I anguish over death because I have never lived fast. Doll-like: My agreement to an idle existence if no one found use for me. They tied bows around me. They put dresses on me. Each a better fit than the last though none fit well. The dollhouse was a purgatory where dreams burned. Ribbons wrapped tighter every day; I sat as they cut through my skin.
I met Faye around that time. She had coarse, dark brown hair she wore in braids tied with sheer pink bows. Most days she dressed in an airy lace camisole. If she wasn’t at school, she wore nightdresses and her precious necklaces. On top was a necklace passed down from her mother’s childhood. Others she got years ago with her grandmother — who recently passed — at an antique shop. Most striking was her rusty locket with a picture of Joan of Arc inside. She liked constellations and Camus. It didn’t matter how contrived my mind’s image of her became. Her mystique enamoured me. In third grade, my teacher gave the class a personal narrative assignment and in my story I wrote about a dream. In my story, my closed-eyed fantasy from my second story bedroom was my experience. In my dream, the footsteps of the dreams I left behind served as placeholders for experiences. There existed a dew-drenched area — the only existing area — filled with conflations of fantasies and truths. I fell asleep dreaming of movie stardom and woke up when the dreamscape character died. I was still alive. I floated through the hard wood floor. My blanket felt like a soft wave. I loved the beach. The sand in my toes and salt on my skin gave me the sharp exterior that I lacked.
An old man outside my window waited for the bus while staring gloomily at his cigarette. The earth's pull felt stronger. I somehow, through his dull eyes, saw myself. My phone buzzed, awakening me from my daze. Faye’s tender, gravelly, voice came through.
“Sorry ‘bout the loud music, let me turn it off,” she monotoned. Nancy Sinatra went silent and I heard every movement of her dried lips. We had exchanged numbers earlier that school day. “What do ya say, um, you meet me at my car after school tomorrow?” she asked tentatively.
“I’ll be there,” I crooned, trying to mask my excitement while keeping the saccharine demeanor I dressed myself in.
That evening I floated at sea and looked up. Gazing up into the ether was easier than drowning. I sat on top of my comforter instead of laying inside it. I didn’t want to choke. I lived through my dreams, the sun, and movies. I wanted to be in the company of someone else and to be a celestial princess and on Sunset Boulevard all at once. Time slipped away from my grip. The rope was rougher than I had remembered. I had awoken from my reverie. Parties, split ends, and the wilting plant I neglected performed a badly choreographed dance in front of me. The ribbons wrapped around me. They grew tighter. I sat alone and tried to free myself. The fibers started to fray.
Faye hadn’t told me where we were going. She cruised along a backroad while ‘Transformer’, the Lou Reed classic, blared over the worn out speakers of her dad’s old Ford. I felt like I’d taken this route in a dream. Maybe the car’s smell of her mother’s cigarettes made me feel this way. The wind through the window knotted my dry hair.
Carsick.
*****
She parked the car in front of an expansive grass field. An abandoned cottage stood in the foreground.
“A woman called Julia used to live here,” Faye muttered in a drawn out reflection. “She made dresses for people and taught me too, on my grandma’s old Singer. Julia never had to take measurements, one look and she had what she needed.”
“That’s beautiful,” I mumbled, not listening attentively.
“What if I make you a dress for your seventeenth?” Faye pondered.
“Oh I’d love that,” I lied. I hated birthdays! Dresses never fit me elegantly. But I felt warmth towards Faye, I thought, laying down in the prickly grass and scanning the sky. Nightfall fell suddenly. The stars shone, but I didn't dare sleep. The darkness could swallow me.
Half-asleep dreams of glamor and beauty consumed me on the way home. I tried to visualize the dress. The image I patched together fed a new fantasy.
THREE MONTHS LATER
I stared at my distorted reflection in the glass, pale, like a full moon. The doorbell rang, followed by urgent knocking. I tiptoed downstairs to avoid detection. A tall silhouette shone through the translucent glass pane. Faye. As soon as I opened the door she triumphantly displayed the dress up in front of her face.
