Shit pit.

Yeah, that's right wanker, you heard me, it's a shit pit in here.

If only she could hear me, eh Larry?

God, do you remember Larry when we had that high, pristine shelf and all the passers by used to admire us? Back in the seventies that was or was it early eighties? Could've been either. We used to dream about who we'd picked by and wonder how much we'd be adored. Yeah, I suppose you could say we had that for a while, there, but you know, it goes by so fast and then were are we? Forgotten. Collecting dust. Having to look out at the shadows moving across The gap in the door. Eh, what's that Larry? Huh, yeah, you're right. If you can see it through all that muck. What else is there but memories of the good old days. She's barely here these days. No stories being read aloud, no warm glow of a night light, no more smothering embraces. All that promise she had, back then. She was such a lovely child, weren't she? Now what have we got? This grotty shelf in her cupboard so her callers can't see us. What don't she want to show? That she was once a child? That her childhood was a painful and precious memory? That she's as vulnerable as egg shell underneath all that slap and cheap, perfume.

I've had it up to here, Larry, with sitting behind this door listening to her being grunted over by someone different every night. I want the child that she still has inside, locked so deep she daren't delve there. What can we do to get her back, Larry, me old son?

Time up.
I've been using some online writer's prompts and tonight I used a random generator through Tumbler. But they throw up really obscure stuff - still it's a challenge I suppose.

Tonight's was: describe your bedroom thought the eyes of a stuffed toy.
The person is a persona, by the way.