Dolls are terrifying. We’ve already covered how I was scared of my American Girl Josefina doll here, but that was the tip of the iceberg… Metaphorically speaking.
I had Samantha, Kit, and one unnamed American Girl doll. Sure, while they were fun to play with, they were also planning to mutiny. It wasn’t that I was a bad doll-owner. I didn’t let my dogs chew on them, I didn’t leave their freaky bodies undressed, I didn’t cut their hair or glue anything on to them. I just didn’t play with them all that much.
After watchingToy Story, I realized that all my toys were alive: my beanie babies were nestled in piles upon piles of neglected angst, my American Girl dolls were bored out of their minds and (probably) learning Spanish from Josefina through telepathy, and my My Twin Doll was probably as terrified of all of them as I was–given that she was, you know, my twin.
My teddy bear lay on my bed, gloating (Although not too much. While I paid more attention to him than all my other toys–he was given to me at birth–I didn’t name him until I was 15)
So I played with my dolls to pacify them. I staged beanie baby onslaughts and brokered the peace between the cats and the bears with Samantha as the mediator. I made Kit a crazy cat lady. I made Josefina the possessed child that climbed into the corner where my walls and ceiling met (just kidding). I juggled my beanie babies to let them know what flying felt like.
But toys can smell fear. The soulless eyes watch your every move, the brainless heads filled with malcontent and bitterness plan your downfall, the stuffing-filled chest where the heart should be instead lies the cushioned pit of Hell. My toys were alive and waiting for me to fall asleep so they could plan their great massacre.
They didn’t want to escape, why would they? The house was ginormous. Our dogs and cats, starved after eating all the food they could find in the house, would turn to munching on our remains. The toys, led by Josefina, would play all day with the remains of myself and my family members, building makeshift homes out of our femurs and making our skulls talk to one another. They would use our dogs and cats as transportation like Woody did to Buster, but with less happiness and more whipping. They would put the annoying toys in plastic bags filled with coins and throw them in the pool, to be weighed down indefinitely. The worst toys, however, the toys that felt bad for destroying the family, who missed my brothers and I, who felt something akin to sorrow or regret–those toys would be made examples of and sacrificed to the dogs as playthings. Milton, my teddy bear, would be attacked with scissors and made to watch as his button-nose was ripped off and his stuffing slowly pulled out to the amusement of our six dogs.
And you wonder why I had trouble sleeping at night.