Prize hated this god forsaken box.
It's suffocating in here. It could hear children outside, running around, could hear the worker at the Prize Corner shuffling by. Tickets and coins and numbers, lots of numbers, quick math that Prize quietly echos in jingles and bells, the soft pop of a broken voicebox. It's agonizing, to hear but never speak. To know and never touch, never talk, never see.
It sits, crumbled in fabric and strings, knotting and unknotting the fabric shreds over and over and over. It lays upon a throne of discontinued prize items, hoarded away for safe keeping, and listens to the world outside.
It hated it's box. Better than the storage room, at least. Being locked away makes it's fabric crawl, porcelain shaking with rage. To lay abandoned, like a discarded toy-
-it was furious. Prize was always so fucking angry.
