Mr. Binkles and the Curious Case of Changed Perspective

(Way back in 2003, when I was still writing horror, I wrote a short story about a teddy bear. It eventually inspired a sequel and almost a trilogy (long story). But it has been ages and been reprinted a few times and I thought as we rush to the end of the year I would put it here as a gift to y’all)

Mr. Binkles waited patiently in the ratty paper bag that slumped against the hamper inside the closet.  The inky darkness within was broken by thin slivers of light shooting through five ventilation vanes cut in the door.  The vanes were perfect for Mr. Binkles plan.  Just perfect.

For years now, Mr. Binkles sat in that paper bag wondering what had happened. Then slowly, ever so slowly, the answer had come to him.  Finally, he knew why he was sitting here. He was unloved.  Timmy, his boy, had “moved on.”  His parents had certainly helped him “move on,” but Timmy was also to blame.

Move on.  Move on.  How Mr. Binkles hated those words, so like death, the death of love and joy and happiness and slick warm drool in the night. Everything that mattered.  Move on, pass on, die die die die die.  Mr. Binkles had heard enough.

Oh yes, enough!  ENOUGH!  It was bad enough living in the paper bag that leaned on the hamper in the closet, trying to fill endless days lived in near-total darkness, alone but for the occasional remote touch of his boy.  The touches, if you could even call them that, only came when a smelly sock missed the hamper and somehow landed on him. A few years back, his boy had even stopped apologizing to Mr. Binkles for missing the hamper.  He probably had forgotten Mr. Binkles was there.

Even then Mr. Binkles had bided his time.  For deep in his stuffing, he believed that his boy, Timmy, would see the error of his ways, and when he did Mr. Binkles would forgive him without question.  Such was his nature.

Until.

Last week, when Timmy reached in the closet to grab a shirt off a hanger, Mr. Binkles had heard his boy tell his mother, as clear as day: “No don’t worry, Ma, I’ll toss out all that old stuff before I go move to the dorms.  Yeah, even the stupid bear.”

Stupid bear?  Toss out?  Neglect was one thing.  Neglect happened.  Mr. Binkles had heard about it and then had known it.  But he also knew that if you waited long enough your boy or girl would end up giving you to their boy or girl and you would be loved again.  He had had faith, Mr. Binkles did, faith in the future, faith in his boy.

But now, no more.  No more waiting, no more cherishing the love he and the boy had shared, no more biding his time, no more.  At that moment, everything had changed.

At that moment, Mr. Binkles had found a new reason to exist.  Even as his stuffing churned in his pot belly, his button eyes loosening their threads from the salt of his tears, his very seams threatening to come undone, even as he was destroyed he was reborn.  He rolled the new feeling across his felt tongue and found it tasted possibly better than the salt of his boy’s tears when Timmy was four and had scraped his knee, finding solace only in Mr. Binkles.  The thought of revenge tasted better than that had.  Mr. Binkles had found a new reason to live.

So he had planned.  He had planned and plotted and schemed.  Mr. Binkles took his time and made sure to do things right.  First, he had rummaged in the closet at night and found several small pieces of metal.  These he slowly sharpened, rubbing them against the rough edge of the old cast iron train until they each held an edge.  He practiced slipping them into the small spaces between stitches on his paws until he could insert them and remove them within seconds.  Mr. Binkles now had claws.  He sat on them now, his large fuzzy ass a safety buffer.  Then Mr. Binkles had stolen a few socks.  Not all at once, of course, but one at a time, slowly, over weeks.  Using his new claws, Mr. Binkles had carefully stuffing one sock into another and then another until they made a nice wad.  Mr. Binkles was planning very carefully.

One rainy-waney-rolly-poly day, as Mr. Binkles’ boy  used to call them, everything fell into place.  His boy had brought home that other one again.  Sharia.  Timmy would hug her and speak to her softly, in cuddly words. And he’d rub against her. It was almost as if she was a replacement for Mr. Binkles.  Indeed.

