Sentiments of a Patched-Up Rag Doll

Sentiments of a Patched-Up Rag Doll

My name is Anna and I live in the Toy Orphanage. I live here with all the other toys, there are a lot of us here. Here, we, toys, have a home. The children visit everyday and the faces always change, so almost all of us get to be played with. And when a child likes you that much, you can get adopted and return home with them. It’s pretty magical, the leaving toys say. They always narrate that there’s a special connection, sort of spark that happens and then, you just know.

The pretty and neat toys are lucky. They always get to leave the orphanage first. Patched-up toys like me aren’t so lucky.

The brown yarn hair on my soft head has thinned out already. My limbs have been torn a few times and the dark-colored stitches have become too loose. I’ve lost a lot of fluff from those accidents too. The mismatched buttons I have as eyes have gotten loose. I’ve been washed so many times that my dress has gone a tad bit lighter. I look like a stitch short of a mess. I don’t mind, I’m still smiling, aren’t I?

The children don’t see much of my smile though, even though I put a lot of effort into it. No one wants to play with broken toys. Broken toys don’t last long. Children are afraid of breaking them. If they do, they’d feel bad about themselves and be obligated to fix them. No one likes that. Broken toys only catch attention and pique curiosity (and maybe a little sympathy): I wonder where she got that stitch from? What happened to you? I wonder why her leg is so loose… They all wonder why and how I got so broken. Sometimes they try to consider whether or not they can fix me. Most leave. And again, I am left alone—held together by a few stitches.

Most of the toys I arrived with here already left—they were adopted. I don’t think any of the children coming here would care to adopt me. I’m far too broken to be played with. I need too much fixing.

Sometimes I wish someone would just throw me into the fire. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. It will all end eventually. Or maybe the Toymaker could take me back, take me apart and make something new out of me. Maybe a glove, a bag—anything that wouldn’t require stitching a smile on a face.