of itself. He found it hard to imagine that it was hidden somewhere within the hyper-modern mall. It was too quiet, smelt of dewy roses and ground coffee grinds, and the annoying pop song had been replaced with faint piano, the tinkling keys soothing his ruffled nerves.
“Wow,” Becky said breathlessly.
“Indeed,” he managed. “Shall we?”
She nodded, taking a tentative step onto the tile, as if worried that her dusty sneakers would put blemishes on the chic shop’s lustrous floors. He followed suit, unsure of where to focus his eyes, until he found the small selection of clothes available.
“Gosh,” said Becky, drawing a hand over one of the sweaters. “Everything here is so posh.”
“Posh...” he mumbled, holding a hanger to his chest.
Not wishing to disturb the vintage atmosphere, her voice quieted into a low, mellow murmur, words dipping into the river of hushed conversation wafting from the coffee corner’s few customers. “Posh means elegant or stylishly luxurious. This shop is posh because everything here has an upper-class air to it that differentiates it from the mall’s other stores.”
“It’s positively lovely,” he raved. “Did you see the tea area? And the books?”
She beamed, her smile bathed in rays peeled from a sunset. “I know!” she squealed softly. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Could we see the books when we’re done? I saw a dictionary there that I don’t have in my collection.”
He rose on puzzled eyebrow at that, but was much too elated to comment on her strange habit. “We can’t leave without purchasing a novel or two. But first...” He brought a navy-blue sweater to his chest. “What do you think of this?”
She hummed. “Classy.”
“Is that all?”
“Oh, sorry,” she cleared her throat. “What I meant to say, your majesty, is that you look splendiferous in your new clothes. Let’s just hope they aren’t invisible and you make a fool of yourself.”
He gave her an appreciative glance. “’The Emperor’s New Clothes?’ That’s an ancient reference.”
Becky shrugged and found a beige vest that she said ‘matched his hair,’ tossing it into his arms along with a plethora of other clothes – a few loose, woven sweaters, high waisted paints, turtleneck sweaters, and plaid socks, all in hues of walnut brown, polished black, red-wine burgundy, and deep Victorian blue. She urged him into the changing room (he snagged himself a wool beret or two on the way there; he’d always loved them) before rushing off to take a look at the small selection of books the shop had to offer.
Tobey changed quickly, not looking down at his arm. The clothes were warm, a bit oversized with the way the fabric folded, but comfortably nonetheless. He slipped into a sweater colored the subdued green of an olive, put on the pants and shining black boots, then adjusted the ivory beret on his head. The curtain swished as he stepped out, new heeled boots clicking against the floor.
He saw his reflection peer at him curiously from the gilded mirror close by, inspecting the prim boy staring back at him.
For the first time, his eyes went straight to something other than his missing limb.
He looked...distinguished, like a professor exiting a library of scholars. The colors weren’t obnoxiously bright, pale and toned down, like hues in a faded photo. His arm stub was obvious with the sagging sleeve, but that didn’t matter. The pointy-tipped shoes gave him a confident sort of prose, and the beret swept over his locks with undeniable style.
One hand came to brush away blond hair from his forehead, the other adjusted the pants at his waist, nit-picking for flaws.
There were none. He adored his new ensemble.
“Tobey!” came Becky’s voice, and he pivoted to face her. Gingerly, she set down the novels in her hands and grinned. “You look so...you!”
He glanced back at the mirror, chuckling wryly. “I should hope I look like myself.”
She rolled her eyes, stepping forwards. “That’s not what I meant. You just look like you were...I don’t know, made to wear that type of clothing. It suits you.”
Tobey faked a yawn to hide the stupid smile blossoming between his red cheeks. “Goodness, Botsford. For someone who collects dictionaries, that’s such a bland description.”
Becky stuck her elbow out, about to nudge him, when she quickly withdrew. He sensed her hesitancy and gently bumped her on the side, snickering. “Pick up a thesaurus while you’re at it. And do you, perhaps, have any other recommendations?”
Something sharp glinted in her eye. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Tobey exited the changing room for the hundredth time, sporting a striped brown coat, smoky grey turtleneck, and window pane check overalls. He posed with melodramatic flourish as he tipped a snow-white flat cap. Becky flashed him an eager thumbs-up and added it to the increasingly large pile next to her, before getting up to scrounge for more potential outfits.
