Definitely Not Toys for Tots

I sit in the corner of the room. He sits on the edge of the bed. We’re staring at each other. His phone is ringing in the other room.

Then it stops.

Then it rings again.

Then it stops.

Our eyes don’t leave the other no matter how much that stupid, 8-bit audio file of Mozart’s Requiem disturbs the heavy silence. This staring contest feels like it’s been going on for days, but I don’t dare to break it for a quick and useless glimpse at the clock. When I look at him, all I see is a liar. When he looks at me, all he sees is a broken toy.

First I thought that I was his GI Joe figure that he would keep under his pillow every night and show off to all of his friends. I quickly realized that I was the life-size Playboy that he stashed under his mattress.

I lost some pieces along the way. Like his Tonka truck lost wheels in the dirt outside. Or his yellow digger lost its front shovel in the sandbox. Each piece that I lost of me in him is probably buried out there in the backyard with the rest of the mutilated toys.

The pieces that I do have left of me seem like they’re in a different spot. It’s like Mr. Potato head with his arm in his eyehole and his feet where his hat should be. I was like a slinky in his hands. I bounced back from one hand to another and after all was said and done, I felt like I’d gone down the stairs a few times, too.

He molded me like PlayDoh. Made me into what he wanted, what would make him happy and then instead of putting me back in the jar, he left me out to dry. Where I cracked and eventually fell off the shelf and shattered.

In the end, I just blew him like he blew bubbles. And he violated me like I was Barbie.

His phone rings again.

Then it stops.

Then it rings again.

Then it stops.