"Why did you give up? I thought I could trust you."
He lay still, silent.
Quiet.
"I thought you were my friend."
No answer.
I stared at his clothes. Broken apart, they hugged his arms and torso snugly. The sleeves were almost rags even, worn out from two years of use. His stringy hair gently brushing the floor, his hands limp.
His head lay tilted, as though it were already missing its bottom half. Its chest. Its limbs. Its heart.
I remembered when he first started breaking. We were running along the field, playing together, when he cried in pain. His scream...
It was terrifying.
I had managed to bring him back into our shaggy old house, made of strangely flimsy materials and fixed him in time.
At that time, I had wondered.
Teachers said that houses were strong. They were warm.
So why was mine cold and weak? Why did it, with a strong gust of wind, topple down? Why, when the rain came, did it leave me wet and cold, with only him to comfort me?
And now he was gone. He had given up on me.
I sat alone in silence, with only the curtains to shadow me from the sunlight.
To mourn.
And so, I decided.
It's time to move on. He isn't going to be here anymore.
Grabbing his frail, cold arms, I carried him out. Away from the cold.
~*~*~*~
The eight year old knew what it was doing. It carried him away from the darkness, and to a nearby alley. The alley retched, its putrid stench surrounding the rubbish it was filled in, unable to get away.
The eight year old held him one last time, staring at his blank eyes, thoughts swimming, emotions brewing, before dropping him.
He made no sound, nor protest.
The eight year old hesitated... And left.
And so the rag doll lay, head astray as it watched its owner walk away.
~*~*~*~*~
A/N: Hope that wasn't too bad
