This stated with the thought that 'Oh hey, I need to write something.' I didn't really have any motivation to work on my Kells projects, so I cast around to 'How about what happened to Lotso?' thinking it would be a quick thing to get me out of my block.
But too bad, self. You can't just leave him hanging on the garbage truck like a good little Toy Story fan. You have to keep thinking about it and letting it grow…
I have no idea if this is any good or if it even makes sense, honestly—it was totally unplanned, written in bits and pieces over the span of months. I don't know if I'll continue it, either.
Con-crit and flames are still welcome.
Toy Story © Disney/Pixar
frangat
/-/-/
Lotso tried to struggle off, at first. Wrenching his arms and legs to the point that threads snapped and fur was worn down, he tried every time he could, every time they garbage wasn't being picked up in a residential area, every time the trucks were parked for the night, even when the humans were close enough for him to hear their voices.
There's no escape, the other toys told him, though not cruelly. Not from here. But this wasn't Sunnyside, this wasn't his plan, this was just more human cruelty.
For a long time the bear thought it would work, until he managed to reopen the tear along his side he obtained at his arrival at Sunnyside. Even then he kept on trying, until the stuffing poked out.
For a toy, seeing their own stuffing—stuffing from inside their body, not from a package and being put in—is similar to a human being injured. In Sunnyside, such a tear would be like a shallow cut—annoying, very painful, but treatable. At the dump, that same tear is akin to a human seeing their own intestines spilling out.
He was too frantic at that point to continue. He simply concentrated on pressing that part against the grill, ignoring the heat, keeping it from falling out.
He somehow managed to keep it that way for nearly a month.
/-/-/
The roaring heat of summer faded to the cool caress of autumn, dampening the stench of the dump to nearly reasonable levels.
He thought about what state Sunnyside would be in
(and there was no 'if', not yet)
when he got back. It was possible that Kenneth and his sweetheart would be able to take over for a while, but the others…
Well. The others might be on their side too, after his outburst. He shouldn't have let the idiot Sherriff get to him like that.
Thinking. It was so frustrating, knowing that thinking was all he could do.
His body failed him. He couldn't keep the stuffing in, although he was almost lucky in that regard—his stuffing was packet together tightly enough that he only lost enough to make a small concave in his torso. He had enough left to keep his general shape.
Still, it was agonizing, and it seemed to attract more filth than the rest of him.
One of the toys that had been strapped on before him had…fallen. The monkey's arms and legs and tail had been slowly weakening to the point of literally tearing when the truck went over bumps in the road. It had hit a particularly large pothole, and he had only been held by a few threads on his arms. Lotso hadn't realized what had happened at first—it was raining hard, and he had shut his eyes to shield them. All he heard was a startled cry and a soft rip, and when he glanced at where the monkey had been, all that was left was some brown fuzz tangled around the wire that had kept him pinned.
The purple monster and frog seemed disturbed, though he gathered from their unending chatter during the nights that it had happened before. And would certainly happen again. They didn't sound particularly worried. Simply…resigned. It reminded him of Chuckles
(on those days back home—after Lotso slammed his cane into the torn—"I can't do this, please, Lotso—" voice breaking like his their our)
in more ways than one. It drew out a flicker of anger and…something else that had been smothered by fear and pain. He couldn't renew his struggles; the gap was widening. He could, however, snap at them every time they did so. To his surprise, it usually worked. It seemed he could still be intimidating, even when physically powerless.
(It never crossed his mind that they might just be keeping silent to comfort him.)
However, 'usually' was not 'always'. When the truck was given breaks, left in the garages and the humans wandered away, they never shut up. Lotso couldn't tune it out; whenever he tried, his mind turned to other, more unpleasant things.
Their favorite topic was—of course—their former owners.
…It wasn't always so bad, though. They were always just talking about the little things. They argued often, but there was never any real heat to their words. It was just an escape, a diversion.
Mine had glow-in-the-dark star stickers on her walls.
Yeah? Mine had a huge model of a solar system hanging from his ceiling!
Sometimes it escalated to things that could never be true, unless they were speaking of playtimes. Sometimes they spoke with such certainty over things that were impossible that the ragged bear couldn't help but wonder if they truly believed what they said. True delusions.
Mine lived in a mansion!
Mine lived on the moon, and we rode a unicorn to school!
Delusions were common at Sunnyside, old toys still thinking that their owners loved them. They were punished in the Caterpillar Room for it, and it snapped them out of it. And if it didn't work, then they were broken and thrown out, quickly forgotten.
(Except when they weren't. But he didn't care. After all, trash doesn't matter.)
Lotso rarely spoke outside of enraged snarls when they
(forced him to remember)
got too annoying.
Mine got me on Christmas; I was the first present he opened.
