There are so many excuses. Justifications.
1. I am so pretty.
2. My fur is so lovely.
3. But you were designed and made to be played with.
4. Why would you make a toy who isn't meant to be touched?
5. How can you decide on who gets to play with you? You are just a toy.
My favourite is the last one. It's so indignant.
Then first pain is the hands. They are just too big, too calloused, too rough for my fur. They don't hold me with any delicacy. They hold me like a dog struggling against a leash. Their blunted nails crush against my soft, soft fur and brush it up in the worst of ways. Velvet is a luxurious fabric that is meant to be stroked, smoothed and petted. Not ruffled and rubbed. The hands are the worst. They pull and tug at my joints, pulling down on my tiny threads of connection and twisting me from side-by-side. Not every doll is a rag-doll.
I also hate the breathe. They always raise my right up to their faces to look closely into my skew facial features. They like to point out all the faults in my structure. They don't endear my flaws but broadcast them as if trying to bargain down my price. I am not quite worth my price tag. People don't realise or don't care that velvet is an excellent vessel for smells. I can smell the beef and mustard sandwich you had for lunch. In fact you are so close that I can taste it. And now I will smell like it too for the reminder of the day. Oh you smoke? Even better. Oh and you spit and gesticulate when you talk? Brilliant. Wonderful.
And after the first few rough assaults all I want is silence and peace. Which is get. I find myself on a small sofa or locked in a cupboard far way
Ignored. Forgotten. And then the dust comes. The clotting, sickly thick, vomit inducing ashy remains of time.
Ever pore of my fur, every follicle of hair is touched and coated. The shiny glass of my eyes is dulled. The fine button of my nose dipped in a coating of life's unwanted residue.
Shelf life isn't long in my world. But when you look like this it isn't hard too see why, but it is hard, apparently to ask permission.
