TRANSCRIPT - Episode 66: Ours 
June 5th, 2019

[Eerie theme music plays]
YOUR NARRATOR: 
Where am I? Where have I found myself? Where, this time, have I decided to land?
You may ask. 
Go on. Ask me.
I shudder to offer up this information unsolicited. 
I'm looking around, and it's very much the same as when I left it. Some pictures, some drawings, some letters, exactly where they were last time. A mirror with a strange and inhuman hand-print on it, even still, despite the fact that that hand no longer exists. White tiles, all around me. Cold, damp, inelegant floors and walls. Candles that try and fail to make it less inelegant. 
I'm home, aren't I? 
I call it that reluctantly. This feels much less like home than my last abode, yet it is much more familiar. And it feels more...appropriate, somehow. 
I've come back,  because the one who I feared finding me here all those months ago...well, he cannot hurt  me anymore. And even if he could, I'm not afraid. Why not come back here? Even for a little bit. Why not? I left so many lovely things here, anyhow, so I might as well enjoy them a bit longer. 
These photos, drawings, letters, and other things, as I mentioned a long time ago, were all given to me at some point by one of my collectibles. By the characters I've met in my long life, and wanted to remember. There are a few things that I haven't told you about, and some that I have, but didn't tell you I own. A music box here, a skeleton key there.  But there's one that I forgot about. Of all the things I should have come back for, this is the one I am most ashamed I forgot about. 
It's just a little bear. 
A little teddy bear. Dusty, grey, worn...no longer soft and plush, his eyes no longer gleaming. Maybe they never were, maybe little bears like this looked a bit different, back when this one was made. But he is a sweet little thing still. My heart has been on a strange journey; I remember  looking at it, months ago, and feeling not very much, only the memory of a story. But now that I see him, I can't help but have a little ache in my chest where no human heart lies. I can't help but pick him up and hug him. He seems to call out for that. That's silly, isn't it?
Or maybe it's not. After all, I know the story behind this little bear, don't I?
Would you like to hear it? 
I'll take whatever you said as a yes, because why not? 
This bear was once given to a little boy. Well, a bear just like it was. You'll see. 
He grew up and was a man, so he was not always a little boy. But when he was given a plain, little bear, he was just a plain, little boy. A boy with scabbed knees and grass-stained sleeves. His mother found the bear in some unlikely place or other; she hadn't bought it new, for they couldn't afford shiny, brand new toys. But she saw it and decided it was for him. 
[A little song is heard on guitar. It sounds like a lullaby or nursery rhyme's melody]
And oh, my friends, he loved it very dearly.  He loved it for what it was, but even more than that, he loved it for what came with it. For, you see, someone else loved this bear even more than he did. Whenever he was with it, which was always - it was almost as if its little paw was glued to his little hand, and dangled by his side at all times - he would murmur to himself quietly, under his breath, a big smile on his face and a deep warmth in his eyes. His mother would ask him what he was smiling at, who he was murmuring to...he would say "Only a friend". When pressed as to what his friend's name was, he would just smile softly. His mother asked, "Is his name Teddy? Is your bear's name 'Bear?", pressing him to open up about what was clearly a very precocious imagination. He would shake his head and giggle a little, saying only: "This? This is just a toy. I don't know my friend's name, though. She won't tell me." And he was certain to add, with a very serious face this time, "And he's not my bear. He's ours.
His mother was concerned, but couldn't really do anything about it. She was on her own with only her son in the world, and she had to work all day and most of the night; she had neither the energy nor the time to worry about whether or not this behaviour was healthy or "normal". Besides that, she didn't care. He was a sweet boy who looked after others and never hurt a fly; while some parents might consider his imaginary friend to be a personality flaw or psychological issue, she accepted it as part of who he was and loved him all the more for it. 
When he wanted to have tea parties with his friend, or leave out little trinkets for her, or sing little songs to her, she let him. When he came home crying because children at school mocked him for carrying a teddy bear and keeping colourful ribbons in his pockets, or singing nursery rhymes that a girl younger than him might enjoy, his mother consoled him and tried to encourage him to continue being exactly who he was and no one else. 
When his teachers told his mother that he was too old to carry a bear around with him, she let him hide it in his bag. When they told her that he shouldn't be murmuring to himself or humming nursery rhymes, and that he was too sensitive, too quiet, too kind, too gentle for his own good, and that other children were beginning to think he was strange for it...well, she did not teach him to hide these things. She would simply be there for him when he cried at the end of the day. And she would sing him and his little friend a nursery rhyme until he sang along again. Even at age ten, eleven, twelve....it didn't matter. Even as he grew tall and yet his eyes still followed a friend who seemed to be half his height. Strangeness did not bother her. She celebrated it. She loved the way he lit up when she sang to him and his friend.
