Mr Grumpy's Secret Soul

20260411

Prompt from DailyPrompt.com

Every day I wonder if this was intended as some twisted mercy, or if that wretched angel came up with a torture so fiendish it never would’ve occurred to me, a proud denizen of hell itself. Or perhaps they thought this would somehow reform me?
As if! You need a strong existing fondness for children to put up with their antics. Much less all day long like this. Add in being a helpless object, a pathetic seemingly mundane plaything…
If I ever manage to undo this curse, my vengeance will be swift, far-reaching, and incandescent.
A pleasant thought to reflect upon, as my tormentor drags me behind her by one floppy cloth arm. That much-abused limb has already been sewn back on multiple times, and will continue to need repairs until finally the rags which make it up are too thin, too ripped, for even her diligent grandmother to piece back together. Then a new pseudo-corpse will be made up.
But the head, the polished and painted piece of wood which imprisons my soul, remains. Moved from cloth body to cloth body. My “face” is touched up regularly. One bad set of staining even resulted in being sanded back to the wood and re-sealed. None of this has any affect on the magic binding me here.
I still remember finding myself in her grandfather’s workshop, clamped to a worn worktable, my mind still reeling from the force of the angel’s spell. It took me some time to fathom what had happened, during which my wooden form was planed and chiselled and sanded and covered in multiple layers of foul-smelling polish.
Then the paints came out. And it seemed I was not entirely helpless, my boiling rage making a tiny mark upon the world, for the old man painted and wiped off and painted and wiped off and grumbled to himself that he just “couldn’t get the mouth right”.
He wanted a jolly doll for his youngest granddaughter. But with my anger and bloodlust trapped within the wood, no matter how he tried, the face came out contorted in fury.
My pleasure at his frustration was short-lived. In came the child herself, wanting her promised toy, and her grandfather asked her what kind of face she wanted. Perhaps hoping for inspiration.
That wretched half-baked mortal took one look at the grimace he’d drawn, squealed with laughter, and dubbed me “Mr Grumpy”.
I was gobsmacked. I, an arch-fiend who has reduced famed warriors to snivelling heaps, forced to watch helplessly as two pathetic peasants rolled about laughing at me! Surely no torture I had meted out came close to this for depravity.
Now satisfied with my appearance, the old man applied more polish to seal the paint, and I was left for a few hours to brood upon my nightmarish situation. Blissfully unaware that this was only the start.
Unclamped. Inspected. Carried upstairs, where the grandmother was waiting, with the first facsimile of a body. I’m deeply grateful that my awareness does not extend to that fragile, oft-abused shell.
Then I - or rather, the cloth doll I had been fused with - was stuffed into a frilly linen dress. Apparently having dubbed me “Mr” Grumpy did not dampen my tormentor’s desire for me to wear an outfit “matching” her own.
I’m yanked upwards, shaking me from my recollections. I am all too eager not to dwell upon the rest of that sickening birthday.
My tormentor crushes a berry against my face, adding to the stains surrounding my “mouth”, and in a mocking gruff voice squeaks “Yum yum!”
I note that, despite dragging me through brambles and dank grass for hours, and the scrub around us being heavy with dark fruit, the bucket hanging off her arm has barely a handful of berries in it. I hope we will return home once she is full, not the bucket. Her mouth is purple as a deep bruise, another pleasant mental image. And surely she must be getting tired.
Admittedly being trapped in that little wicker rocking chair, or forced to play “house” with her, is hardly less suffering. But it will be less tiring than being bounced about like this, my gaze swinging ceaselessly from sky to earth and back again. The curse of unclosing eyes.
Right now I would even prefer being slept on by that blasted cat, which I’m certain can sense my suffering.
But no. I’m dropped back down again to dangle as she tromps onwards through the scrub.
I will find some way to escape this prison, and I will find that angel, and this time our duel will leave no corner of the mortal world unflattened!
“Look, Mr Grumpy! A butterfly! Make a wish!”
Believe me, child, I’ve tried.

Prompt was “Write about a non-human character who has no control over their lives.”