Teddy Bear

• Caitlin Jefferson, Grade 10
• Poetry
• 2020

I clutch Teddy against my chest, brushing his tattered hairs against my
nose to smell the metal cologne hinted with rotting sugar.
Gripping the door frame, the eggshell paint peels under my fingernails.
Heavy footsteps echo along the hallway.
He’s home.
His voice begins to increase, an echo chamber of empowerment,
hands trembling, veins bulging from his skin.
I only bare to glimpse the shadows.
Shattering pierces the silence, blood droplets stain the marble floor
and I hear a small plead to cease the pain.
I lift Teddy higher, in an attempt to shield my eyes.
Her cries become desperate and frantic as he continues to yell
A cassette tape playing over and over again.
I hear one last cry before the quietude.
I clutch Teddy closer, craving for the screaming break of silence.
I thought the screams were the scariest sound.