Toybox

Erica Beesworth wanted to fucking kill herself. She worked retail so that was understandable. Noble even, in the right context. And it was the only option she had left. It was drastic, fatal by definition, but it was the final path she had to go down.

The very gods of time itself had turned against her. There is no other escape from something so powerful. The stoic struggle could not withstand. Defiance and rebellion were simply out of the question. She had to kill herself. It was the only way to gather some form of freedom back from the world that had so wrongfully taken it from her.

Some great deity had dropped a catastrophe in her time. There was no other way to explain it. Erica looked at her watch and it said 4:03. She then waited 4 hours and the watch said 4:03. There was no other explanation. Her shifted ended at 5 and that should have been 3 hours ago. But it wasn't. The watch said 4:03. 4:04, now. The time gods still had to put on the airs of doing their jobs, lest she lose that final ounce of will that kept her breathing.

Her hat was too tight. It was always too tight. But she had to wear it. The uniform demanded a too tight hat and too stiff shirt that frankly did not have enough room for her but going a size up would make too much room, so she just had to make do. The pants were the worst part, digging into her waist, her thighs and making them choked. Her wand kept poking her like a needle. She shouldn't even have it on her. The company policy was clear that every bit of magical interfaces was to be securely locked in a conveniently supplied storage box in the back. But the locks in this location were broken and it was deemed too expensive to have them replaced.

There were wares, trinkets, bobbles labeled and advertised as everything a young witch, wizard, warlock, or wicca needed to start a magical journey of something or other. Mostly, it was just cheap junk that Erica had to stare at and try to pour her hate into until it all curdled into toxic industrial plastic sludge. The target of her ire today was the spelling spell books and the cutesy drawing of a cat in a pointed hat waving sparkles and rainbows.

She was hanging on by a thread. She looked to the shelves stocked with children's clothes and cheap toys marked up to a profitable price and felt the gods slip back the watch to 4:03. They did it. She could feel it. She could feel the time slipping away from her, oozing through her soul. She sighed and the watch said 4:05. She didn't bother doing the math that would tell her the time until she could clock out and slip away from the world of plastic and polyester. The door chimed and the response came with trained timbre.

"Welcome to Wizard Wakka's Wondrous Wares," she said with the practiced saccharine voice.

The mother gave the requisite smile for the veneer of politeness. The boy did not. He was too excited. There were shiny things and high contrast colors that slipped into the gremlin's mind and hit the synapses so sucrose laden. Erica kept the smile up as the thing of too much television bounced and pulled at its mother and showed her all the shiny colors. It was 4:10.

The child went to the line of wind-up dragons that shot sparks and a sick urge settled in her stomach with gnarled venom intent. Those things were dangerous. Hilariously so. And he if held it in just the right way with the fangs pointed right at his eyes, then he could set himself on fire. It would be amazing. It would set her free. Suddenly she didn't want to kill herself. She could watch a small child immolate in a pyre of manufactured fun.

But it didn't happen. The child, the poor child, had a responsible mother who just needed to pick up a new hat for a birthday gift. A friend of the gremlin that looked back to the dragon. And every young witch needed a hat. Erica had hers. It was faded gray and stitched with flames. It was a new one. The old one burned to ash on the Day of Dark Nova.

The hat cost 24 double dollars, or 48 regular ones, or 8 triple dollars. The nice mom paid with a mix and Erica gave the change in just regular ones. She didn't want to do that math. It was much easier to just count the regular ones and usher the pair on to their next set of adventures. Maybe they would go to the bookstore and get that new Claire Verlaine and the Starglimmer Mallet book that Erica absolutely was not excited for. She didn't have it marked on her calendar, only to realize that payday didn't really line up for her. She really didn't think about dipping into her savings to pay for the hardcover special edition. She really, really didn't think about going two doors down to sweet talk the clerk there into going to the back and reserving her a copy that she could pay for later. Maybe the pair would just go for ice cream. Erica could go for some ice cream right about now. It was 4:23. That was a good time for ice cream.

