Warnings: Strong Violence, Substance Abuse, Child Abuse
Summary: Upon reaching his teenage years, a young boy's curiosity is sparked by a dream he had. Child Abuse
Their eyes just stared blankly ahead. Their insides were full of soft, white cotton. They could not move. They could not think. They could not live. After all, they were just dolls.
Parents of children would buy them, unwrap the package and give the toy away as if it were the most natural thing on Earth. They never thought of the doll's feelings, after all, they weren't alive.
No, of course not. There was no way they could be alive. So why do I get this unnerving feeling that they are watching me? Why are they sitting there, their glass blue eyes watching with a strange glimmer?
Maybe it was the light. That must be it. There was no way it could be anything else. No, no way at all. But that didn't stop me from waking up in the middle of the night, cold sweat dripping slowly down from my forehead. It didn't stop the horrible nightmare, of the cotton-filled plush I kept by my side, it's mouth breaking open, the cotton pouring out and suffocating me.
Yes, it suffocated. I was being smothered, and his head ripped open, and seemed to be smiling, his eyes staring with a malicious glow. He seemed to grow teeth...pointed, jagged teeth. They seemed red now, as if a devil was possessing my lovable stuffed pet.
And then I would awake. I would be scared, my breathing would be fast. When this topic comes up, I can't help but think in circles about it. There would be no order of time, just the horrible feeling of being smothered to death by something you kept by your side during your childhood.
It would be like your security blanket suddenly encircling you, covering your face, blocking out all the light, and no matter how hard you thrashed, you could not escape. It would be scary, and you may even cry. It was a horrible nightmare.
Or, at least, it was a horrible nightmare to me. Whenever I retold it, I could never get people to see just how scary it was. All they'd do is nod sympathetically or snicker behind my back. They only did it when they didn't think I could hear them, but the constant fear of those plush demons has heightened my senses.
Although I knew they were real. The nightmares must be an omen, something that will happen. Clairvoyance, if you will. Although it felt like deja vu. As if it had happened before. Maybe in a past life? I will never know, I don't think.
Instead I'll just sit here in bed, wondering whether or not it has any significance in my life. I'll live in fear until it happens, if it happens. And if it does, well, I won't be fearing anything any more, after all, I won't exactly be alive.
But those were just figments of my imagination. Of my little, seemingly underdeveloped imagination. Although maybe I need help. Most of the kids in my class have nightmares about spiders, swing sets, or roller coasters. Definitely not of their stuffed animals eating them alive.
Trivial details, I feel like they are. The little fibres that coats sewn in fabric, the way they hang limply when you hold them. It's as if you're holding a dead animal, not a toy.
And now the flames engulf me, and I'm back to where I've been for as long as I can remember. In this place, happiness is rampant, and children run and play freely. An older female watched over all of us for most of the day, until our parents would come to pick us up.
I usually sleep most of the day, as these nightmares have plagued me for a long period of time.
So now I remember, myself as a bastard-child to a married woman. The scandal it caused, I remember. The shouting had caused me to awaken, and scream in fear.
After that a man had appeared right in front of me, and began to smother me. There was crying, screaming, and begging as I began to suffocate.
Then I fell asleep, and the weight was removed. When I had woken up again, I was facing my over sized doll. About twice the size of me. Since then, I have had to go to this lady, who says I can tell her anything. So I do, I tell her of the nightmares, and from when I was almost killed.
Sometimes I tell her about my friends at that one place, and what kinds of games we would play if I wasn't trying to sleep. I even told her about how much I hated coming to her sometimes, because I had to miss my best friend's birthday party to show up.
I remember how she once talked to my parents without me, then I started having to take medication in the mornings, and at nights. Apparently the morning pills were to make me happy, and the ones at night were to stop the bad dreams.
They actually do work, and that man isn't around any more. We had to go to this place with lots of tall stones with words on them, dressed in black one day. After that I had never saw him again. I told that person who helps me about it, and she just seemed sad. I don't see why, he was mean.
Ever since that man disappeared, my mother has been happier. She has smiled, laughed, taken me to the park, and increased how I felt about her dramatically. Although, sometimes I hear her crying in her room at night. Sometimes, she isn't even home.
Then one day I was forced into a car with my therapist, and she explained that I was going to live with someone else. She told me my mother was using something bad, and it made it so she couldn't take care of me properly.
My new “family” has been very fun as well. I've tried foods I've never heard of, I've met new people at a school I began attending. I even started playing basketball. I still visit that lady, and sometimes I get to see my real mother.
However, even though my new family has loved me and shown me lots of affection, they never listened to my therapist's warning. The warning was to never give me a stuffed doll, as I suffer from something called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. However for my last birthday, they gave me a small dog-shaped stuffed animal, with a black and copper colouring.
I called him “Blacky” as I wasn't very interested in naming him. However, now I am attached to him. He may have caused my nightmares to return again, however he has made me incredibly happy. He is my favourite possession, and my most valued gift. I wouldn't trade him for anything, not even a rare trading card.
Today, my parents brought home a puppy that looks like my stuffed animal, only larger. They say he is a “Rottweiler.” We named him after my stuffed doll, so his name is Blacky too. He is my favourite.
Currently, the two Blackys are helping me recover from my ordeal. I am gradually getting better, and my biological mother is going to be released from her hospital soon. I may be able to live with her on weekends and some days of the week. I am beginning to love stuffed animals.
Sometimes, I try to read the newspaper. It turns out my family sent in a story about me, and now they are going to tell kids at schools about my problem. Apparently that makes me a good role-model. To never give up on anyone, take things as they come, and not to blame myself.
Now my alarm goes off. I wake up, and get dressed. It appears my story was merely a dream, as was everything else that happened. After I go to school, I think I am going to start writing this story. I feel like it may reach out to someone, the moral will be found. I may possibly become famous. I wouldn't want that, I would just want my message to go across.
I want bad things to happen, good things to happen, and a lesson to be learned. I suppose I should probably start writing then.