I retreated to my room with Vili. I sat down on the edge of my bed with him, feeling like the world had shrunk around me, like I was locked in a cage from which there was no escape. I could have talked to my father, but I was perfectly aware of the household dynamic. My mother took care of my upbringing, while my father gave her financial stability. I knew that it would be a waste of time talking to him. In a normal situation, I would have turned to my mother to ask for her help in curing Vili – but she had just assured me that she was unable to help my plush toy.

I laid Vili on the bed, then swept my hand over his body, not looking this time for warmth or safety, but for the symptoms of his disease. I had no idea what these symptoms might look like; Vili’s body temperature seemed just fine. I searched and searched, and I could feel that Vili was avoiding my gaze, just as I was avoiding his. In that moment he became actually naked, but not from his lack of clothing – he was naked because my fingers were searching for the end of his life.

I finally found the first rupture in his armpit. The thread had started to loosen, allowing Vili’s insides to be seen through a small hole, the white stuffing that was his blood, his flesh. I knew right away that my mother’s doctors were telling the truth. Vili’s body was sick. I felt like my chest was too small for my lungs, that my brain was swelling and boiling in my skull. The world seemed darker, not in a meta­phorical sense, but literally; my peripheral vision went black, I felt I could faint at any moment.

I knew with absolute certainty that death was real.

I grabbed Vili and threw him into the corner with all my strength. Vili bounced off the wall, knocked his head against a shelf, and fell behind my backpack. I couldn’t explain to myself the cause of my rage back then, and it took years even for my therapist to convince me that it was a normal reaction to what had happened to me. I tried to rationalize my behavior by thinking that I only wanted to save Vili: I had to hate him because he wasn’t alive – and if he wasn’t alive, he couldn’t possibly die. Perhaps I wanted to save his life by admitting that he wasn’t actually alive.