Do To Ride the River {1b/?)
anonymous
April 26 2011, 13:21:22 UTC
Then he fell silent. Panic flared in Woody’s chest as he patted Hamm’s cheek, shook him so hard that he rattled against the table and almost fell over, repeated his name over and over again. “Hamm. Hamm! Come back to me!”
But the light in the pig’s eyes had gone, and even the next day when Bonnie presented the fixed and cleaned piggy-bank to the room, some of his worst dents covered with silver and gold stars (“Because they’re special band-aids that can make him fly too!”), it did not come back. He just sat there, unresponsive, unmoving, like one of the books or the nightlight or the craft pieces that he was surrounded with. That night, Woody crept out of bed again and went to sit next to the pig, his cheek against Hamm’s cool flank, remembering all the years that they had sat and talked and bickered in Andy’s room, and had he had tear ducts he was sure that he would have cried.
“What’s the story, cowboy?” came a voice from behind him.
Woody started, turned round, then saw Dolly and sighed, leaning back against Hamm again. “He was... he was Andy’s toy. We were all Andy’s toys.”
“He came from your old owner?”
All that he could do this time was nod, sitting still as if listening for some toy heartbeat, a couple of the stickers already having fallen off and fluttered to the table. Dolly knelt down opposite, watching him intently with those sewn-on eyes.
“I thought you said that they were at Sunnyside,” she added.
“They were.”
It came out little more than a whisper. He remembered the cheers as the box opened and they were seen, remembered shaking of hands and hugging and laughter. Bright colours and brighter smiles. And now Hamm... sleeps. Let the word be sleeps. Woody ran one hand over the cool ceramic, yearning for a voice to tell him off for being so sentimental, to shake him off and ask what did Bonnie think she was doing with these stickers. But nothing came.
For a while the two of them sat in silence, the room given a slightly green cast by the nightlight that nestled next to Bonnie’s bed. Then Woody’s expression hardened and he rose to his feet, hands flexing at his sides as if he was ready for the draw. Dolly watched him rise, seeing what she had seen before only in rare moments in their games and stories, or when Woody talked.
But the light in the pig’s eyes had gone, and even the next day when Bonnie presented the fixed and cleaned piggy-bank to the room, some of his worst dents covered with silver and gold stars (“Because they’re special band-aids that can make him fly too!”), it did not come back. He just sat there, unresponsive, unmoving, like one of the books or the nightlight or the craft pieces that he was surrounded with. That night, Woody crept out of bed again and went to sit next to the pig, his cheek against Hamm’s cool flank, remembering all the years that they had sat and talked and bickered in Andy’s room, and had he had tear ducts he was sure that he would have cried.
“What’s the story, cowboy?” came a voice from behind him.
Woody started, turned round, then saw Dolly and sighed, leaning back against Hamm again. “He was... he was Andy’s toy. We were all Andy’s toys.”
“He came from your old owner?”
All that he could do this time was nod, sitting still as if listening for some toy heartbeat, a couple of the stickers already having fallen off and fluttered to the table. Dolly knelt down opposite, watching him intently with those sewn-on eyes.
“I thought you said that they were at Sunnyside,” she added.
“They were.”
It came out little more than a whisper. He remembered the cheers as the box opened and they were seen, remembered shaking of hands and hugging and laughter. Bright colours and brighter smiles. And now Hamm... sleeps. Let the word be sleeps. Woody ran one hand over the cool ceramic, yearning for a voice to tell him off for being so sentimental, to shake him off and ask what did Bonnie think she was doing with these stickers. But nothing came.
For a while the two of them sat in silence, the room given a slightly green cast by the nightlight that nestled next to Bonnie’s bed. Then Woody’s expression hardened and he rose to his feet, hands flexing at his sides as if he was ready for the draw. Dolly watched him rise, seeing what she had seen before only in rare moments in their games and stories, or when Woody talked.
The Sheriff was back.
“And I’m going back there to find them.”
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