I'll Play With You

You’ll blame the dog when I kill you.

I don’t blame you. After all, look at my face. You used to think I was beautiful, but now? Some of my face is missing, the plastic pieces soon to pass through his digestive system and end up baking with the pile of shit he leaves in your neighbors front lawn. The remaining cracked bits make me look like a puzzle made from a photo of Leatherface. My hair, once dark and lustrous, is nearly gone now, torn from the delicate holes my maker painstakingly crafted with her hands.

But it’s not, “Loki’s”, fault, though he is aptly named. It’s yours. I’ll make sure you understand that before the end.

Remember when you first brought me home? I do. It's my favorite memory. My maker told me someday I would go home with a beautiful little girl, and she spoke true. There I was, tied to that corrugated fibreboard, staring out at the world through a hazy lining of cheap clear plastic, when you walked by with your mom. You were upset about something. Your face was all teary eyed and red, threads of translucent snot curling around the corners of your mouth and stretching across your rosy cheeks like fresh strands of cotton candy. When you saw me, you tugged on your mother’s arm and pointed at me with a smile that lit up your whole face, banishing the ugliness as if it had never been.

In that moment, I just knew we’d be friends forever.

Over the next few weeks, we were inseparable. I found out the reason you had been so upset was because your father had promised to pick you up that day and never showed, a habit he’d evidently formed since he’d left the house a few months ago. You cried a lot in the beginning, sometimes into my hair. I didn’t mind. I wanted to be there for you, wanted to take your pain and make it my own. I used to fantasize about killing that bastard, but I knew that despite the pain he caused, you still loved him.

We went everywhere together. You’d sometimes put me in the little elastic side pocket of your, "My Little Pony", backpack when you went to school, but I preferred when you carried me directly. Your touch reassured me, let me know you loved me and needed me. When you hugged me, it was like being wrapped up in a warm blanket with a heartbeat. I loved you so much then, I suppose I still do.

Over the years, you carried me with you less and less, but I always held a special place on your pillow next to you. Kind of like Andy from that movie Toy Story. Ironic, that. We watched that last one together, you and I. Remember how bad you felt for Andy’s toys, thinking Andy had abandoned them forever? You hugged me and told me you’d never so something like that to me. I believed you.

Then came the day you played with me for the last time. I was excited when you took me from your bedroom to the living room, I’d almost forgotten what it looked like. I should have known it wouldn’t end well. You had a new favorite toy then, a cell phone your mom gave you for your eleventh birthday. You spent nearly all your free time playing with it, texting your friends, playing games, hardly ever talking to me anymore. So when you received a text from a friend, it was only natural you’d forget about me on the couch. Still, when you accidentally knocked me onto the floor, I was certain you’d pick me up.

You didn’t though. And if that wasn’t bad enough, you didn’t notice when you stood and brushed me under the couch with the edge of your foot.

Did you miss me, at all? I doubt it. I’ve watched your feet pass in this dusty darkness for God only knows how long. It feels like years. If I could cry, I would have, but my maker didn’t give me the tear ducts you were made with. But I wanted to. I hurt inside so bad. It felt like getting something really hot stuck in my throat, choking on it until I thought I’d die. Then I’d sleep, and when I woke, it would start all over again. How could you have forgotten me here? Why did you leave me to suffer alone in darkness?

The worst part about it was the hope that one day you’d remember and look for me, the way you used to hope for your dad. A hope I held onto until this morning. After you went to school, Loki found me. Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t find me sooner. He’s always sniffing around here, looking for the random scraps of food and crumbs your family has dropped over the years. He used a paw to get me, pulled me out by my hair. Then he, “played”, with me, taking my hair in his jaws and shaking his head like a god damn maniac. He chewed on my face, my neck, my arms. When one of his teeth pierced the iris in my left eye, I thought I’d scream, but I managed to control myself.

How, you ask? By thinking of my vengeance, of course. In the midst of the slobber, the horrible breath and my mutilation, I thought about how I would play with you. I think I’ll wait until you’ve fallen asleep, that would be best, since you’re a lot stronger than me. I’ll use one of your belts to tie your hands and feet while you dream of your next text with an imaginary lover. I’ll stuff your mouth with the rest of my hair and the tattered remains of my clothes so you can’t scream, and then I’ll turn on the light. I want you to see me before the end, see what your negligence and lies have done to me.

Then I’m going to set you on fire.

That seems the best thing, wouldn’t you agree? I still love you, see? I can’t live without you, so we may as well die together. Your screams will be the symphony that send us straight into the depths of hell, where we’ll scream together. Forever.