I was her favorite~
But sometimes Lotso got…lonely. He was loath to admit it, blamed it on how he was made.
(Companionship was a toy's main purpose, especially one such as him.)
Sometimes he found himself wondering out loud what conditions they'd all face the next day. Or how much time had passed since he'd been tied up, after the days and nights began to bleed together. Or, even more rarely, telling them about the daycare. That lasted until the frog sighed about how lucky he must have felt, having so much love from so many children.
Lotso stopped talking as much after that. It seemed to him that there was nothing more to be said.
Even though, the monster kept asking to know what it had been like. Always wheedling, always pleading, until the bear told him that he'd had an owner before it and didn't want to disrespect her memory—a blatant lie. She deserved no respect, nothing like it. He hated her so much.
(toys are good at pretending. what they're made for and what they can do, even when they shouldn't. that's why so many never attempted escape from Sunnyside, Lotso knew. because everything will be okay. everything's okay. everything)
The monster didn't stop until the last wire that kept him secure snapped in the middle of the night.
His legs were already torn to shreds, so he couldn't escape before the drivers came in and noticed. He was carelessly scooped up in gloved hands and tossed into the sea of trash as they drove out.
A few hours of silence later, Lotso numbly wondered why he could feel something twisting
(that wasn't his threads).
/-/-/
The cool caress of autumn became the harsh slap of winter.
Lotso screamed and screamed and screamed at everything.
At the pain of tearing stitching.
At the fools and Sunnyside who didn't save him.
At the toys who did save him.
At Daisy, how cruel she was to keep him and hold him and forget him in the blink of an eye.
He screamed at the agony that refused to leave, and how much he wanted to be held again.
Eventually, he quieted. Broken sobs echoed through the lonely garage in their place.
(The frog let him be, and he couldn't muster up the strength to be angry.)
/-/-/
It took a while, but Lotso spoke again.
The frog still kept conversation up as well as he had since the beginning. The bear never asked how long he'd been there. Nor did he ask what his name was; there was something
(you never asked because you didn't care and he wanted he just wanted to not remember, just like you.)
in the back of his mind, preventing him.
The frog spoke of things that almost mattered.
The toys now-gone had spoken of where their kids were, or sometimes how they played. But that hadn't been them.
The frog's little girl had brown eyes and hair. It sounds pretty plain, but the way her eyes shined when she picked me up, they looked like gold. And her hair was so long, it tangled around me when we hugged.
Daisy's hair was in pigtails, always, even when she slept. Sweetest shade of blonde you ever did see. And her eyes…her eyes had been…like the sky.
…He stared at the sky so often.
It wasn't blue that often anymore, not usually. Almost every time the truck was sent out, everything was in shades of grey. Clouds filtered snow that clumped together in his fur. More than once, he awoke with ice encasing his arms along with his bonds. The wires that secured his feet fell off during the first snowfalls, but he was too tired during that time to really notice.
It didn't matter.
The sky was the only thing left, perhaps. Every glimpse of blue felt like a victory.
Every time, though, he felt something twist. Something was so familiar about it,
(and when he looked to hard he almost, almost saw her staring back)
but there was something wrong, just out of reach.
/-/-/
The truck broke down in a snowstorm. The plows couldn't get through, and nothing could be seen. He couldn't see his companion when he dared turn his head, or even the bindings.
It was so cold.
He shut his eyes and tried to think of warm things.
Suppressed for months, the memory of the incinerator roared into the forefront of his mind.
He could feel its hear searing along his back as his feet tore through the shattered bits of plastic
(toys)
as the others screamed behind him.
Lotso NO
He did that, didn't he. They were there and they were trash and they saved him even after what he said and did.
They were fools.
Lotso! They screamed and screamed and
(you could've pushed the button, you were right. there.)
Too hot too wrong too far, they were falling and so was he.
Lotso!
Melting plastic clawing at his side and arm
(but he knows it's not on purpose, the Sherriff is too weak)
Blurred plastic eyes cease gleaming, but they're still begging.
(just help them they'll stop clawing)
Lotso,
Everything hurts.
please, Lotso!
Even though everything is burning, he's still very, very cold.
I'm sorry
I'm so sorry
And they keep chanting his name, over and over and over. Like that'll fix anything. Like can turn back time.
please stop
And he whimpered through fear and shattered anger and sorrow to the toys he broke— destroyed— killed
I want to go home.
The box was warm.
It had been cold for a while, after the grown-ups had picked him up from the shelf at the store and said yes, yes it'll be perfect, she loves the smell of strawberries!
They took him from the store and put him in a little box and it was scary at first, but he waited. He waited because he was getting an owner to love and that was perfect.
The box shook and pulled open and more warmth rushed in. Soft hands wrapped around him and eyes the color of spring
(Green. Her eyes had been green.)
glittered joyfully and she hugged him and he was warm and safe and—
"I love you, Lotso."
