It was important. I carried the Message, needed to save us all.
They planned long term, thought ahead. I was to sow the seeds of rescue before the problem really became apparent. How would we achieve this? ‘Tell a child’, they said. Tell a generation of children. Whisper the words that would save them while they slept at night, let them hear it subliminally. Knit it into their dreams
They chose Christmas to send us out, planted us throughout the world cleverly, organically, an idea that proved all too brilliant. They made me too well.
On the shelf, I waited, for the moment they told me to expect. Large hands reached out, I was pushed into a bag, and I waited further. I was wrapped in paper, waiting, waiting. I couldn’t move yet, though they told me I’d be able to as soon as I was loved. It was killing me, this all pervasive, overwhelming desire to suck my thumb. I could feel it, twist push, and I’d be alright. If sweating had been something I’d been built to do, my fur would have been soaked, the need of it! If only I could move my arm.
And then the day came. Through the paper I could see the glow of fairy lights. I could no longer smell the Christmas tree, I’d been inhaling its fragrance so long. Hands grabbed me excitedly, upended me to open the paper. Light bloomed around me again and I saw shining black patent leather shoes, white socks with diamond patterns, the skirt of a red velvet dress… arms encircled me, squeezed, I was christened, I was Suzie, and, oh, oh, a chubby hand caught me by the arm and raised my clenched fist to my mouth, twist pop, it was in, it was in! I could suck my thumb. I was born to do this. Monchichi, that’s me. Freckles. Hard plastic face. Ears. No small sized one, I’m giant, I almost hug back. Beloved. A friend. There was something I came here for, but I think it was this.
In the years that ensued, I’m ashamed to say, I lost the message, I lost the mission. It wasn’t til I found myself here, in the dark, alone for a long time, that I remembered why I was sent here. I’m no good to anyone in an attic. But maybe, maybe one day there will be another child, maybe I will get a reprisal, a chance to tell them how to fix the problems they’ve created will come again. A new generation, readier to listen. Maybe next time I won’t forget what I’m here for. I will remember, and pass the information on, before I am subsumed into toyness again.