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Weekly Contest #185
This story implies death of many kinds and abuse. Discretion advised. “It’s mine, and you can’t have it!” May screeched, pulling the toy away from me. Her grubby hands yanked the stuffed dog back into her clutch. “It used to be mine! I don’t want you to get it dirty!” I protested. I had fond memories of that dog. His name was Rusty, and he protected me from my nightmares as a child. Mom says I don’t need to sleep with a toy now that I’m ten. I still have nightmares, but I’ve learned not to scream and cry. I don’t mind letting...
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