Teddy

Teddy was the curse of my childhood. His malignant presence poisoned my life, and made the nights almost unbearable. When I was small I used to turn him with his face to the wall before I went to sleep. Knowing he watched me with his glittering black pinpoint eyes robbed me of my dreams.

Teddy was a gift from my godmother. My mom thought I must be fond of him because I was fond of my godmother. I couldn't tell her I hated Teddy, so every night she insisted on tucking him in with me. But his furry face next to mine gave me nightmares.

Why I didn't try to get rid of him? I tried, believe me, I tried. First I took him to kindergarten and 'forgot' him there. I was very free with lending him to other children, hoping another one would like him and take him home. But Miss Hillier unfailingly hurried after us when we were leaving, pressing him into my arms. “You must be missing him,“ she said. Teddy's malevolent eyes seemed to grin with terrible glee, as I closed reluctant arms around him.

Next I tried to 'lose' him on the playground. I buried him in the sandpit. A dog dug him out again before we left. At least I was spared his presence that night, because Mom insisted on washing him first.

Whatever I tied, Teddy returned like a bad fiver. He was even sent back from Denmark, when we went there for holidays and I left him in the hotel. And every time he was returned to me, his big grin seemed to have grown wider.

Eventually I was big enough to relegate all my cuddly toys to the cupboard. But even there he always seemed to turn up in the first row, staring at me with his glittering eyes, whenever I opened the cupboard. I pushed him back behind all my other toys, but he always ended up in the first row again.

There was only one thing I could do to get rid of his presence. One day I took the scissors to him. I cut off his button eyes, ripped the arms and legs from his body, slashed open his belly and removed all the stuffing. Then I snipped and snipped until his shabby fur was only a heap of tiny fragments. I burned every single bit in our old wood stove. The smell was terrible.

That night, for the first time in ages, I slept peacefully. But I kept the scissors in my bedside table. Just in case.