My life began as many stuffed animal's lives do: sitting on a shelf with many others who look just the same as you. It starts out as an adventure, but quickly you begin to yearn to have your very own person. You yearn to have someone who you love, and who returns your affections.

I had been on that shelf for what seemed like an eternity. All of the rest of my siblings had been taken - had been claimed by little boys, and little girls - and I was the last one remaining. There was even a point where I was moved from my shelf and placed into the clearance bin. The store had received a new shipment of some other toy, and I was seen as just taking up space.

I had resigned myself to living the rest of my days in the clearance bin. I made friends with the others there. Sometimes, a child would come and claim one of them, overlooking me. But it was alright. I just wanted to see the children happy, no matter what that meant.

One day, when everything seemed to be going wrong, a little boy appeared at the clearance bin. He looked right at me, and I knew instantly that I had found my person. He reached in, hands gently picking me up. He looked me over for a second before clutching me to his chest and running off to catch up to his mother.

When she saw me in his arms, she sneered and glared down at him. "And just how much money does that thing cost?" The boy quietly relayed the price, head hanging down. His mother glared at me for a long moment before finally snorting. "Fine. But it's coming out of your piggy bank."

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I quickly learned that this family was not what I had imagined.

When I was taken back to the house, the boy's father picked me up and roughly threw me to the side before he began to yell at the boy for wasting their money on meaningless things. My boy just stood there, head hanging as he stared at his feet. When his father didn't receive an answer instantly to a question he had asked, he strode over and slapped the boy across the face before yelling at him again.

My boy just stood there and took it however, listening to his father and quietly answering all questions promptly. When he was finally let go, the boy shuffled over towards me. Picking me up, he quietly made his way to his bedroom, where he curled up on the bed and gently started stroking my velvety fur.

I was the only one to see his tears that night.

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This continued on for the next two years. Every day, my little boy would wake up, brush his teeth and hair, get dressed, and go wake his parents up. Some days he was smacked. Some days he was yelled at. And on the few, rare days where his parents felt that he deserved a kindness, they made him a single slice of toast for breakfast.

Before he would leave for school, my boy would gently place my head on his pillows, and tuck me in under his sheets. He would tell me to get some sleep, and that he would be back soon before grabbing his backpack and making his way to the bus. I never did sleep much, but then again, I didn't need to.

When he came home from school, his mother waited at the door. She waved goodbye to the bus driver, a sweet smile on her face. As soon as the bus pulled away, however, she ripped his backpack away and began to rifle through it. If she found a test shoved in between the pages, she would beat him, no matter how good the grade was.

Once that ordeal was over, he would come quietly into his bedroom and pick me up. Placing me on his lap, my boy would begin on his homework for the night, knowing that once his father was home there was no hope in completing it.

Arriving around seven pm, the boy's father would come into his room, and scream at him about whatever his mother had found that day. Sometimes he slapped my boy, and sometimes he would just slam the bedroom door shut, causing my boy to wince.

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Things began to get worse when my boy was around eight years old. Recently, his parents had started fighting, and after yelling at each other would come take out their anger on my boy. Every day he would go to school, new bruises on his arms, torso, and legs. I don't know if anyone ever asked him about the bruises, but he never told anyone except for me how much pain he was in.

On one particular day, the boy's father came into his room, a look in his eyes that I had never seen before. He confronted my boy, asking him why he had failed another test. My boy just looked at his bed, and didn't give an answer. He didn't have a good answer to the question - at least not one that his father would want to hear. Screaming some more, the father finally strode over and slapped him, raising his voice once more.

Again, my boy didn't give an answer, to which his father slapped him again.

His mother came in after about the fifth slap. She simply stood in the doorway, and watched. Occasionally she would tell the boy how worthless he was, and how dare he fail out of school after everything that they did for him.

I was helpless, much as I had been every other time something similar had occurred.

Normally, the boy's father would stop hitting him after about ten times, finally cooling off. That night was different, however. He just kept hitting and hitting, and screaming. His mother just watched, finally ceasing her words.

Although my boy had been crying out, he went quiet after some time. Not too long after that did he go still, and still his father continued to beat him.

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A few days after that incident, some official looking people came into the house. They came into the room and found my boy's still body on his bed, with me still held in his hands. Shaking their heads, the officers gently took me away from my boy, and placed me into a bag. I could still see as they took my boy away, and as they placed handcuffs on his parents.

A bit later, and I was taken away with what little belongings my boy had. Not sure where I was going, I was surprised to find myself being gently picked up, and placed on another shelf some time later.

I was looking rather tattered, but I knew deep down that I would not have wanted any other child to be my own. I was there for my boy as long as I could have been, and I did everything that I could. Now, it was time for me to get some rest while I waited on that shelf for the cycle to begin again. I knew it was not going to be soon, and that it could take a long time, but I was willing to wait.

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Despite all of these things, despite all the horrors I had seen occur to my little boy, I knew that I was ready to move on and help another child.

When she came in one day and saw me - me, in my ragged state, missing one eye and an ear ripped off from a fight so long ago - she knew that she wanted me. Walking right over, she picked me up and carried me around with her until her mother caved, and I was placed at the cash register with a few clothes and a movie.

"Did you find everything okay?" the lady behind it asked. The mother gave a nod and a tired smile as she pulled out the cash to pay for her items and handed it over. After grabbing her bags, she looked down at her daughter with another smile, this one much warmer than the last.

"Alright honey, let's go home and get dinner started for when Daddy gets off work."

The child picked me up out of the bag and held me tightly to her chest. I knew this feeling, but this time it was... different. This wasn't the hug of a child scared to wake up in the morning and go to bed every night. It was the hug of a child who knew she was loved, and who knew how to love back.

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I was there for her, whenever she had a sleepover at a friend's house and whenever she had a bad day and needed a friend to hug. And I was there when she had a child of her own many years later. I was given to her son to be there for him - by now my fur was patchy, and although my eye had been replaced a long time ago, and my ear had been damaged, I was there for him.

I was there for him to do my duty. I didn't know it at the beginning, but I knew by that now that love did not have to be stated repeatedly for it to be true. The love between my children and I was silent and strong.

Our love was unspoken. It always had been, and it always will be.

CREDITS


Art by Cure
Story by scout