Alright, so I may have made a small mistake in the ordering of these chapters so far--well, all the ordering is correct, but this little interlude really should have been between chapter three and four. But it's vague enough that it could conceivably fit anywhere in these first few chapters, so I'm not too worried about it. So, without further ado, here is a vague and probably confusing interlude. Don't worry, there will be more of these and they will get less confusing the more there are. You can find the Google Docs version here. Enjoy!
The wiry old man sat on the soft rug, gently rocking back and forth. He held two cloth dolls pressed against his chest, both with black hair made of worn yarn and blank expressions on their faces. They were his friends. He loved them so much. Sitting here, in the middle of his room, hugging his best friends, he was content.
He felt a slight tickle on his neck and reached up with his right hand to scratch at it. He dropped one of his friends in the process, and the doll hit the rug without almost no sound whatsoever. The old man smiled. That wasn't like him. He never went quietly.
After the old man's neck was properly scratched, he giggled, looking down at his friend, lying face first on the rug. This was so much fun. The twists and the turns. The ups and the downs. The living and the dying. Mostly the dying.
He looked at his other friend, who he still held in his left hand. She was frowning. Always so bitter. "You mustn't look so sour," he chided the doll, wagging a finger in her face. "You still have work to do, and you'll never get anywhere with that kind of attitude. Do you hear me, young lady?" The old man made a face. "You're not listening. You never listen."
He brought back his arm and threw the doll across the room. It landed on a nearby end table, knocking over a small figurine of a soldier made of glass and sending it toppling over the edge and shattering into a thousand pieces on the stone of the floor below. The old man started laughing again, an insane sound that degenerated into a coughing wheeze a few moments after it reached its crescendo. "So much noise," the old man said when he regained his breath. "So much beautiful noise. I am going to enjoy this."
The old man put one of his long fingers into his mouth and started chewing vigorously at the skin of its tip. He tasted blood a moment later, and spit it out onto the rug, laughing again. He then pressed his bleeding finger into the armpit of his shirt and began rocking back and forth again, mumbling to himself.
"My friends, my best friends, my only friends, my friends..."