James Jenkins - The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories. Volume 1

I only understood this later, in adulthood, partially due to my therapist’s help. My mother thought I was too attached to Vili. She wanted me to be the best, the most successful, the most confident. In her view, life was an ice-­cold forest, children being wolves in it, who think they form a pack, but at the end of the day they will all aim for the same job, same house and same female. Emotional over­reliance on the false sense of security bestowed by a plush toy weakens one’s character in the long term, and the weak fall prey to wolves.

We were sitting in the kitchen – two cups of tea steaming on the table, one for her and one for me. Chamomile, I feel sick at the smell of it to this day, yet my mother made this tea to soothe the emotional impact. She didn’t make any tea for Vili, from which I deduced that something terrible must be coming.

My mother looked at me, very seriously, as seriously as when I broke expensive things, or when I ran out in the road chasing my ball. In retrospect, and I told this to my therapist as well, I suppose that in those very seconds, before articulating those words, she was thinking of my grandmother, her own mother. I am going to be straight with you , she said. There is something wrong with Vili. Vili is sick, and sadly the odds are against him.

She went on. Unfortunately, even plush toys can get sick. Maybe it’s genetic, the illness might remain latent for years before it manifests. Vili was manufactured in China, and it’s very easy to catch all sorts of nasty diseases in those factories. Vili has been examined by doctors, and the prognosis is clear as day: Vili is going to die.

I looked at Vili, who was lying on the marble kitchen table resting his friendly eyes on us, and only then did I realize Vili’s inherent nudity, which made my heart ache. I wanted to cover his little body to protect him from the coldness of the world. I grabbed Vili and squeezed him against my chest. As I glanced at my mother, I could just catch a smile on her face. You look so nice together , she said. I wish I could always remember you like this.

Vili has two months left , she continued. Take care of all his needs in the time remaining. The most important thing is to make sure Vili lives out his final days in dignity. Drink up your tea , my mother said finally, and she wouldn’t let me go to my room until I finished my tea to the last drop. That was the last time I drank chamomile tea in my life.

I retreated to my room with Vili. I sat down on the edge of my bed with him, and I felt like the world had shrunk around me, like I was locked in a cage from which there was no escape. I could have talked to my father, but I was perfectly aware of the household dynamic. My mother took care of my upbringing, while my father gave her financial stability. I knew that it would be a waste of time talking to him. In a normal situation, I would have turned to my mother to ask for her help in curing Vili – but she had just assured me that she was unable to help my plush toy.

I laid Vili on the bed, and I swept my hand over his body, not looking this time for warmth or safety, but for the symptoms of his disease. I had no idea what these symptoms could look like – Vili’s body temperature seemed just fine. I searched and searched, and I could feel that Vili was avoiding my gaze, just as I was avoiding his. In that moment he became actually naked, not for his lack of clothing – he became naked because my fingers were searching for the end of his life.

I finally found the first rupture in his armpit. The thread had started to loosen, allowing Vili’s insides to be seen through a small hole, the white stuffing that was his blood, his flesh. I knew right away that my mother’s doctors were telling the truth. Vili’s body was sick. I felt like my chest was too small for my lungs, that my brain was swelling and boiling in my skull. The world seemed darker, not in a meta­phorical sense, but literally, the edge of my eyesight went black, I felt I could faint at any moment.

I knew with absolute certainty that death was real.

I grabbed Vili and threw him into the corner with all my strength. Vili bounced back from the wall, knocked his head against a shelf, and fell behind my backpack. I couldn’t explain to myself the cause of my rage back then, and it took years even for my therapist to convince me that it was a normal reaction to what had happened to me. I tried to rationalize my behavior by thinking that I only wanted to save Vili: I had to hate him because he wasn’t alive – and if he wasn’t alive, he couldn’t possibly die. Perhaps I wanted to save his life by admitting that he wasn’t actually alive.

So many years have passed since then that it’s time to be honest with myself now. My therapist also encourages me and tells me these things are completely normal until a certain age. I could talk to Vili, and he often talked to me as well – in my head. I believe this phenomenon is often referred to as an imaginary friend, when certain segments of a child’s developing personality manifest as a voice or a character. That was Vili to me. He always guided me to do the right thing, to choose the harder path. I often imagined that Vili was a superhero and he saved others, my parents included, from some perilous situation like a burning car after an accident.

That night I lay in my bed and Vili was still in the corner. I found it hard to fall asleep though I was exhausted by anger and grief. And then I heard it, I heard Vili’s cry. Most likely it was all in my head, but I could clearly hear the voice coming from the corner – he was crying, not out of fear or due to his illness, but because he had let me down: he was not a good enough plush toy, so I had had to punish him. Then I realized that I was the one who had failed him, my anger was unreasonable, rather an indication of my own stupidity. I jumped out of the bed crying and I ran to the corner to hug Vili. I promised him I would never ever let him down again, I would be by his side for the time remaining.

When I finally fell asleep, Vili wasn’t crying anymore.

My mother and other mothers in the neighborhood often socialized, primarily to discuss useful tips regarding the everyday issues of raising children. Thus it is not surprising in retrospect that soon enough other plush toys at school got sick. I felt relieved, because I was not alone in this fight – others had to face the same dread as me, and we quickly found each other. I can’t recall their names, although they were my friends. My therapist says it’s one of the mind’s defense mechanisms. Apart from their names I remember everything about my friends, so if it’s a mechanism, it’s not working very efficiently.

The four of us formed a gang, developing a kind of friendship, even if the vast majority of our time together was spent discussing the practical aspects of our toys’ dying process. There were two boys and one girl in the group besides me. The fact that our mothers wanted their boys to set aside their plush toys at a certain age was more or less understandable, but I have the impression that parents are less strict with girls in this respect. A girl can play with plush toys for a longer period of time, my therapist agrees with me in this – it is socially acceptable for a girl to keep her plush toys even into adulthood. Still, the girl’s plush toy, Ferkó, got infected with the sickness all the same.

Vili more or less stagnated the first two weeks; only the rupture in his armpit had apparently been growing bigger, and the thread had started to loosen in other areas as well – at his foot, at the edge of his hand where he had black claws made of cotton. By the end of the second weekend his fur started to fade. During this period Vili’s voice in my head was calming. He kept my spirits up, as if I were the sick one, not him. I often fell asleep listening to his voice.