(I…I love you too.)
Lotso whipped his head around—the garage. The truck was back at the garage.
The bear closed his eyes. And inside his head, a pair of not-blue eyes looked back.
…Maybe he thought of her as the sky, because…both seemed so close while being so far.
He opened his eyes again, thinking of his companion's little girl—he felt like telling the frog about his foolish
(terrifying)
mistake.
But when he looked around, the wires were bare as the trees along the side of the roads.
/-/-/
Winter deepened.
Sleep was no escape—more often than not, Lotso found himself watching Daisy run off, or feeling the Sunnyside toys tear out his stuffing, or hearing the screams of the ones that he didn't save.
His left arm was a stump. His right eye was loose, he was losing his left ear, and his fur was filthy, stained nearly black in places.
Being awake meant facing reality. And worse, sometimes his nightmares followed him even then.
When he saw Chuckles' hollow-eyed stare from the top of dumpsters, or Daisy shaking in her summer clothes in snowdrifts higher than he was tall, the fluff in his chest constricted and it was all he could do to tell himself that this isn't real, they aren't really there, they don't matter. They're long gone. They left you.
(It didn't help, not anymore.)
During the rare moments when he was lucid, Lotso thought back to happier times. He realized how few they really had been.
(He wondered if that was his fault.)
And then, on a normal early morning run, the last wire snapped.
He hit the icy ground hard, but it didn't register. Just another dream.
He had been dreaming before that, actually. The Sherriff and the Ranger and the rest, standing next to the button while he was dragged back towards the flames himself.
It was strange, how many times he could have the same nightmare and still be terrified by it.
Sherriff!
(What was his name?)
—please—
As a toy, Lotso didn't have much of a reason to look at his reflection. He knew what he looked like. Pink and white fur, purple nose. Brown eyes.
(stuffing and plastic. trash but maybe, maybe something to still care about.)
…The sheriff's eyes had been brown. In the time he'd been trapped, that was the one thing of the cowboy doll that hadn't faded. Lotso never had any reason to really concentrate on that fact before, either.
But those dark eyes were the only thing left, darker than his own and somehow warmer.
And his thoughts turned to home-love-Daisy-Daisy-Daisy
And the Sherriff in the dark drove his fluff-filled arm forward, slamming his plastic hand onto the button.
Missing an arm and an ear and plenty of stuffing, covered in miniscule tears and snowflakes, the pink bear stared at the sky. Pale grey, a few flashes of blue.
Slowly, agonizingly, he pushed himself up with what little strength he had left.
There wasn't much to see. The garbage truck was long gone. It was snowing hard, with big flakes that clumped together like little drifting feathers, hiding the ends of the street from view. The road was one of the less-traveled, though the plows had done their jobs in the earlier hours.
He left footprints. It was against the rules, but he was half blind and mad and they'd be filled in soon anyway.
The snow was piled high on the curbs, much higher than he could've ever climbed, even in a pristine state. The driveways had too much in front of them from the plows to offer an alternate path.
Not that it mattered; he was too exhausted to get far. He collapsed a foot from where he estimated the tires of cars would pass by.
There was nothing for him if he'd thought about it—no way back to Sunnyside, no way to be fixed, no way to keep himself from being thrown away again.
But he was never one to give up. He led his friends through impossible odds to get home and through states to get to Sunnyside and conquered it.
Even after everything he'd gone through and how shattered his mind had become, he still wanted to survive. No matter how impossible it seemed. Even though his thoughts were so jumbled with what's right what isn't what was.
He numbly watched the show fill in his footprints for a while, weakly attempting to force himself up now and again. It never took. Perhaps the fluff inside his legs had shifted enough to permanently ruin his balance, or perhaps it was just the cold. Whatever it was, he was still lying on the side of the road when the cars started to roll by.
His face froze into a smile instinctively each time, even though he knew that nobody would give an old discarded toy any attention in such weather.
But then, someone did.
A lone car drove by, then skidded to a halt. He couldn't see inside, but it stayed there for almost two minutes. He stared at it blankly, too tired to wonder.
The passenger door opened. A woman, bundled up, slid out and turns toward him. A voice from the car said something—he couldn't hear the words, but the voice was unmistakably that of a child's.
The woman quickly shuffled to him and snatched him up with gloved hands, shuffling back just as quickly. Dimly, he noticed the snowbanks that had protected him from the wind were not high enough to protect her.
Then they were in the car, warmth spilling over his fur. It felt nice.
"It's pretty ruined…Here, Bon-bon."
A pair of hands lifted his crooked torso. Soft and gentle.
"It's a teddy bear! He's so broken."
A little girl. Daisy? It couldn't be. But still familiar, somehow.
The last thing he felt were those small hands wrapped around him, warm and protecting.