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Woody stared at the night sky. The stars twinkled beautifully. He leaned back on his hands, letting his legs dangle.
He sighed, his eyes fluttering shut. Though distant, Woody could hear the tunes of the carnival. People screaming, jaunty music playing, and kids laughing.
Much to his relief, he was far from the action. Bo had blessed him with that.
An abandoned storage container is what she found. It was tucked away at the side of a freeway, only visible if searched for. Why it was near a carnival, Woody had no idea. However, Woody had to be grateful. He’d rather sleep in a metal tin than out in the elements.
Despite the protection, Woody still felt off. It felt like something was creeping up on him, waiting for the right moment to pounce. He quickly shook the feeling off, knowing it was just his imagination running wild. Despite the reassurance, he glanced over his shoulder.
He pawed at his chest. It felt empty. Something was missing. It was his voice box; he knew that already. He shuddered at the memory.
His seams being ripped open, hands rummaging through his stuffing. He was regretfully awake during the whole ordeal. He writhed, wrapping his gangly arms across his torso. Woody whimpered, digging his face into his knees.
The stitches in his back burned. Woody didn’t know they could do that. He let out a rigid breath, trying to stop his head from spinning.
When he closed his eyes, he could see it all over again. Woody shuddered, squeezing his legs tighter.
Woody knew his voice box was gone. And yet…he could feel something, something deep inside of him.
It was a familiar weight, almost grounding him.
Woody hopefully flung his hand, reaching for his pull-string. He clawed at his back but could feel nothing. His fingers ran across the tightly wrapped stitches.
Of course, it wouldn’t be there; Woody felt stupid for even considering it. But even then, he could feel something. It felt somewhat like a heartbeat rattling within.
“This is ridiculous!” Woody huffed, stomping upwards. He clasped his hands over his mouth, his head snapping to Bo Peep. To his relief, his outburst hadn’t woken her. Billy, Goat, and Gruff were tucked soundly under her arm, emitting soft ‘baaa’s ’ as they slept.
Tucked in the corner were the others, sleeping soundly. Ducky and Bunny were curled up with each other, Duke using Ducky as a pillow. Giggles laid on Bunny’s head, using one of his ears as a blanket.
None of them stirred from his all-too-loud outburst.
Woody’s eyes wandered to something lying nearby. A rusty box cutter. Bo Peep used it to fend off wild animals during harsher nights. Woody couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. His fingers twitched, and the weight sagged.
His voice box had to still be in there; he could feel it!
Woody’s eyes burned into the blade, an idea pooling in his mind. It wasn’t exactly a good idea, but it would put his mind at ease. Woody shook his head, balling his fist.
“No… no!” Woody hissed, jerking around. He was not going to use a box cutter for… that. It was vile. Woody shuddered at the thought.
Yet…
Woody let his gaze wander back to the object. The fullness in his core persisted, nearly making him sick.
The box cutter looked more tempting than ever. The plastic handle glinted beautifully in the moonlight as if it were calling for Woody. He tugged at his bandana, suddenly feeling choked up.
He pursed his lips, weighing his options. It couldn’t be that bad. If his memory served him correctly, which it always did, Sid's toys had gone through worse. They had been torn limb from limb, and they turned out perfectly fine!
“It wouldn’t hurt to check.” Woody reasoned with himself. It would calm his nerves. Besides, there was no point in keeping watch; tonight was tame.
All Woody had to do was rip a few seams and check. After that, he could pull a loose thread and close the hole. By the time everyone woke up, he would be completely fine.
The once-sheriff padded towards the rusty blade. Woody hoisted it off the ground, the weight nearly toppling him over. Bo made this thing look light.
Woody’s fingers traced the yellow handle, sliding the blade from its sheath.
His hands began to tremble, the blade nearly slipping from his grasp. Woody didn’t know why he was shaking; he was fine. If anything, this should be relaxing. It was like getting fixed up. It would only be a little tear. So little that he wouldn’t even need to sew it back up.
Despite his reassurance, his gaze was fixed on the blade. It was sharp. One wrong slice and he was done for. His eyes finally teared away from the object, looking at Bo.
Woody couldn’t ask her to do this for him; she would think something was wrong with him. Nothing was wrong. Woody was the same toy he’d always been. But he needed to know if that piece of him was there. If he could just rip a few seams, he could check.
He steeled his nerves, tightening his grip. Woody aimed the blade below his bandana. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t tear away at the all-too-tight stitches on his back. It would be impossible to aim.
The cowboy pressed the blade closer, hearing the fabric begin to rip. That one tear was agonizing.
Woody inhaled sharply, the world briefly pivoting around him. The blade slipped from his hands, clattering across the ground. His knees nearly gave out from under him.
“I did it.” Woody rasped. He looked down. The rip was small, but it was most definitely there. Woody craned his neck, trying to peer inside. Much to his dismay, he couldn’t see at all. He squeezed an eye shut, trying his hardest to get the information he desperately needed.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t see within.
