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“Choose me,” Pete wants to yelp, but he feels like he won’t be heard over the noise. They’re all yipping and barking like eager puppies, tails wagging wildly in an attempt to be noticed, seen. They all paw at whoever is closest, yearning for attention and validation.
They’re performing in the pet shop window, hoping for an adoring look or a pat of acknowledgement. Whoever’s the loudest gets the attention, soaks it in. Pete tries to keep up, fights to hide his insecurities and his shortcomings, desperate to make himself presentable, approachable. Worthy. They all are. He’s the runt of the liter, easily ignorable. Pete’s trapped in a big body with millions of little feelings that weight him down, makes his shoulders slump. He’s sitting in the corner with his tail tucked between his legs, abused for far too long. He flinches at even the whisper of kindness and nips at the silence around him when he’s frightened.
No one chooses the whimpering mass of fur who doesn’t know how to play well with others.
“Pick me,” Pete wants to scream, but he’s in a crowded room. People line the walls, nearly crawling up them like vines. Infectiously, they spread and multiply and overwhelm Pete. Too much. It’s suffocating. The vines tighten and constrict, holding his heart hostage behind his fragile rib cage. He can’t break free. He can’t breathe.
The people all seem to bloom around one another, flourishing as they converse and laugh, roots twisted together so tightly and keeping them together. Bound. Pete tries to pry them apart, insert himself between them just to be included, but thorns bite into his skin. Inaccessible. They all are. He’s on one side of a stone wall, covered in soft moss that burns to touch and tangled ivy that clings. They’re on the other side, so blissfully unaware of Pete, withered and dying from exposure, lack of sunlight and basic human interaction.
No one picks the dead flowers.
“Want me,” Pete wants to cry, but everyone’s gone now. They’ve all left, some in pairs and others in small groups. They all had someone to smile at, someone to adore and someone to adore them in equal parts. They’re all laughing, off to create memories and find new adventures, but Pete has no one to laugh with.
They’re all shiny new toys, each with their own unique charm and special talent. Rosy cheeks and perfect, practised poses, each of them are wanted, coveted, for their little instances of sublimity. Pete is an amalgamation of doll parts, bits and pieces that he pulled together to make himself seem complete. He’s held together by tape and glue and the simple need to be seen as more than the sum of all of his malformed parts. Complete. They all are. They’re untouched in their boxes, new with tags. They’re all pristine, a metaphorical collector’s item, sought after by everyone around them. Not Pete. He’s sitting on a shelf, out of sight and out of mind, hanging on by frayed threads and just hoping someone looks his way. No one ever does.
No one wants a broken toy.
No one chooses or picks or wants Pete.