Now, as I said, he almost never got into fights or showed any aggression. In fact, he mentioned casually a few times that his friend was easily scared and did not like fighting. But the only time he got in trouble at school for something like this was when another boy stole his bear from his bag and mocked him for it. He held it over his head, refusing to give it back. And when the little boy said, "Give that back! That's not mine! It's ours! It's ours!" the other boys laughed and mocked him all the more for it, discovering his invisible companion. But, when the bully pulled its arm so hard that it ripped the seams, something changed in the little boy. He hurt the other boy. Not badly, but enough to knock him over and make him give the toy back. 
And again, he ran home, crying. And when his mother came home from work, she stitched the bear together again, and didn't ask questions about the fact that the cupboards were all flung open, a few cups and plates were broken, and a few picture frames shattered. He insisted that he didn't do it, and that his friend had because she was scared. She didn't question it. She just stitched the bear back together, and all was quiet again. 
He didn't keep the bear with him anymore after that. He didn't want to risk anything like this happening again. He didn't like it when his little friend was frightened and sad. So he left the bear at home. 
Eventually, the boy grew to manhood. He was still gentle and kind, but he hid it a little bit better, because he was off to college. He left home to study in a city far away from his hometown. Tears were shed and his mother would miss him dearly, but he knew he had to learn how to navigate the world on his own. If not for himself, then for his little friend who even still followed him wherever he went and was easily frightened. And when she was frightened, chaos followed. 
The little bear tucked away carefully in his suitcase, he left. 
It should be said that he didn't actually see the little friend who joined him anymore. When he was very little, he had seen her, but he couldn't remember what she looked like. He knew that she was a little girl, and he would often sense her running around close to him, sometimes tugging at his coatsleeves, so he knew that she was no taller than this. He didn't know for sure, but she was still just a little child, perhaps five years old, and he was now almost twenty. 
[The lullaby plays again on guitar, and briefly under the following paragraph]
He sat on the train car, headed to the new city, and he could sense her sitting across from him. He could hear her feet tapping against the seat playfully. When he was certain that no one could hear him, he would smile and sing a bit. But if someone walked by his compartment, he'd be certain to mask his face with a grown-up frown and an arched brow, faking machismo and indifference as best he could. As soon as they left, he'd wink at his friend or stick his tongue out in a silly expression, just so that she wouldn't be scared. 
He went to live in a house full of other students. Young men, rowdy and rambunctious, who seemed to be up at all times of the night. He had to share a room with a boy like this, and so the bear stayed in the suitcase, no matter how much he heard his friend complain or cry for it. It broke his heart. He couldn't speak to her or sing to her, even though he felt her tug at his sleeves or pull his ears, trying to get him to acknowledge her. She would grow restless and sometimes throw things into disarray. The young men  often woke up to find the kitchen to be a mess with plates and food thrown everywhere. The living room cushions would be scattered, sometimes ripped apart. But, more often than not, the boys would laugh it off and assume one of their roommates had come home drunk and committed the act. 
But our gentle young man knew who had done it every time. Because she would tell him. 
He would find times to try and speak with her, in the rare moment that no one was around to hear it. He tried to comfort her, and ask her to be peaceful and quiet...eventually, he could have a home of his own or an apartment to himself, and they could talk all the time, sing to each other, and tell stories. But she wept and wailed and ranted and raged. She was just  a child after all, and did not understand, and had little mercy when it came to being ignored. 
Eventually, however, the little "disturbances" in the boys' quarters grew to be worse and worse.
More things were broken, and food was often left out and torn apart, wasted. Ink was taken from the boy's ink pots, and smeared across the walls in crude, childish pictures. In the night, they heard the clashing of pots and pans, doors slamming over and over, and someone running back and forth in the halls. They tried to sleuth out who was responsible, but to no avail. Our gentle soul, the boy who came with the bear, was naturally a suspect, given that they knew him the least and that he was so quiet and so strange. 
One morning, they woke up to the worst of it.
The cupboards were emptied entirely in the kitchen. Many of the boys' personal effects - clothes, books, essays-in-progress, among other things, were scattered everywhere, torn apart. Memories from home, vandalized. Money strewn about. Valuables discarded like trash. 
And, among it all, in the middle of the room, on the kitchen table, perfectly intact and pristine, was this little teddy bear. 
"Who's is this?" The boy who was understood to be the leader of the fraternity, if we can call it that, demanded. He grabbed the bear by its head and held it aloft.
And our gentle and kind boy worried for all of them at that moment, but most of all, for the bear, and his little friend, who he'd kept quiet about this entire time. He stepped forward, and said shyly, "It's ours."
"Ours?" The leader said, spitting the word out in disbelief. 
"Give it back, please." The gentle boy said, reaching for it and taking it in his arms protectively. 
