My earliest memory 

Day 2 #30daywritingchallenge 
My earliest memory is an odd one…
I can easily get lost in my own mind, and at times it’s hard to decipher what’s real and what’s a story. Maybe I made this one up too, or I dreamt it, but I can picture it clearly.
Childhood memories can venture into extreme emotions, it’s what makes a lasting impact on the psyche so that as we grow older we don’t lose grasp of what makes us unique. I was about 3 years old and I’ve always been a rather calm and tranquil soul. My dad had gifted me a huge green smurf, I don’t remember it being blue even though I know they were blue in the cartoon. For whatever reason this toy, approximately my height, scared me. It sat in the corner of my parents bedroom for the most part, and it was there when I took my nap. 
My mother used to sew, and she would keep a basket near her bed full of the requisite tools: scissors, needles, thread, material, etc. I never messed with it, simply because it did not call me attention. 
One afternoon, my mother laid me down for my nap and I was sleepy eyed. She had held me in her arms and sang to me long enough that when she transferred me to her bed I fell under easily. When I woke, the sunlight poured in from the division between the curtains and the fan whispered lazily. I turned because I felt I wasn’t alone. There on the edge of the bed sat the smurf. I didn’t remember it being there when my mother laid me down. I stared at it and it stared at me. I was too scared to blink, much less make any noise. 
I saw it lean forward, it’s eyes took on an eerie muted glow and I broke free from my shock. I remember how heavy and cold the scissors from the sewing basket felt in my hands. The smurf scrambled for me and I plunged the scissors in its plush neck. I swear it growled low at me. By that time I was atop of it and I wouldn’t stop thrusting the scissors in its stomach, arms, and I must’ve started crying. 

My mom came in and pulled me to her, thinking I had a nightmare. Maybe I did. 

Maybe it was all real. 
She consoled me and offered to fix the smurf, I screamed no! 
After that my mom placed the torn smurf in a black bag and put it outside in the laundry room, maybe thinking I would miss my toy and she could repair it like she had offered. I never asked for that smurf again. As long as that black bag resided in that laundry room, I refused to cross the doorway alone. I was so happy, years later, when my mom cleaned the room out and threw that black bag away. That pile of plush and fabric always felt malevolent to me. 

C. Dougherty