Chapter Text
Stories only begin at the beginning when time, and by extension the plot, is linear. If you want to know what's going on, typically the best decision is to start there. Unfortunately, this storyline is very much nonlinear. Therefore, starting at the beginning would likely leave witnesses far more confused than starting somewhere else. And given the debate has gone on long enough, for the sake of those same witnesses we'll start right in the middle, let's say, six o' clock?
At six o' clock on the sixth day of the sixth month in the sixth year after the last car had been driven into the ocean, an unlucky young lady was plucked from the underbrush and unceremoniously tossed in a dank basement. The warm summer air hung heavy with moisture and sweat pooled uselessly under even the thinnest article of clothing.
Sweat soaked through layer after layer of thick fabric that covered its wearer from head to toe. The lumbering man lit the stove under a pot half full of water. He momentarily diverted his attention to clunking up to the attic and throwing several life sized people-shaped objects to the ground floor. He eyed his lovely stuffed family thoughtfully. Fatherhood is interesting because fathers see alot of themselves in their sons and they see alot of their sons in other, more alive children.
For example: a conveniently captured child-ish creature with greasy dark hair and a skittish demeanor reminded him enough of his former son to prevent him from murdering it. Her, actually. The child that reminded him of his son was female. And much tinier. And showed him nothing but a combination of fear and hissing noises.
But still.
She reminded him of his son enough that he decided not to turn her into a skin section of the doll version of his son.
He made sure she got some stew that night.
The next day he tried to bond with her by showing her the inner workings of a shotgun. In an enclosed space. About three feet away from her. She didn't find it as magical and emotionally freeing as he did.
The day after that, he tossed every toy in the house into her little hovel.
And after that, that he dutifully removed the tattered remains of 99% of the proffered toys. Except the music box. That was metal, thus unbreakable by little living Jimmy. He glanced at larger dead Jimmy and hoped he wasn't jealous.
The next day was stew night again. He amiably stirred carrots and chunks of potato. A thump resounded from downstairs. He shrugged, just little live Jimmy stretching his legs. Finely chopped celery slipped into the simmering pot. He turned to the ice box. No meat. Ah well, he had some fresh game in the butcher house.
He chose a deer with backward knees and sharp teeth. It was small, just a bit bigger than little live Jimmy. The one handed saw ripped slowly through flesh and ground through bone.
His head jerked at the creak of the old dog door to catch a glimpse of little legs scrambling away. I miss Fido, he thought grabbing his shotgun and lighting up the lantern.
He shot at the skittering scamps. His eye furrowed behind the rucksack covering his face. Was that Jimmy?
Upon giving chase, the Hunter came to the conclusion that yes it was little Jimmy, and little Jimmy would rather play with other little boys than eat with the family. Thus little Jimmy was not part of the family and could be shot at his discretion.