Still

A still doll begs for someone to hear her.

High up on a shelf

she looks down.

Skin fair and porcelain smooth;

lips red and robust;

hair dark and curling.

A layer of dust

covered her beauty

in shadow.

She could not move,

could not speak.

 

I am still here.

I am still here,

she thinks.

Steps pound on

the wooden floor.

She does not

turn her head.

A young woman

enters her line of sight,

looking around.

She recognizes the

woman’s face as

the little girl

who once loved her.

 

Can you hear me?

she thinks.

Can you hear me?

The woman glanced

around and said,

“This place is a dump.

I don’t see anything

worth taking.”

She watched the woman,

trying to raise her hand,

trying to speak.

Still she sits.

 

And, by chance,

the woman glanced up.

She reached up a

hand and plucked

her off the shelf.

“I remember this doll,”

the woman spat hatefully.

The doll wanted to smile

at the words as bitter

as they were.

The woman threw

the doll to the floor

and stomped from the room.

 

Am I more?

her thoughts echo.

Am I more?

Am I more than just

a bitter remembrance?

The doll falls

to the ground,

shattering.

Her glass eyes

are helpless to watch

as the woman trashes

her old home

for something of value.

 

I am still here.

Still a doll,

and if only

she knew of

her anger.

Can you hear me?

Still and slow,

her eyes do not move;

she cannot feel.

Poor, pretty doll.

Still to shatter

an empty heart.

Still to soften

blank eyes.

Still she does not see her.

 

Can you hear me?

the doll asks.

Still you do not answer.

Author's Note

Inspired by Kanon Wakeshima's "Still Doll."
For a while now, I've been quite fascinated by dolls. They are so still and silent. If they were to be animate, surely they would be the loneliest beings in the world.

Reviews

[quinfinn]

this is truly touching and original. you give the doll the life it craves with your beautifully written words. very, very sweet and sad. masterful write!