Berry

I lie in the musty closet on the highest shelf. The sliding wooden doors are always closed, but there are cracks allowing thin beams of light to escape through. I stare out the cracks, at the light brown carpet with stains scattered all over. I know where they all came from. The faded grey stain in the top right corner is from the hairy short four-legged creature excreting at midnight. The people didn’t find out until the next morning, allowing the color to marinate and leave a permanent stain. The tiny, brownish-red dots in the middle are where the little brunette girl accidentally cut her hand with a pair of scissors. She cried and wailed. I wanted to help her, but I couldn’t. I had to observe the blood dripping down from the palm of her hand onto the carpet. It took about 36 seconds before the bigger girl came running up there. She put a bandage on her hand and rocked her for a little bit before they left the room. 

I know the bigger girl. She used to love me. She won me at a carnival back in July 1986. She carried me around and dressed me, she brushed my blue fur, she danced with me. Until she didn’t. I’ve moved a lot with her, gone everywhere with her. Every once in a while, she pulls me down from the closet she had put me in. She stares at me fondly and caresses my face, then puts me in a box and closes it. The boxes have a small crack too, but they don’t let any light in. I’m usually in the box for a few days, then I’m taken out. Again, the bigger girl sees me and lightly drags her fingers on my nose, eyes, and ears. She then says, “Bye, Berry,” and puts me at the top of a new closet. The closet I’m in right now is my favorite out of all of them. I like the cracks I have in the wooden doors. It allows me to observe. Every once in a while, the closet door will open, but they never grab me. They grab scissors, paper, fabric, things that are easier to see and more in their line of vision. I wish they’d stop laying me on the top of the closet. My right arm pokes out, and I wish someday they’ll see me, see my arm, the bigger girl will grab me and cuddle me like she once did. But she doesn’t. So I stare at the stains, I stare at the ceiling.

One night as I sat and stared, I heard a voice crying out. This has been happening for a few nights now. The brunette little girl cries out in her sleep. I hear heavy and slow footsteps. I hear the bigger girl, who used to love me, groan. There’s often a back-and-forth conversation between her and the big, random man who doesn’t care about me. I know the big man doesn’t care about me because multiple times he said I take up space and should be thrown out or given away. But the bigger girl shuts him down quickly. She loves me, or loved me. 

“I dealt with her last night. Could you just sing to her? That’d help,” says the big man. 

“Fine, maybe she should see a doctor, though. This is getting out of hand,” replies the big girl. 

“She doesn’t need a doctor for a nightmare,” he scoffs, and I hear his heavy footsteps retreat into a room, and the door closes behind him. 

I hear the big girl walk to the little girl’s room and open the door. Her wails grow louder. They are followed by the big girl cooing at her, and then she starts singing “Baby Mine.” She used to sing that song to me. I used to be her baby. The little girl still cries, though I hear muffled talking. Something about a monster, then the big girl mentions a bear. I’m a bear, though I’m not a monster. I hear those heavy footsteps again, walking slowly, getting louder. There are smaller, lighter patterns trailing behind the footsteps. The light in the room turns on, and I see them. I see the big girl and the little girl walking towards the closet. The small beam of light grows as they open the closet door. There I am, sitting. My feet are poking out. I hope they pick me, but I know they most likely won’t; they never do. 

“I have someone for you; they helped me when I was younger,” says the bigger girl. The little girl is sniffling and wiping her red, puffy eyes.

I then feel hands grip my legs. I get pulled down from the closet. I see more of the room. I see another stain not visible to me from the small crack I had. 

I see the little girl more clearly. She kind of looks like the bigger girl when she was a little girl. I see her small button nose, her brown eyes, the dots on her face. She smiles at me, but has her front two teeth missing. 

“This is Berry, from when I was your age. Take good care of him.” The callused hands from the big girl let go of me, and I fall into tiny soft hands. The little girl is still smiling at me. I’m about the same size as her, and she struggles to hold me. The big girl wishes her a good night, and the little girl runs to her room, holding me. She almost drops me a few times, and her tiny fingers dig into my stomach. But, I think I’m loved again. This is what I’ve wanted. Finally, I am taken out of the closet. Though it is not the big girl, she kind of looks like her, I know she’ll love me. She lays me upon her bed and tucks me in. Just like the big girl did. She kisses my forehead and cuddles me. She whispers, “Goodnight, Berry.” I don’t know her name, but I wish I could whisper something back to her. If I could cry, I think I’d be doing it. 

Every day she takes me with her all around the house. I like it a lot better than the closet. She dresses me up in her clothes, she feeds me with her fake plastic food. Then every night she cuddles me and falls asleep. I can’t sleep, so I just stare at her ceiling. I stare at her glowing stars that stick to it. I don’t have a mouth, but if I did, I’d be smiling. 

One night, she did the usual–tucked me in, kissed me goodnight, and sang a little bit. 

“Berry, I haven’t seen a monster since you’ve been with me,” she whispers softly to me. “You protect me.”

I’m not sure how I protect her by just lying here unmoving, but I hope she calls me that every night.

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