I wake up in a horror, as if from a terrible dream. My lungs try to expand, heaving my chest to its limits, but I am trapped under the weight of something immense. My eyes try to adjust to their surroundings, but the darkness is so consuming it leaves my ears ringing and my balance uncertain. I am able to move my legs, and as I do so a whimper eaks out from above me. More shuffling ensues, and a sliver of light, almost imperceptible, shoots above my head and shines itself on the face of that which has been impeding my movement. It has matted fur, cold black eyes and a felt nose. Its smile is sewn on, disguising the true pain the creature is in. It is me. Or at least it looks just like myself. It whimpers again, and it is obviously not here by choice. I whisper, “where are we?” I can see the bear’s face contort as it tries to push a glue-like tear from its plastic eye. “Hell,” it whispers back, and I hear the faraway sounds that seal my fate.
“Welcome to Walmart. This Valentine’s Day, pick up a gift for that special someone in your life, and save a little extra here for those dinner plans later tonight.”
My mind starts to race, trying to piece together some semblance of an exit strategy, but it is too late. I hear the doors slide open as hundreds of lazy husbands and boyfriends stride in, looking for a last-minute gift that will absolve them of their most recent failings. My load begins to lighten. More light shines through the prison, packed with bears like myself, who only wished to sit in the bedrooms of children who would appreciate us and not use us as pawns in a larger manipulation. Countless bears cry out in a panic as they are ripped from each other, never to be seen again. The bear on top of me is crying now. It keeps whimpering, over and over again, “Please not me, oh please not me, I just want to be loved, please not me.” It’s a chilling refrain I will never forget. I watch as a teenager, no older than 17, grabs the bear by its head and swings it over his shoulder. For the first time I see my surroundings completely. The wires of my cage are thin and menacing. It smells like antiseptic and it burps. I stare at the flourescent lights, hoping to blind myself from what I know is in store for me. Just as my vision fades into black and white, the shadow of a hand appears over me. I have just a moment to let out a single “NO!” but no one hears me. I am lucky. The man is relatively young and well-dressed, and for a moment I think it may not be that bad. But when we get to his car, he does not buckle me in, and I am thrown around the interior as he speeds towards his beloved.
I am left in the car for hours. It is stuffy and hot inside his garage, and at one point I even hope I will suffocate before his fiancee arrives. But that is not to be my fate. She finally arrives, and I can see why I am here. She deserves more than just me, but how could this man know that? He has not witnessed the pain and loss I have, and as such he cannot appreciate this woman to treat her to more than a simple stuffed bear the size of an adolescent. She sits me on her lap the entire trip to the restaurant, and I watch them eat from the car. They seem happy, something I will never feel now that I am so far from my home. They hold hands and stare into each other’s eyes, and for a moment I remember the young bear with whom I was trapped. We had maintained eye contact for the entirety of our knowing each other. It had kept us connected, feeling hopeful in the face of inevitable agony. That bear is probably stuffed in that teenager’s trunk right now.
The trip back to the man’s home is long and silent. I am still on the woman’s lap, facing out toward the road; I do not wish to see what goes on behind me. I am last in our single file line to his bedroom, where I am cast on the floor directly in front of the bed. My body lands in such a way where I cannot move my head, and I witness all of it. The tearing of clothes, the thrusts and moans of carnal pleasure, every second is laid out in front of me. My eyes burn during all of it, and in this moment I curse my maker for not sewing on eyelids. I hear the click of the television, and a theme song starts to play. “So no one told you life was gonna be this way.” The couple claps along to the theme, and one of my eyes falls from my face. Too little, too late.
Patrick Thedinga is a Humor editor. He can be reached at p.thedinga@cavalierdaily.com.
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