So was 4:24, 4:25, 4:26 and even 4:27, although the desired flavors changed rather sporadically. Chocomint, then double cherry berry, then limon leme, then it settled on snozzberry. It had been ages since she had anything that actually tasted like snozzberries. She would get some snozzberry sorbet on the way home and not think about the book she couldn't justify buying, but she didn't want it anyway.

It was 4:35. She had 25 minutes, or 5 5-minute chunks or 25 1-minute chunks. Those minutes were made of 60 seconds each, so she really just had 1,500 seconds left in total. Those went by so quickly. She was already down to 1,495 by the time she was done triple checking the math. She could get through the rest of the seconds, if she just kept her head on straight and eyes forward. She was not closing tonight, anyway. She could just slip right out and change and not be wearing horrible dawn glow pastels that seared the eyes. And she could go back to her actual hat, instead of the terrible company one. It was so stiff and starchy. Hats needed sway and bend.

Erica lost count of the seconds and settle back to minutes. Her hat, her wonderful, lovely hat of thick gray felt and precise crimson needle work, that was her salvation. The minutes flew by with thoughts of her actual, real, wide and floppy hat. The way it swayed and caught the wind as she took a dive. The way it always threatened to take to the air like a majestic phoenix. The way it housed her Ventus so snugly and cuddly when they went up above the clouds. The hat was there in and on her mind and it would whisk away the time until she was free.

She looked to her watch. It said 4:37. She didn't know how many hours, days, weeks that actually meant. She just wanted to fucking kill herself.

Erica Beesworth did not fucking kill herself. She had a better idea halfway through the eternity it took to reach 4:38. She pulled out her wand from her back pocket and switched hats. Ventus was in that one and the colors were close enough that the beholden eye wouldn't notice anything out of place. Granted, the mouse was sleeping, but watching a small white mouse sleep and twitch made the hours fly by like minutes. And it was even 5:01 by the time she noticed she was done. That was terrible, simply terrible. That was a whole minute of her commute lost. And now she had to wait in line for her ice cream. She still got it though.

She savored the sweet and the tart on a waffle cone in the park, trading licks between her and her familiar. She sighed and watched the evening clouds drift and change. Some kids were playing that stupid sport with the ball and hoops and she watched them try to hurt themselves in every spectacular way. She did not want anyone to get hurt. That was a punishment reserved for anyone who actually came into the store and made her work.

There was another lick and a bite that shocked her teeth. Cold, so cold and sweet and it hurt. She didn't' have any cavities. She better not have any cavities. She brushed frequently and flossed on occasion. That was more than the requisite.

While the ache from the mouth settled and stilled, the ache in the head surged and grew. Sugar and cream had turned against her and gave her pain. Ventus seemed fine. The mouse was apparently immune to anything that would cause him pain. He was more than happy to go through the motions and consume sweet and tart, as much as his body would allow.

She took a hand to her head and soothed the pain as best she could. Tongue to the roof of the mouth, eyes scrunched shut, everything contorted and twisted and closed and tense as the pain slowly grew higher and higher.

It was another curse from the temporal gods. Unsatisfied with the chains and shackles of Wizard Wakka's Wonderous Wares, they now claimed her body with hooks and knives and blunt hammers of pain through pleasure. Truly an inspired move, to turn a sweet freezy treat into something dreadful. She did not cry. She did not moan. That would only further the spiteful bastard gods' enjoyment. She would do no such thing. She would sit there on the stained and worn park bench in the evening sun with all the stoic dignity of that one statue of that guy that did a thing. Erica couldn't remember. She was in pain. The statue could sit there and rot.

Erica broke when she felt her grip start to falter and the cone start to drop. She didn't want it to. She tried to stop it. But the disaster was inevitable. The scoop slipped and plummeted to the gooey pavement. Every natural force was against her. Every single one. Something with magnets was going to happen next, or maybe the weather. Although, the weather thing was already happening. Hot as hell, this summer. Heat waves coming in like a rolling sea. Part of the reason she wanted ice cream. And her thoughts turned from cursing all forms of the natural world to sitting there in silent defeat. The cone still sat in her hand.

Ventus jumped from his perch on her shoulder and scampered to the rapidly growing pool of slush.

"Ven," Erica sighed, "That's ground ice cream. That's gross."

