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Upon a little girl’s tallest dresser rested a lavish, pleasant little toy house, home to a lavish, pleasant little toy boy. The house, though, was locked, and the little toy boy could not leave the house without his mother’s instructions—for the door’s lock was so extravagantly intricate, and a little toy boy like him could not open it on his own. The little toy boy wanted to nothing more than to escape the house and view the world beyond the eternally sealed door, but Mother would never allow such a lavish, pleasant little toy boy to leave until he knew just how to open the door.
And so each day, Mother would teach the little toy boy the door’s elaborate secrets, for hours daily. And at the end of each day’s lesson, he would insist the knowledge was his absolutely, that the very purpose of the lesson was to use his knowledge and leave the house—but Mother would simply gaze down, disappointed, shaking her head, muttering her regrets and desires under her breath. And so each day the lesson would be repeated, the little toy boy’s frustration towering upon itself.
He hatched a plan. The plan would anger Mother—but suppose he never had to see her again? The little toy boy became unbearably excited, and for days and days and days he prepared himself, hiding away in his lavish, pleasant room after his lessons until the dark came out and sleep overtook him. One night, when the big stick on the great numbered circle that hung on the girl’s wall rested on the twelve—the little toy boy saw this only outside the window, for he was not allowed to leave the house—he tiptoed past Mother’s room with a youthful stealth. As his excitement blazed ever-brighter, he leapt across the lavish central room to the door and undid the lock with the knowledge he’d been endowed with so many times.
Oh, the beauty of the real world! Darkness rested upon the house, upon the little girl as she sleepily gripped her pillow. Other toys pranced about the room, dancing night’s dance in a sort of silent harmony. Eager to meet the denizens of this new world, the little toy boy peered over the edge of the tallest dresser.
Too eager, he was. Never before had the little toy boy known any such experience as falling, not in his comfortable, lavish, pleasant little house…height held no meaning for him. Mother had never taught him this! Down he fell, over the edge, while time slowed to a crawl. And the other toys—mauled and twisted and filled with malice and horror, he saw upon closer inspection—laughed with a devilish wickedness as he plummeted. Mother had not taught him of this cruel world, this un-lavish, unpleasant terror…and Mother watched, stoic, through the window as he fell and fell and fell. And died.