A Bear Called It

Dear readers,

My name is Gunther and today I have taken over Jenny's blog to share my story with you all. These things, I hope you will understand, are not easy for me to talk about, but I hope that by being open about my experiences I will encourage other tortured and abandoned little bears to speak out and find help.

Despite my beautiful little face and my large, trusting eyes, I for some reason seem to be the sort of bear that attracts the attentions of the violent and the depraved, and many times in my life I have been subject to abuse, abandoment and neglect. My early years were unremmitingly traumatic; forced to sit on the shelves of the local garden centre, I was continuously taunted by the staff and was often used as a missile, quietly sobbing into my little bow as I was tossed into plantpots and hurled against piles of weedkiller.

It is now almost a decade since Jenny rescued from this pitiful life, and on that day when she ceased her employment and walked out of that garden centre with me in tow, I thought briefly that my troubles were over. I at last had a mother who loved me, and who promised to protect me from my abusers. Yet, I am sad to say that my reprieve from suffering was all-too-brief. Although in the last few years I have had the opportunity to travel widely and to see things that I never dreamed of, I have also faced repeated victimization by those who cannot see the humanity that lies behind my delicate bear-like features.

The incidents of abuse have been many, and my tormentors too numerous to list. The litany of torture I have faced has included being hurled from a third floor window into the bushes by a drunken student, and an attempted kidnapping by a Mayan seven-year old, from whose sticky little hands I was barely able to escape. It is only in recent weeks, however, that my hitherto fragile faith in humanity has been completely and irrevocably shattered. Jen, who has for years been my only friend and protector, abandoned me, leaving me buried under her bed as she took off east. Crushed between old notebooks and discarded pieces of junk, I sobbed quietly as I lay there, completely forgotten.

Admittedly, Jen realised her mistake and sent for me, and after a traumatic but fortunately brief excursion across the Midlands in a postman's van, I was delivered into the care of an unkempt-looking fellow named Jon, of whom I was immediately suspicious. I had encountered this Jon many times before in the past few years, and every time Jen was not there to protect me he had turned his unwanted attentions upon me. Taunting, squishing, unwanted touching, nothing was too much for this monster. Fortunately, this time he was not inspired to torture, for he delivered me safely into the care of my mother in Prague without being tempted to unwrap me from the sheet of paper inside of which I cowered in fear.

My suspicion of Jon, however, was well-placed; for he, along with his cackling accomplice, a girl named Katie who has also frequently in the past delighted herself in my pain, was of course not content to leave me in peace. Once Jenny had gone out, the two pounced, with Katie taking photographs of my degradation as the hideous Jon amused himself at my expense. First they got me drunk on black cherry cordial, then the abuse became ever crueller, with them squashing my head into my neck before hanging me from a lamp by the string of my tag in a mock-suicide.

To show the abuse I faced, I have taken the difficult decision to post the photos that were taken of my suffering. This will show that I am no crazed fantasist, but a genuine victim of the sadism of those who are more like beasts than men.









So far, Katie and Jon have faced no censure for their behaviour other than a mild rebuke from Jenny, who has once again promised to protect me from all those who wish to harm me. Given her woeful neglect of my welfare in the past few weeks, I cannot dare to believe that she will succeed. It is my hope, dear blog readers, that you will offer me some solace with your kind comments in this, my hour of need.

Yours,

Gunther