And this was the breaking point that he'd hoped he wouldn't reach in this new place. But here it was, and it was awful. Some of the boys laughed hysterically. Others looked at him in disgust. Others were furious and demanded justice for the mess that had been made. He tried to explain, stammering and hurt and confused, but how could he? How could he explain that he was never alone? That he had a friend no one but him knew about, and even he couldn't see? 
And when some of them grabbed him, throwing him to the ground, mocking his poor clothes and his silly bear, and his soft voice and shy personality, he held his hands up, shielding his face. He didn't want to fight back, but he wouldn't have been able to if he did want to, anyway. They threw punches and kicked at him. They took the bear and pulled at it, plucking it like vultures, trying to rip it apart in front of him. And they did. They ripped it apart. Laughing cruelly, one of them ripped it to shreds and cast it aside like it was nothing.
And the boy heard the little girl screaming. It was so loud to his ears that he had to cover them, even though he was sure it wouldn't do anything, because only he could hear her and her voice was only in his head...
Except that it wasn't. 
The other boys stopped fighting him, and covered their ears, too. 
And then, they all turned in the direction of the sound, and it seemed that the blood drained from all of their faces as they saw Her. 
Standing in the centre of the room was a girl, no more than five years old. She had brown hair that was tied with pink ribbons. She wore a little pink dress that was stained and frayed, and that seemed to be in a style that was much, much older than any of the boys in the room. But, the most striking thing about her was...well, everything else. Her skin was a patchwork of dirt, decaying flesh, dried blood and ash. Her feet and hands had a starved, bruised look to them, and the nails were so long that they seemed to be more like claws. Her mouth was open in a feral kind of sneer, and her eyes were red and ferocious. She was once a little girl, surely, but now, she was beyond that. Beyond humanity. She was something that was once human, but who - through tragedy and neglect and years and years of haunting a little bear - was now something monstrous and demonic. 
The boys watched her in shock and terror. And she lifted her arms in one great gesture, and all of the tables and chairs in the room lifted off the ground. She was preparing to attack again. She didn't like violence, and they had brought forth a great fury in her that was about to wreak their own havoc against themselves tenfold.  
The boys cried out, some of them trying to run away, some running to grab something large to throw at her or shield themselves with. 
But the gentle, kind boy who had been her friend all along, shouted: "Stop!" 
Not at her, but at the boys. He ran to her and gave her a hug. 
"I'm sorry," he whispered, shielding her little, twisted body with his own, protecting her. Against them, and against herself. "It's my fault. I'll always take care of you. I'm not leaving. I'm sorry." 
And she cried. Not like a monster or a demon, but like a scared little girl who'd just lost her favourite toy. He consoled her, and the boys looked on in horror as he held her like a broken doll, or a wounded bird. 
[The lullaby is heard again, but now with piano underneath the guitar]
He didn't take anything with him when he left. He just grabbed his coat, his face bruised and his body sore, and he left. Except that he was holding her hand. And the fraternity watched as he left through the door, and the dead girl who held his hand and sniffled at his side slowly disappeared again, transparent. Gone. 
He would find another place to study. Or not. He would be fine. 
And he would appear the next day at a toy store. A little shop in the big city, full of wondrous, soft, plush, shining, handmade toys. 
He made his way to a little brown bear. Plain, and simple. Perfect. With a little ribbon around its neck. 
"A gift for a child, sir?" The attendant asked him politely, making no comment about the bruises on his face and hands. "Your child?" 
And the gentle, kind boy looked down to his side, where his hand was holding an invisible child's hand. And he smiled and winked and said only, "Sure." 
He protected her and the toy for as long as he lived. And I think she went with him after he died, wherever that is - again, I really can't say. I think so, anyway. But just to be safe, I think I'll keep this bear with me. It was wrong of me not to take it with me before. 
Besides, I like it. 
Goodnight, my friends. 
 [Eerie theme music plays] 
[Out of Character, as Kristen:]
Hi everyone, it's me again - Kristen, the writer, host, podcaster, producer, sometime character on this show. Thanks so much for tuning in to Episode 66 of On a Dark, Cold Night.  Happy June!

I'll give you my usual housekeeping spiels - first, if you enjoy the show, I would love it if you could leave us a review. Ideally on iTunes, but on Stitcher or Facebook would also be wonderful. I will do my best to give you a shout-out on air and on social media if you do! Like this review that just came in a couple of days ago...this five-star review is from spunoutgirl, this is actually my first review from  Australia, titled "Great Story telling": "So glad I found this podcast. Atmospheric story telling and great production. The actress who hosts this podcast is mesmerizing! I look forward to each episode." Oh, thank you so much for that really lovely review...I appreciate it so much. Again, this is such a great, free way to help podcasters out, so if you're liking what you're hearing, leaving a nice review like spunoutgirl did would be so great. Thank you again. 

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 [Eerie theme music plays]