The Brave Bear
The Brave Bear
Every night before I went to bed, I would always take out my stuffed bear. But this bear was not just any stuffed animal. He was a nice, cheerful bear, who could sing and tell stories. Whenever I gave him a hug (or squeezed his soft, furry stomach), he would start telling the story of “The Little Tin Soldier” in a gentle, soothing voice. He came with a small storybook, and whenever I got the chance I would give him a hug and read along with him. I played with him so much that I knew the story by heart. My family had become good friends with the big brown bear, and they started calling him “Mr. Bear.” As a matter of fact, my family had memorized the bear’s story as well.
My constant over playing of Mr. Bear annoyed my oldest sister, who was only 10 years old at the time. She decided to hide him from me one day, and she “accidentally” hurled him into the dryer. The next few days, I had been wondering where Mr. Bear was, and I couldn’t sleep without him. I thought maybe he had been kidnapped.
My mom had to carry out her normal routine of washing and drying the clothes. After removing all of the clothes from the dryer, she noticed some white fur pieces dangling from one of the shirts. She peered cautiously into the dryer and discovered a small stuffed animal lying on its side. Its body was torn everywhere, revealing the ghostly white fur on the inside. She called me down and I saw what had happened to Mr. Bear. Seeing him in this condition was too much for my little eyes. I was heart- broken when I hugged him and his head fell off, but I was even more disappointed when he didn’t sing. From that day on, I hated kidnappers because of how they tortured my innocent bear.
I ended up finding out that my sister was the evil culprit. I started to dislike her too, until she bought me a stuffed Winnie-the-Pooh. Although it didn’t sing, it clapped its hands and gave me comfort throughout my lonely nights as a 4-year-old.