Ventus did not respond. He was a mouse. He was used to eating things off the floor. This floor just happened to be outside and slowly growing sweeter and sweeter with each passing moment.

"At least save some for me."

Ventus still did not respond, for he was a mouse absorbed in the simple act of consuming as much sugar as he possibly could. He already felt his tiny heart quicken and spurt and race with the oncoming rush. Even when the big soft hand grabbed his back and yanked him upward, he did not calm down.

Erica put the familiar back on her shoulder and looked to the sky. It was getting closer and closer to darkness. She might as well go home and not do anything important there. She had a night and a few days before she had to go back to work. So, the thought came that she doesn't have to come right back home and go to bed and hole up in the covers and the sheets and pray that the time gods give her a full 8 hours. She could go get drunk.

And she would like to go get drunk and pretend that nothing bad was capable of happening. The world would be a warm booze of amber and burn, slowly eking up into her mind and dragging her down into a lukewarm pool of blissful aware. She took in a deep breath and let it go slowly.

That was a problem. The sheer joy her heart felt when her mind mentioned the idea of intoxication worried her. Not enough to go seek help, but enough to sit and dwell on the urge and at least think about. Ventus eyed the melted puddle that crept to his mistress' shoes. It was pink-purple and tempted him to scuttle down and lap at the edges. But Erica seemed lost in thought and that meant he had better stay on the shoulder. And if he really wanted, he could slink down and nibble at the cone. That would pair very nicely with the sharp sweet tart of the sorbet.

Erica let the thought bounce and debate. She did deserve a drink after a long week of shifts and a lost ice cream cone. It was hot anyway, and drinks were something that helped people cool down. She looked down at Ventus and he was eyeing the melted ice cream and the cone in equal measure. She made the bet and cast her dice into the wind. Ventus would choose for her.

His will broke and he scampered down to the ground once again and began lapping at the dirt. That settled it. She would go to a bar and drink something sharp and bitter and cold. And she could vent to the good bartender and feel some amount of catharsis. She should probably see someone about all this at some point, when she had the vim and vigor. But not now.

---

Erica closed her eyes and let the wind take her away. She was flying. She was above the clouds and swimming through the atmosphere. The lowly ground walkers so far below were beneath her in every sense of the word. Her broom swooped with the slightest touch. She made the wind shift and spin with her. She was the wind, the gale, the storm and its eye. All of it condensed to a point so slim and narrow it ceased to be. She was not anything conscious. She was just the wind and nothing more at all.

She rolled and dangled everything she was upside down. A hand held her hat in place, although the poor mouse tumbled and spin. He was used to it, as terrible as it was. Still, he was in the hat. The hat was safe and secure and warm. He just had to hold on as best he could. Erica took her free hand and skimmed a cloud. The tendrils came away with cotton threads, ice coating her fingers. Cold, invigorating and all sorts of pleasant tingling shocks. Wonderful, simply wonderful. It was the best she felt all day. Except for the bit this morning when she woke up and she still could sleep for another hour or so. She closed her eyes and let the sensations carry her away.

They were not closed for long. A flock of commuters, suits and ties and sharp cut collars emerged from the cloud in perfect synch. One mind, one will, one action, they rose and circled the poor fledgling of sensible clothes and colors beyond the monochrome. She jostled herself upright and ramrod straight. She was in the company of her betters now and the posture needed fixing.

The swarm boxed her in and kept her slow. There was no freedom anymore. The suits and ties and thing marionettes pulled by the neck nooses blocked anything excessive. Tired, they were all tired and spent, spines hunched and broken. Erica tried. She really did. There were gaps and holes in the formation, but every venturous intrusion into enemy territory was rebuked with apathetic lethargy. She did not escape the endless sea of black-tie affairs.

She sighed and shifted on her perch. It hurt to sit like this. Probably not a good sign. She was on her feet all day. She was not meant to sit straight. She was meant to slouch and lean and lock knees. All of those were bad for her, but not in the same way as this was. She drummed her fingers against the worn wormwood inlaid shaft of her broom. It was old, but it wasn't that old. It still had some vigor left in the grain. And the murder of collared crows sought to take that away.

"Excuse me," she shouted, but the wind took the words from her.

