Some people say "don't fix something that isn't broken", well, what if we're all broken? Just a group of misfit toys that are ok with the way we are, and those who are "broken" are only that way because others would beat and brake them to try to fix themselves but can't find the right pieces? So they would do it again and again and again until there was nothing left to break, until that toy was stripped of their feelings and spare parts? Until they became what we call in this society "depressed" and "suicidal"?

Until the other toys make fun of them for having nothing, until they decide they have nothing left, and listen to the names they've been called and believe what the other toys say, the conventions they've heard them say behind their backs about the rumors and gossip. After that toy has hollowed them self so they would feel nothing, after they've written their letter to the ones that destroyed them, as they hang that rope around their neck because nobody would listen, because nobody would help.

As that toy is hanging by their neck and their mother or father or big brother or baby sister goes into their room to tell them to turn down the music and good night or I love you, and look at that toys lifeless body just hanging from the ceiling fan, with a piece of paper on the floor written in blood saying "They won, I'm sorry I couldn't have been stronger." Tears streaming down their family members faces, screaming for someone to help knowing that it was already too late, choking on their faith as their hot tears sting their eyes. As that same misfit toys lifeless body is being haled away by the corner.

Neighbors speculating outside, some that are shocked, others shedding a tear because they had seemed so bright so hopeful. The yellow "Do Not Cross" tape in front of that misfit toys house, the snarky neighbors saying "I told you so" as they are glared at by others. A mother, holding her baby, crying over the loss of her other, crying because the society that she raised her family in took one of her babies away. That toys father, crying, knowing that he will never see their smile again, never hear their laugh, only now finding out that they were not happy. This society, not only breaking that misfit toy, but breaking their family into pieces.

That same broken family, waiting for a judgement day that will never come, because society had said that they are in their prays when they don't even believe in a God. A broken family that can never be fixed because of the words that society spat at their misfit brother or sister, as others say that "they're sorry" and that they "regret" what they said, and then turn around and go about their day as if they never heard of the "poor soul" that killed themselves when they know damn well that they helped contribute to that misfit toys thoughts of suicide.

When all they wanted was that toys spare parts so they could fix themselves, so they could be seen as what this society calls "perfect." And that toys family, is trying to graft skin over the wounds they had sustained during their fight, but, sometimes those wounds get infected and can never heal and everytime the wind even blows on that wound they are reminded of the loss of their misfit toy. Until they shield that wound and numb themselves to anything that was even associated with that misfit toy, until they bury those thoughts and discount those memories and forget them. Because society said that there was nothing that anyone could have done, that they were not built for this world, that they were a misfit.

But to them, they where not a misfit toy, to them, they were perfect. And they remember the days when they would lock themselves in their room, and they always came up with some kind of excuse, "I'm sorry I have homework, I don't feel good today, I promise we can hang out tomorrow I promise." And every day, when they would wear long sleeves no matter how hot it was, the bloody razor blades under the bathroom sink, "Why didn't I see it? Why didn't I help them? I let them die, I didn't help! I helped kill them!"

They scream as they sob into their hands cursing at the wind and screaming to the Gods asking "Why?! Why didn't you save them?!" They say as they cry because hadn't let themselves cry since their so called "misfit" toy died, because they wanted to be strong for their family, as that same family bursts into tears every time their little girl or baby boy asks when is baba or sise coming home, having to explain to them again and again that they aren't coming home, that the are never going to see them again.

Not even old enough to understand that they're gone, that they will never see them again, always wondering why, "Don't they love me? Don't they care?" As they walk to the funeral home to say their last goodbyes, and lower them into the ground in front of a headstone that will never be visited because it was to painful to even look at their photo, putting those pictures away in the attic to collect dust until there was no trace that they even existed. Almost as if their death was a bad dream, until everyone just forgets them, and they are erased, until they are nothing, just like they had felt when they were alive.