Chapter Text
He was gone.
Her son was gone.
Her baby boy was gone and he was never coming back.
Of course Playtime Co. offered money, so much money, and that’s all it was every time just with different names. Payment for therapy, emotional compensation, “reimbursements for damages”. But that’s all it was, just money. And money couldn’t bring her son back.
He wasn’t coming back.
It didn’t feel real, she wasn’t sure if it ever would.
It had been a few weeks now, the constant stream of reporters coming to their house and trying to shove microphones in their faces, to get them to say something while they were still in the throes of grief, had finally begun to dwindle.
Susan found herself sitting in his room often, staring at the wall opposite his bed. She had cleaned, to the extent of keeping dust from settling, but she left everything else untouched, his notebooks full of doodles and homework still open on his desk surrounded by colored pens, his toys still strewn about his floor, spare pieces of clothing still not put away.
She looked to her side, where they had leaned his Doey toy against his pillow. Its wide smile and empty gaze feeling like they bored into her soul. She stared at it for a moment before grabbing it and throwing it across the room. She froze as it hit the chair before falling back onto the floor, still facing her, still looking at her, still judging her .
She stood, taking a shaky step forward, and made her way to the toy.
She fell to her knees as she picked it back up and folded it into her arms, its soft plastic squishing into itself as she squeezed it.
She felt tears well up in her eyes as she held the toy.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to it, “I’m so, so sorry. I could have done better. I should have done better. If I had been just a little faster…”
She curled tighter into herself as she began to sob.
“I’m sorry Jackie”
A letter came in the mail today.
Unmarked save for their address stamped onto the front.
“George?” she called, “another letter. This one doesn’t have anything on it, does that mean the news stations are trying harder, or that they’ve stopped trying at all?” She chuckled humorously to herself, but spoke with tiredness in her voice, worn down by the media’s relentless pursuit after a statement.
“Here, let me see it,” her husband replied.
She moved into the next room where George was sitting, passing it over before sitting down next to him as he opened it.
“What have they said to try and get us to say something this time?” she joked as her husband read it, the levity slowly dropping from her tone as she watched his expression change, his eyes widening. He passed it to her wordlessly, “What? What is it?”
He lightly shook his head and gestured to the letter, as Susan hesitantly began to read.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Ayers,
We can give him back to you. Your son Jack can live.
Show this message to no one
Six weeks from the time of receiving this letter, return to the Playtime Co. factory. Someone will be waiting for you there.
A Friend
Her hands shook as she lowered the letter, making eye contact with her husband, a nervous laugh bubbled up in her chest.
“Is this a prank? Is this some sick person’s idea of a joke? It’s not funny, this isn’t funny.” She pressed the paper down onto the coffee table before standing up, the sudden need to move filling her body.
“Susan…” her husband started softly, “what if it’s real?”
“Don’t do this to me George,” she lifted her hands in frustration, “don’t give me hope.”
“I know, I know Sue, but if it is… do we want to ignore it? Do we want to spend the rest of our lives with that “what if” in our heads?”
She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders beginning to shake, her husband standing to pull her into a hug.
“I miss him George,” she sobbed into his shoulder, “I miss him so much.”
“I know, me too.”
“If we go, and this isn’t real, George I don’t think I could take it.”
“And if it is? Then we have our boy back”
Susan pulled back slightly and gave her husband the barest hint of a smile. “We get our boy back.”
He pulled her back into a hug, staying there for what felt like hours.
Time after the letter seemed to pass at an agonizing pace. Susan checked the date and time repeatedly, feeling like she was going to crawl out of her skin if the time didn’t pass quickly enough.
Regardless of Susan’s agitation, the days passed in days, the hours in hours, and the minutes in minutes. All of her wishes and prayers could not make time go faster, and none of her curses or anxieties could slow it.
And then one day Susan woke up. She woke up to the date being six weeks later than when the letter arrived.
“It’s the day,” George said, “How are you feeling?”
“I… don’t know,” she shifted, moving to sit up. “I’m worried”
George put his hand on top of hers and smiled.
“It’ll be okay”
As she and George got ready, she tried to settle her nerves and keep her expectations realistic.
But despite herself, she was excited. Every time she told herself it was most likely a joke, she thought of seeing her baby boy’s face again, and her hopes rose just a little higher.
Eventually, time passed as time does, and they needed to leave.
“It seems about time, we should get heading out”
“Alright,” Susan turned to her husband, before a thought crossed her mind. “Go start the car? I have to do something quick.”
And in the minutes before she left, in the minutes before she may see her son again, she opened his door.
In the minutes before she brought him home, she picked up his room.