The Favorite

~I wrote this while reminiscing about my childhood and how painful it was to grow up. I wrote the whole thing from the prospective of my stuffed toy dog.  I hope you enjoy and can relate to my story~

I was the favorite.  Although Beatrice never said it out, I knew I was her favorite stuffed animal because I was the one who got to sit on the bed.  Me and Beatrice always had so much fun together when we would play and she would tell me everything.  I remember her first day of kindergarten, it was late at night and she cried and she cried loudly.  Her mother came in and hugged her and told her it would be alright and Beatrice squished me against her face.  Her mother always read her fantastic stories as we cuddled.  At eight thirty sharp her lights would be off and we would sleep under the glow in the dark stars on her ceiling.

She went to school and then she would come home and we would play games where her room turned into jungles.  My favorite game was when we would open a hotel and toys from far and wide would come to stay at our glamorous institution.  Beatrice had an endless imagination and was always coming up with a new situation for us to play out.

When she was gone I would lay and talk with the other stuffed animals who had to live in the basket even though they prefered the bed.  We would talk about Beatrice and all the things she had said to us about school.  We were happy.

Beatrice would come home with more and more homework every day and there was often very little time for a game.  When she came back from school she was always so tired and weak and she began forgetting us for the numbing television.  Soon there were more books and less toys and one by one my friends were disappearing and we hadn’t played a game in years and the hotel became dusty and our jungle was cut down.  Beatrice was changing and her eyes always looked swollen and her bed was never made.

Me and the remaining stuffed animals would talk when she was gone, which was becoming more and more often, about how we could help her.  It seemed like her imagination was being drained from her heart.  We wanted her to play again and smile with us and not always be flipping those big glossy books from page to page.  She didn't talk to us anymore but we heard her cracking voice when she talked about grades and friends and classes and I couldn't understand any of it.

Sometimes I would hear her cry at night from the foot of her bed.  But now her cry was soft and muffled and no one came to comfort her and she was all alone.  She went to bed quite late now and she came hunched over her glowing computer and she didn't even look at us.  She would eventually turn her own lights off with no story at twelve thirty sharp.  Her stars didn't glow anymore and we slept in darkness.

One day I was accidentally pushed off her bed and ended up underneath it but I was patient and waited for her to come get me.  She didn't.  Weeks past and then months and I was still under her bed getting wrinkly and cold.  I had not seen my friends in so long and I was beginning to think I would die here.

Then spring came and Beatrice was picking up all the stuff that had accumulated on her floor.  She began to shift through all the things under her bed and I held my breath with excitement.  Then she saw me and for a second I feared she would not even recognize me and throw me in her trash bag along with all the other junk but she didn't.  She gently picked me up and stared into my eyes and I stared into hers once again.  She held me tightly and laid down on her bed, her arms were far longer than I remember.  We stayed like that for a while and I was happy again.

That was the last time I felt her touch. Now she is gone and only comes back on holidays and I heard her mother says she was going to move us to garage.  My fur is not the same color as it used to be and I am sad and alone.  I cry loudly but still no one comes to comfort me.