[ William absorbs that first remark like a blow, his eyes locking to Hickey's. ] You don't seem very tormented. [ Ever mild. Any judgment he casts on the other man, he casts on himself as well.
Then they're on the move. For all his diffidence, William's quick to venture into the hall, intrigued rather than intimidated by the multitude of doors. Mirrors. He's not looking for a way out—he's grasping at something, something that'll break him or this house open. The door he chooses is heavy, braced with iron. It slides open, whining faintly in protest. William takes two steps in and stops cold.
It's him, the little doll: suspenders, stubble, a pistol the size of his fingernail at its waist. William touches a hand to his left cheek. If he reached for the doll—picked it up—he'd probably find the bruise there. He watches himself stride into a wooden room, the sway of the train car still a familiar rhythm, one his memory easily reprises.
The other doll is motionless. Slumped over, a key protruding from her back. She needs, he realizes—something hitching in his chest—to be wound. ] Don't. [ He thrusts out an arm, turns to catch his companion or at least block his view. Erratic tension in his body, as though he could move in three directions at once.
But the truth is all over his face—helplessness in his eyes, resignation. Already it feels inevitable. ]
no subject
Then they're on the move. For all his diffidence, William's quick to venture into the hall, intrigued rather than intimidated by the multitude of doors. Mirrors. He's not looking for a way out—he's grasping at something, something that'll break him or this house open. The door he chooses is heavy, braced with iron. It slides open, whining faintly in protest. William takes two steps in and stops cold.
It's him, the little doll: suspenders, stubble, a pistol the size of his fingernail at its waist. William touches a hand to his left cheek. If he reached for the doll—picked it up—he'd probably find the bruise there. He watches himself stride into a wooden room, the sway of the train car still a familiar rhythm, one his memory easily reprises.
The other doll is motionless. Slumped over, a key protruding from her back. She needs, he realizes—something hitching in his chest—to be wound. ] Don't. [ He thrusts out an arm, turns to catch his companion or at least block his view. Erratic tension in his body, as though he could move in three directions at once.
But the truth is all over his face—helplessness in his eyes, resignation. Already it feels inevitable. ]