"Excuse me," she shouted again, and the wind, the traitorous wind did the same thing without care.

She sighed and the wind took that too, because the wind was an absolute bitch. At least the clouds were parting.

Erica soared over the city proper. Lights, so many lights and sounds, roars and whistles, dancing sweet timbre of bell and wonder. Even the black suits could not take that away from her. She had the city and the setting sun, the pastel stars twinkling and shining with the first hint of darkness. Then a black jacket and an admittedly pleasant paisley tie shook her focus. The flock was turning, turning away from the myriad lights and headed for the thick woods surrounding it.

Erica did not want to go to the suburbs. She wanted to stay in the city. There was probably a cool bar or two in the strip malls, but there were so many more here. And there was even one where she didn't technically have to pay. At least, not right when she ordered. She knew the owner, and that simple fact made her above the lowly peons who did not.

Shifting her weight, she tried to lead the suits to at least dip and sway a bit. A quick jostle and all she would have to do is weave through the gap. The line held, phalanx and airtight.

"HEY," she yelled. The wind took most of that as well. But not all of it.

A tired looking man with shiny tortoise shell glasses looked to her and saw the outsider for the first time. He tipped his hat, a narrow, short thing of the same black as his suit. It didn't even qualify as a real hat in Erica's opinion. More of a bonnet, or a cap. But the single word carried the rest of the message clear enough and someone finally had the courage to break formation and let her pass. With a polite returning tip, Erica ducked out of the way and sighed with relief.

The wind took that personally.

Erica was no longer the gust, the leaf on the wind dancing carelessly and joyfully. The formation protected her from the worst of it. But she was alone now, a fledgling with the soft down of newly hatched announced. And the wind did not like that sort of thing.

She wanted to go one way, but the wind decided that it wanted to go somewhere else. The broom could not compete. The wind had travelled all over the world, from the forests to the plains, to the barren deserts and deepest seas. The smooth shaft of beaten wood, dry and older than the idea of the dirt, could not compete with the infinite wisdom of the wind.

Erica fell. She did not want to fall, but today was not a day of things she wanted. And the wind had the will to ground her. Her eyes shut and she just let it happen.

A tree broke her fall as best it could. Snapped branches and poking twigs, leaves fluttering and bark scratching. But she was alive. There was no pain, no pain at all. A moment passed and then she did. There was a lot of it. She wished that it wasn't there anymore, that the sweet nothing muting rush of impact was still there. Ventus was alright, still tucked away in the recesses of her hat.

Hands went around and found no blood, nothing broken. A few things bent and pulled but a bit of dirt rubbed in and walking off and it would all be as right as rain. Erica moaned. It was the right thing to do. Through the gap she made, the flock scattered and broke, each and every bird turning back to their individual nest. Apathy, each had pure and unfiltered apathy to the broken rank bird that decided to fall.

It was slow, pulling herself from the branches. But she managed. Her hands finally found some modicum of blood. A scrapped knee and that was the worst she had. Something else had something worse.

Her broom was snapped in half, the tail end of bristles still snagged in a tree, so far out of reach. The mind did not understand why the shaft was so short, until Ventus poked his head through and drew the eyes to bits and pieces.

Erica closed her eyes and let the hot burning suffuse the gaps behind her lids. Tears, those were tears. Nothing could stop them and she didn't want to. They leaked through the corner seals and ran down her cheeks. It felt good. It felt really, really good.

---

The glass was cold and beading cold water in deep streaks down the cup. It spilled from the coaster and pooled on the countertop. Erica panted and took a sip, bringing the coaster up with her. It clattered to the bar and almost fell to the floor. A quick snap of her hand caught in and brought it back. The bar was hot sticky humid. A ceiling fan tried its best to churn and flow the stagnant air soup, but it couldn't. It just couldn't.

"Brock," she sighed, "why does the world hate me?"

The man in question pulled his eyes from the muted TV. Spiders were up by 10 points, anyway. Oxhorns couldn't run it back if they tried. And they clearly weren't trying. He shrugged his shoulders and Eric tried to shrink away from him. He was big, too big for the small counter barely past his waist. But he managed. If anything, it made his job easier. Brock had the reach to pull from any shelf, even the low ones.