He had noticed that Timmy, Tim, or baby, as Sharia called him, only brought her up into the room when his parents were out.  Then they played doctor, just like Timmy had gotten in trouble for years ago, when the little girl next door had visited.  Except this time the game seemed much more enthusiastic.  Mr. Binkles wondered why they liked to scream so much when they played on the bed.  Mr. Binkles had never screamed when his boy would jump around on the bed with him.  Come to think of it, his boy hadn’t screamed then either.  And the game of doctor Timmy got in trouble for had been very quiet when little Kathleen had visited with her bunny.  In fact, when Timmy and Kathleen had played, he and Miss Rabbit had looked at each other happily.  But this was different.

But that time didn’t matter now.  What did matter was that Mr. Binkles knew exactly what was going to happen now.  Sharia and Timmy would close the door and remove each other’s clothing, and then they would wrestle and scream on the bed.  The wrestling could take a while, but the screaming didn’t.  Mr. Binkles knew he would have to move as fast as his stubby little legs could carry him.

Mr. Binkles watched them from the vents in the door, inserting his new claws as he waited.  Then, when they made their move to the bed, he pushed the door open carefully, just enough to slip out.  Mr. Binkles was a little afraid, he realized as he padded over to the bed.  He always had been careful never to move when his boy could see him.

Once he reached the foot of the bed, Mr. Binkles scrambled up, one two three, leaving little holes in the blanket.  His boy was on top of Sharia, his soft white ass presented like an offering to the Gods.  As soon as Timmy pressed down low on Sharia, Mr. Binkles slashed his claws along Timmy’s ass, raking true and deep. And he let out a war cry from the depths of his soul as he cut.  To Mr. Binkles’ ears, his cry was fabulous and mighty. Timmy and Sharia heard a small squeak.

The cry didn’t matter anyway. For Timmy was too busy leaping up and trying to spin around to see what had happened to his ass.  As the boy spun, Mr. Binkles leapt forward, landing on Sharia’s chest.  He slashed open her neck, feeling a spurt of hot blood slap into his face.  He sighed inwardly.  Mr. Binkles knew that this would cause a stain, and a stain meant time in the washing machine. Mr. Binkles hated the washing machine, drowning for what seemed like days as he was flung around in horrible circles.  And then the dryer. Mr. Binkles didn’t even want to consider what it was like in the dryer.  Oh God, the dryer.

Sharia lay on the bed gasping painfully for air, bubbles oozing out of the gash in her neck.  She slid downward to death with two thoughts swirling in her head: “Was that a fucking teddy bear?” and “I didn’t even cum.”

Mr. Binkles didn’t give her a second thought though as he stood on her chest, small cylindrical feet planted each on a breast, and considered Timmy.  The boy, his boy even after all this, still his boy. But his boy screamed and lunged at Mr. Binkles.  Mr. Binkles blocked with a set of claws, losing one deep in Timmy’s palm.  While Timmy screamed again and then fell back, holding his hand, Mr. Binkles jumped once more. He jumped off Sharia’s chest and onto Timmy.

His boy had no real chance, not against a small stuffed bear filled with such anger and resentment.  For every attack on Timmy’s part, there was a bloody parry by Mr. Binkles.  Mr. Binkles used to watch G.I. Joe with Timmy every afternoon, and he had learned a trick or two in his time.  Timmy clearly hadn’t paid as much attention.  One hand useless, scores of slashes, both deep and shallow, crisscrossing his arms and legs, Timmy finally sunk to the floor by the side of the bed.  Mr. Binkles descended on his boy like a pudgy Angel of Death. He swiftly gagged his boy with the sock ball, and then moved back, and stood on Timmy’s stomach, looking at him.  He shook his head sadly as Timmy tried to raise an arm to swat him off.  It only took a few tries for Timmy to utterly give up and close his eyes.  That’s when the cutting started in earnest.

Later, when it was over, they found Sharia dead on the bed, and Timmy on the floor, gagged with a ragged sock gag.  There were little pieces of sharp and bloody metal lying about which no one could seem to understand.

Mr. Binkles was once again in the ratty paper bag that slumped against the hamper inside the closet. He sat peacefully in his bag, listening to the policemen talking, the blood drying and caking, clutching Timmy’s heart to his once soft and fuzzy chest.