Toys; no matter what contexts you think of them in, they are useful tools to unleash your imagination and reach happiness. The thought of toys typically conjures thoughts of children serenely playing by a chest of plastic made wonders, or prancing about the garden swinging balls and blowing bubbles. They’ve evolved over time; but they’ve always been an aspect of childhood to those fortunate to have them. But for someone with a strange imagination like mine, they can also unleash some horrid nightmares.
I remember when I was much younger a huge pink rabbit that I acquired somehow (I think through a family member) and I hated it. Not due to any distain for the particular family member who gave me it, but because I was convinced it was evil. It wasn’t a cute bunny, with small paws, floppy ears and a petite smiling face. It was almost as big as I was, with bland glassy eyes, a matted weird hanging tail, and a huge human grin. I decided it wouldn’t join me on the bed filled with other plush animals, but hid it in the corner at the dark side of my bedroom. It was a bad decision. I couldn’t sleep for fear its bland eyes would light up and it would eat me with that weird smile. That rabbit inspired the first story I ever wrote. It was crap, I was little, but it was quite a gory tale (no pun intended)
It’s easier to see why toys would freak out children nowadays with films like ‘Chucky’ (which I’ll bet you’ve all heard of’ and ‘Dead Silence’ (a movie about a creepy ventriloquist doll which kills many people. Incidentally also the only film I’ve ever screamed out loud at) but I can’t find any reason why children would be afraid of something as mundane as a toy rabbit or doll without being inspired to be so. This leads me onto my next odd childhood fear.
I loathe dolls. More specifically rag dolls and porcelain china dolls. There has been no film, book or incident that has caused this fearful hatred but I simply can’t have one in the same room as me. Most people I know are scared of heights, spiders and the thought of death none of which I bat an eyelid at but place a ragdoll in front of me and I’ll run. I still have the occasional nightmare about them too. I also remember cutting the hair off my Barbie doll and burying it in the garden. We’ll pass that off as the eccentricities of a child; I haven’t felt the need to do it since. Has anyone else got a different view or experience that those, or should I just turn myself in?
Thanks for reading,
Cerridwen.