I was slumped on the corner of the stockroom, along with the other things of no more value. Resting on top of an old worn out refrigerator, I could not see the ceiling. The room was dark, a tiny light emanating just from the small gap between the door and the floor.

Dust had started to collect on top of my body. How many years has it been since you last hugged me tight? Since you last played with me? Has it been a year? Or was it more? I vividly remembered when your mother had stitched me up. From a furry brown fabric, she shaped me into a bear and sewn my body parts all together. She stuffed pieces of worn out clothes cut into strips and placed them inside to give me shape. Two black buttons were enough to be my eyes.

You were so happy when you opened that shoe box wrapped in newspaper. So eager to open what was inside. And finally, we met. You named me Bear. I have never seen you outside and play with the other children. You were so busy copying letters and words from books you can’t even read. That was fun for you, wasn’t it? You would prop me at the chair and just let me watch you as you do draw your own world though I figure you were not much good at drawing. The worn out crayons were enough to satisfy you anyway.

Your mother decided to send you to a day care center. It made me sad. I was all alone throughout the day and seeing you come home would make me the happiest. But you were not happy. Your white uniform shirt were all muddy, bruises on your arms and feet. You came to me and sobbed. I heard how your classmates pushed you when you were going home, how they grabbed your baon at recess and took away your lunch.

You pulled a chair and used it to reach for the pot of rice. You scooped some to your bowl and added some powdered milk and sugar. You’ve seen your mother do that when she had no time to cook, or there is no viand to be cooked as she was unable to sell the basahan she stitched the night before. You first try at cooking, though that one did not involve fire. Other days, it would be rice seasoned with salt and oil. I was so proud of you.

But then, you father comes home. From afar, you could hear him shouting. He is drunk again. You grabbed me, and hid inside the stockroom. You would hug me tightly and I could feel you trembling as you crouched at the farthest corner. You’d often hear him look for food and hear banging of pots when he finds them empty. And so, you wait. You wait for him to eventually calm down and sleep at the sofa before you quietly open the door and climb to your room.

You should never allow yourself to be seen by your father, especially on his drunk days (which is everyday). One time, you were so focused copying the words from a magazine you found on the table. You were happy, they had colored pictures of lunch boxes, shirts, pants, and other clothes you wished were with you so that you could help your mother cut them into pieces. More basahan, more food! That was when you felt a jolt from the head. “You useless child. Always playing around. Move.” That hurt, for a second, you were dizzy as you scrambled and held on to the table for support.

You were really brave. You did not cry from the pain. Of course, you shouldn’t cry. You saw your father do that to your mother and your mother never cried. She was a brave one, too. But when your father starts beating her up, she urges you to stay at the stockroom. To stay their until she calls you out. You hear her scream from pain, but she never cried.

On other unlucky days, your father would bring home his kumpares. They would buy bottles of gin and barbeque for pulutan. Those were the bad days for you as you would eventually get tired waiting for them to get away so you lay on the cold floor of the stockroom with me as your pillow.

But you are safe now, the stockroom will always be your refuge. In here, you are safe. In here, no one can hurt you. How many years has it been since you last hugged me tight? Since you last played with me? Will you and your mother ever come out of this old worn out refrigerator and play with me?