“Shoot,” Woody muttered, stomping his foot. He needed something compact, like a paper clip, or a pencil, or-or… his fingers.
The cowboy shuddered at the thought. But this couldn’t be any worse than Gabby doing it. In fact, it was better because he was in control! Woody poked his finger through the hole. He bit back a disgusted yelp, a chill running through his body. This was wrong; it felt wrong.
His finger ran over something soft--stuffing, he presumed. Woody bit his tongue, trying his darndest not to whine. This felt invasive. After minutes of poking and prodding, he got nowhere. Woody yanked his hand back, gasping for air. As much as he wanted them to be, his fingers weren’t enough.
Something inside him hoped, no, begged that Bo would wake up and stop him. He clearly wasn’t able to stop himself. But he was in too deep. The only way was forward.
Woody once again picked up the boxcutter. If he was faster, it wouldn’t hurt. At least, that’s what he hoped.
In one swift motion, he jerked his arms down. His chest burst open, stuffing spilling out. His buttons flew, scattering across the floor.
To any ordinary toy, this would look like a crime scene, but Woody knew better. He would be able to fix himself just before sunrise; he knew he could. Everything always worked out for him, didn’t it?
Woody looked at the now-gaping hole. It was just big enough for him to fit a hand in. He wearily poked his hand inside, a wave of nausea hitting him. Could toys vomit? Woody didn’t think so.
He paused for a moment, collecting himself. He could do this; he needed to.
Woody’s fingers worked deliberately, slowly pushing past the stuffing. He pursed his lips, trying to shove past the invasive feeling. Woody could find it; he knew he could.
His movements became frantic as his fingers scoured the plush cotton.
The more his hands moved, the more he felt his fabric rip. He gritted his teeth, baring through the hellish pain.
Where was it? Where was it? Woody should have found it by now. His stuffing was in the way; it had to be!
Woody shoved his other hand, pushing through the dizzying feeling.
He balled his fist, yanking fistful by fistful. His stuffing fell to the floor with less grace than he had hoped. But it didn’t matter; he’d be able to fix himself before sunrise.
“Come on,” Woody grunted. He was close; he could feel it. He just had to go deeper.
It had to be there; it had to. Woody’s hand plunged back, hitting a smooth surface. His fabric. He felt empty. He was empty. His knees buckled, and his head felt light.
Before he knew it, he was on the ground. His excruciating pain had numbed, only feeling like a faint fizzle.
Is this what blood loss felt like? He had seen it time-and-time-again in movies that he, quite frankly, thought Andy was too young to watch.
He outstretched his hand, attempting to claw at his stuffing. If he could just get some back inside, he’d feel better. He’d get enough energy to put himself together and act like this never happened. Unfortunately, his attempts were futile. His fingers wouldn’t listen to him, remaining motionless. What would Bo think when she found him? He hoped that it would never come. If it meant Bo would never see him like this, Woody would stay in this moment forever. He was meant to be resilient! Woody was a strong leader, and he was reduced to this? A pile of fabric and stuffing?
Woody let out a whistly breath. Was he dying? He didn’t know toys could do that. Woody gazed at the stars, his vision dwindling. He wondered how Buzz was doing.
Woody’s awoke groggily. The first thing he noticed was his chest burning. The second thing was the feel of smooth, cold porcelain pressed against his forehead.
He let out a weary whine, his head pounding. The porcelain on his head jolted before letting out a worried bleat.
Billy, Goat, and Gruff quickly began to lap at his forehead, nuzzling their noses against him. Woody raised his hand, petting Goat’s head.
“Hi, girls.” He groggily greeted.
“Woody!” Bo gasped, pushing the sheep away. She hoisted Woody up, pulling him into a tight hug. Woody’s arms hung limply at his sides. The hug only lasted seconds before she hoisted him by his shoulders. Bo pressed her forehead against his, many emotions pooling in her eyes.
“What were you thinking?” Bo scolded. “I woke up, and you were…were…” She choked before quickly shaking her head. She jutted a finger out, flicking him across the forehead. “You’re lucky I can sew!”
Woody let his mouth hang open, trying to think of a response; any response. But was he meant to say? ‘I wasn’t trying to kill myself; I was just looking for my voice box.’ That was worse.
“I’m sorry.” was all he could muster. Bo’s head dropped, her breathing shaky.
“Woody, just…” Bo started before pausing. “Just lay down.” Woody opened his mouth to argue, but Bo shot him a glare. “You need rest.”
As much as Woody wanted to argue back, he couldn't lie; He was exhausted. Woody wordlessly curled up, laying his head onto Bo’s lap. Bo wearily placed a hand on Woody’s head. With each pat, her hand trembled. Her fingers shakily traced over the grooves of his hair.
Woody closed his eyes, sighing. Despite the comforting feeling, the weight remained.