A Lonely Ghost

I slide down against the old wood of the house, panting.

The room was getting hotter by the second, and my lemonade had heated.

There was no point in continuing removing the boxes; I wouldn't have been able to either way.

So, instead, I look at the boxes closest to me, and one arm that I definitely pulled a muscle in, reaches for it. My arm goes deeper and deeper into the box, being pinched and poked as if the box was angry at me infiltrating its territory.

Stupid.

My hand reaches the bottom of the box, and it grabs onto an unusually soft piece of...

Fabric?

I pull it out of the box pretty quickly, wondering what this unusually soft thing could be. Curiosity killed the cat afterall.
But satisfaction always bought it back.

A teddy bear the color of tortilla brown stared angrily at me through its beady eyes as I held it by the left hind leg. A tear was already forming on the very edge of the bear's stomach. Pieces of polyfill cloud stuffing float out of the tear in slow motion, making the teddy bear loose whatever magic it held as it slowly started to deflate.

I quickly tried to cover the tear with my hand, and it felt like it was no use. Little pieces of the filling were cradled in the center of my hand, but the bleeding had stopped!

And, now, with the imminent health problem out of the way, the teddy bear was saved!

But

But it looked sad.

It looked like it was better off with it deflating with all of its magic moving out of it. It looked like it would have been happier if all of it was gone.

Like all of the magic was gone before the tear.

I gently pet down the tufts of fake fur on the body, pointing this way and that. It was really soft: the perfect pillow. But there were rough patches here and there. Places where the fur was simply hiding the rough outlines of thick thread. Tears that were created and closed a long time ago.

Looking at it now, the teddy bear didn't look angry.

It looked like the ghost of the past.

One that used to be hugged every time its owner was supposed to go to sleep. One that was used to being the accomplice to tasting the horrible food at the mini pink table (reserved only for tea parties). One that might have been taken to college to remind the taker of "home". One that was supposed to be handed over to the child of the taker, but was given to someone else instead (an unexpected turn of events, but a welcomed one).

Except, maybe everything was different for this ghost.

Maybe it was supposed to be played with, but was only used as a decorative item for the owner of the teddy bear. Maybe it was never played with in its entire life. Maybe its only wish was to be grabbed by the grubby hands of a five year old.

But, in all the maybies for this teddy bear, one would always be a fact.

I will never know what the story of this teddy bear is.

Both my hands wrap around the center of the teddy bear, forcefully pushing it up to be at eye-level with me. Its beady eyes staring right into my very human ones.

It didn't look like it was judging me anymore, but it was very sad.

What's your story, teddy bear?