The Stuffed Toy's Story

“Hitomi was sixteen when she got me. She acted like she was six. Hugged me, cuddled me and called me all kinds of names. I never found out my real name. She took me everywhere. She used to take a photo of me wherever she went. There was me on the Eiffel Tower, on a church wall in Corsica, on a beach in Sarawak, on a boat in Sydney, on skis in the Alps. She never got to take a snap that last time. We were in a roadside eatery when four men grabbed her. They took us to a field. She fought. I tried too. We rolled on the ground. I felt her blood on me. I was crushed beneath her. A big policeman put me in an evidence bag. A day later he burned the bag and took me to his house. His daughter did not like me. His dogs liked me even less. One of them dragged me to some godforsaken place. A mean-looking man with gun picked me up. He was like Hitomi, not so nice. He used to talk to me. He killed people, put me on them, took photos and laughed. They want proof of what I can do, he used to shout. He walked on a mine. I was flung high. A girl found me. A dirty thin girl with no smiles no tears. She never talked. She dragged me by my ear. She limped. I kept going up and down because of that limp. We crawled into holes at night. She was scared of everyone. I tried to tell her it’s not all that bad. She was staring at me when we were blown to bits. I am dust. I am ash. I am little pieces. I am everywhere. I am in the air, on the ground, in every photo, everywhere.”