Author: DemonColours PM
Is it real? What is fake and what is not? These are hard questions to answer, much less to ask. It can't help but wonder...What does it mean to be real...and to be loved? Unintentionally and loosely based off the Velveteen Rabbit. Story c DemonColoursRated: Fiction K+ - English - Spiritual/Hurt/Comfort - Words: 483 - Published: 01-29-12 - Status: Complete - id: 2992910
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It was silent.
The moon was high, and cast silver shadows across the room.
Strange dark lumps littered the floor. One of these was a cat.
The animal shifted uncomfortably against something soft. It subconsciously drew the object closer to itself, hoping for rest.
The object was strange, but somehow familiar. And yet...
It did not breathe.
It did not move.
It did not twitch an ear or bat a paw.
But the cat didn't care. All it wanted was rest. Yet the object it clutched seemed incapable of such a feat.
The object was furry, like the cat, but the fur did not ruffle. It did not tangle.
The object had eyes, like the cat, but it did not see. It did not blink.
The object had a mouth, like the cat, but it did not eat. It did not speak.
The object carried four limbs, like the cat, but it did not walk. It did not move.
On accident, the cat snared a claw in the object's fur, but it did not react.
The cat hissed and leapt back, jerking the object to one side violently. The object slumped on the ground passively. The cat watched curiously.
How strange, thought the cat, circling this oddity. How strange should something so similar act so differently.
It was like the object wasn't even real.
The cat vanished in the dark, undoubtedly searching for another place to sleep.
The object remained how it landed, as if waiting for the one person who pitied it enough to pick it back up again.
Am I real? wondered the object. What did being real feel like?
Did being real mean being able to have your fur tangle, or to blink? Did it mean being able to speak, or to move?
If that is what being real means, then I am not real. I will never be real.
I am not like the cat. I am not alive. I am not real.
It was as silent as it ever was.
The moon was high, casting silver shadows across the room like it always had.
The object waited in the dark once again, unmoving from where the cat had tugged it.
The cat didn't think it was real. The object didn't think it was real.
So who would?
Someone real? Someone fake? Perhaps no one at all?
Maybe it didn't need someone to think it was real.
Maybe it didn't need have its fur tangle, or to have its eyes blink.
Maybe it didn't need to speak or move.
Real objects had this strange thing called love. The cat received it all the time.
So did having love make something real?
Maybe it did.
Maybe it didn't.
And so the object waited for the one person who loved it enough to believe it was real.