Bruster

A Story by Peter Schal

An unfinished look at a girl who befriends a murderous stuffed animal...comment if you want me to finish...

Bruster

Tyson M. Haynes

            Mary was only six years old when she died. It was one of those procedures that baffled the medical examiners and her parents, as well as many other people that knew the little girl quite well. Ms. Jones, the reclusive next door neighbor, would agree on the fact that she thought little Mary Hanson was just a tad bit "looney". According to her placid observations from her kitchen window while washing dishes at the sink, Ms. Jones would watch with her neck craned outward to peer at the little girl outside on the sidewalk, pacing the avenue on her plastic tricycle, singing to herself some well-known melodies. Occasionally (although it was more often than not, as Jones preferred not to say to the authorities) Mary would pause in her trance-like pace about the avenue, stopping her melodies altogether and just staring out into practically nothing at all for minutes at a time. Then she would continue with her ride like the whole thing never happened before.
            And while Mary was indulged in her state of self-hypnosis, Ms. Jones would ponder whether or not she should interfere with the child or not. After all, the poor girl would sit there in that creepy stance for maybe five minutes or less, and Jones would more or less become worried. But with Jones being the complete recluse that she sometimes know was after her eye surgery a few years back, restraint from communicating with the outside world had prevailed, and inside she stayed. Then Mary would return, and everything would be back to normal, as always.
            The one thing that dutifully troubled Ms. Jones was the fact that nobody (save her, of course) had cared to watch the child, which was in fact quite a chilling thought to begin with.

If Mary's parents had actually paid more attention to their daughter and what was circulating throughout her subconscious as the months progressed instead of focusing on the bad happenings within their household, Mary would probably have been helped sooner. Instead George Holland's increased drinking and Stephanie Holland's recurring depression hindered Mary from any help whatsoever, deeming them partially responsible for her sudden and untimely death.

The days preceding Mary Holland's peculiar passing were rough. As I had said before, times were tough on the couple brought together to aid an ailing child. The girl had nowhere to turn to, no real friend to hold on to during her times of turmoil (mostly due to her age and, in part, her inability to communicate effectively with other peers in her age group), so she turned to Bruster, her stuffed monkey Daddy had given to her when she was a very sick baby, way back when Daddy didn't have to drink and hurt her Mommy, who cried most of the time nowadays than she did back when.
Bruster, a ragged, dusty old bloke of a chimp with one glassy brown eyeball missing and an eternal grin simpering for the world to see, square white teeth tapering to a point around the dimples. His scruffy black fur and comforting eye were a joy to Mary on her short periods of depression. In fact, when Mary lay in her bed crying because her dinner was spoiled by Daddy hitting Mommy again and yelling at the top of his great voice, she would make up conversations with Bruster, whom she hugged close to her flat bosom with tender love, sometimes peering into that singular brown eye and toothy grin, imagining him talking to her, laughing at her pained jokes she made up by her lonesome to dry away the tears.

And sometimes Bruster laughed, and he talked back.
The first time Bruster did this, Mary was frightened, but Bruster hinted, without ever having to move his lips even the slightest inch, that it was okay, that he would be her best friend for ever and ever, and all things will be okay. Mary smiled at this, and always hugged Bruster tighter after every positive reassurance, even if it meant that what Bruster said was not exactly true.

Ever since the conversation when Bruster finally spoke up in that weird way he had without moving his lips, Mary realized that she had found a new best friend. She carried him everywhere, dangling by one of his long arms. Even Daddy had enough sympathy to leave her alone on the subject of dragging the "scruffy piece of s**t" anywhere she pleased. Everytime they were alone, when Daddy wasn't in the room to occasionally scold her for something, or when her mother wasn't keeping a watchful, suspicious eye on her, Bruster and Mary would hold conversations between one another.