Why?
It hurt so badly…
She was gone…
Why?
God above, why?
It Hurt… hurthurthurthurt.
Whywhywhywhy?
Mum.
He had called her mum.
She was his mum, or as good as.
Was.
Waswaswaswas.
She was gone now. Dead. Murdered. By Sweeney Todd.
Dead.
How he hated him.
Gone.
He could've killed him.
Dead.
Gone.
So he did.
Knife, slash, across his throat.
Then he bled. A lot. A lot a lot. Bled.
Bleed. Bled. Dead. Was. Gone. Why? Hurt. Gone. Bleed. Why? Was. Gone. Hurt. Dead. Why?
Then he'd left Todd for dead in that cold, dark cellar with his victims to haunt him. Like they did to Toby.
The ghosts of the hundreds that'd died in that cellar haunted him, one more than any of the other unknowns.
Mrs Lovett.
Mum.
Dead.
Gone.
Why?
Hurt.
She was dead now.
Dead.
He'd had his revenge on Sweeney but she was always there, in the dead of night, her last screams ringing in his ever tortured head.
Dead.
He couldn't rid himself of her,
Waswhyhurtgone.
He'd tried cutting her out of himself, dragging a knife across every patch of skin he could reach.
Bleeding her out.
But she never left. Never.
Never.
Why?
WHY!
When there was no skin left to cut; when he was covered in scars; he tried starving her away. He didn't eat for days. Even when he felt hunger clawing desperately at his insides, he still refused himself food.
It felt good to think about something. To give his pathetic, tiny existence direction. But what was the point, when she wasn't there?
There was none. No point. To anything. He just was. Just existed. With no purpose other than to feel pain. Ever lasting, never ending pain.
HURTHURTHURTHURT.
HURTHURTHURTHURT.
It tore at his insides, and he wanted rid of it. He didn't want to feel anymore. He was tired. So tired. He could sleep forever.
But he couldn't, because she be there, screaming, always screaming.
Her shrieks filled his head now; the absolute agony that exploded within them echoing his own feelings, and suddenly he was screaming too, screaming for everything that hurt within him hurthurthurthurt everything that wasn't fair in his life. Which was a lot. Nothing seemed fair. Because nothing was.
He screamed for days. Even when his throat was searing with pain and rubbed raw, he still screamed. Even when flecks of blood came up mingled with spit because he was bleeding inside his mouth. Even when he couldn't scream anymore because his voice box was beyond useless.
He screamed.
Screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed.
Then, after a week of screaming, he stopped. For no reason other than he was bored. He found he couldn't swallow properly and breathing was five times as hard as he used to be. He knew he would never be able to talk again, but finally, something seemed right in his life. Something made sense.
And some of the pain had gone.
It seemed odd that something that hurt him so much physically could relieve mental pain.
But it did.
Now Toby laughed, silently because of his ruined throat, but his body shook with peals of laughter.
Then he went and bought a meat pie.
Closure.
It felt good.