“Okay, Tobey – hear me out,” she insisted, holding up calf-length skirt, dark grey and adorned with pinstripes.
He cackled. “You can’t possibly expect me to wear that, Botsford.”
Moments later, he found himself in front of Becky again, undoubtedly wearing the skirt.
“Huh,” was all she said, before adding it to the ‘buy’ pile. She waited for him to revolt, but he stayed silent, admiring his reflection in the mirror and paying her no attention.
Tobey looked at the stacks of folded clothes in their shopping basket. “I believe this is enough for now, although I’ll have to come back here some other time.”
“Agreed,” Becky said with glee. “They have a Johnson’s dictionary, Tobey! First published in 1775, with added footnotes from lexicographers over the years, including Noah Webster!” She gushed, holding the book to her chest like a second heart. “It’s so rare, I haven’t been able to acquire it for years.”
“You have an interesting fondness for dictionaries,” he commented. “You know, Wordgirl is quite smitten with them as well.”
Becky immediately froze. “O-oh, really? That makes sense, since she loves words.” She ran to the basket and picked it up hastily. “We should go check out now, your mother is waiting for us.”
He rose an eyebrow at her peculiar behavior, but she’d already started laying out leather-bound books and a sleek silver glasses case on the table (octagonal, as Becky had suggested; he was finding that she had impeccable taste, not that he'd ever tell her that aloud) on the table, babbling to the bewildered cashier.
“Hey, Tobey,” she whispered. “How are you going to pay for all of this?”
“Oh, don’t worry.” He pulled out a card and swiped, barely batting an eye at the two-hundred and fifty-five sum glowing on the payment terminal screen. Becky’s jaw dropped.
“Receipt?” the cashier asked, bagging up his purchases.
“No,” he chirped. “Have a good day, ma’am.”
Becky jogged up next to him, holding most of the bags (she’d gotten to them before he could, still being annoyingly helpful) and staring incredulously at him. “You have a credit card ?”
“Please,” he muttered. “Debit. I’d rather not deal with later fines, and my credit score is atrocious anyways...”
“But you don’t have a job, Tobey.” Then she frowned. “Unless you do?”
“Freelance,” he said airily. “A job here, a job there. You won’t believe how many people need their expresso machines fixed on work mornings. Ugh, and their laundry systems break down every other week. Oh, and there’s one fast food joint whose ice cream machine is the most unreliable thing possible – don't tell anyone, but I keep the glitch in there so they continuously call me back.”
“Tobey!” she scolded.
“Oh, don’t throw a fit,” he chided, rubbing his hand on his sweater collar. “If that’s a crime, law enforcement would have to arrest every businessman in Fair City.”
“I’ve only arrested one so far,” she muttered.
“Why would you need to-”
“Oh, look!” Becky shouted, voice shrill and anxious. “Free perfume samples!” She grabbed his hand and dragged them over to the stand outside a skincare shop, warm fingers brushing against his.
“Hello!” she said, her smile awkward. “We’d like a plate of your finest perfu- I mean, a scent card.”
“Why, of course,” chimed the teenager behind the stand. “It’s a new brand we’re trying out!”
She handed them each a square of cardstock with a cursive logo printed on it. Tobey barely registered the smell, his hand growing damp and face blossoming crimson.
“Becky,” he bit out, “you can let go of my hand now.”
“Right!” She squeaked, placing her palm on her chest. His hand grew cold. “Sorry, I was just… so excited to smell these, you know?”
“Joy,” he mumbled, bringing the card to his nose. Instantly, he withdrew, feeling nauseous. “What is this? It’s repugnant!”
He glanced at Becky, but she was scowling at the card. “I know this smell.”
“From your bedroom, perhaps?” he asked cheekily.
“Hi-larious,” she quipped in a faux British accent. “But no. Look.”
She brought the card closer to his face, and he squinted at the script.
Granny May , it read.
“Ah,” he mumbled. “That explains it.” Then he frowned. “How do you know what it-”
Suddenly, a crash came from inside the store, and twin strings of purple yarn spiraled out of the door. Terrified customers ran for the exits, screaming at the top of their lungs. A wicked, raspy laugh echoed through the throng, and Becky gasped. “Oh no.”
“Goody,” Tobey sighed. “A robbery. Just what I needed.”