She lowered it as she gestured “For you” with a subtly sorrowful expression. Her smile looked as if it was stretched by safety pins. I felt my eyes getting glossy. There were no tears. The dress was A-line with a puffed off-the-shoulder cut. I took the fabric in my hands and up to my face. It was soft but not flimsy. It smelled of leathery perfume.
“Go ahead, try it on,” she motioned, seemingly more content. I invited her inside before I went upstairs to put on the dress. She stayed there awkwardly by the record player.
I felt my skin touching the bodice fabric on all sides. The zipper laid against my back. The skirt tapered at a faint angle along my waist. The lace trim at the bottom sat right above my ankles. If Faye was the artist, I felt like the muse.
I crept down the stairs. The light hit Faye at an angle I’d never seen. Her eyes glittered for a moment in a sentimental haze.
“Oh you look like a doll. A doll in a dollhouse,” she marveled. The years of connectedness flickered before my eyes.
I met Faye around that time. She had coarse, dark brown hair she wore in braids tied with sheer pink bows. Most days she dressed in an airy lace camisole. If she wasn’t at school, she wore nightdresses and her precious necklaces. On top was a necklace passed down from her mother’s childhood. Others she got years ago with her grandmother — who recently passed — at an antique shop. Most striking was her rusty locket with a picture of Joan of Arc inside. She liked constellations and Camus. It didn’t matter how contrived my mind’s image of her became. Her mystique enamoured me. In third grade, my teacher gave the class a personal narrative assignment and in my story I wrote about a dream. In my story, my closed-eyed fantasy from my second story bedroom was my experience. In my dream, the footsteps of the dreams I left behind served as placeholders for experiences. There existed a dew-drenched area — the only existing area — filled with conflations of fantasies and truths. I fell asleep dreaming of movie stardom and woke up when the dreamscape character died. I was still alive. I floated through the hard wood floor. My blanket felt like a soft wave. I loved the beach. The sand in my toes and salt on my skin gave me the sharp exterior that I lacked.
An old man outside my window waited for the bus while staring gloomily at his cigarette. The earth's pull felt stronger. I somehow, through his dull eyes, saw myself. My phone buzzed, awakening me from my daze. Faye’s tender, gravelly, voice came through.
“Sorry ‘bout the loud music, let me turn it off,” she monotoned. Nancy Sinatra went silent and I heard every movement of her dried lips. We had exchanged numbers earlier that school day. “What do ya say, um, you meet me at my car after school tomorrow?” she asked tentatively.
“I’ll be there,” I crooned, trying to mask my excitement while keeping the saccharine demeanor I dressed myself in.
That evening I floated at sea and looked up. Gazing up into the ether was easier than drowning. I sat on top of my comforter instead of laying inside it. I didn’t want to choke. I lived through my dreams, the sun, and movies. I wanted to be in the company of someone else and to be a celestial princess and on Sunset Boulevard all at once. Time slipped away from my grip. The rope was rougher than I had remembered. I had awoken from my reverie. Parties, split ends, and the wilting plant I neglected performed a badly choreographed dance in front of me. The ribbons wrapped around me. They grew tighter. I sat alone and tried to free myself. The fibers started to fray.
Faye hadn’t told me where we were going. She cruised along a backroad while ‘Transformer’, the Lou Reed classic, blared over the worn out speakers of her dad’s old Ford. I felt like I’d taken this route in a dream. Maybe the car’s smell of her mother’s cigarettes made me feel this way. The wind through the window knotted my dry hair.
Carsick.
*****
She parked the car in front of an expansive grass field. An abandoned cottage stood in the foreground.
“A woman called Julia used to live here,” Faye muttered in a drawn out reflection. “She made dresses for people and taught me too, on my grandma’s old Singer. Julia never had to take measurements, one look and she had what she needed.”
“That’s beautiful,” I mumbled, not listening attentively.
“What if I make you a dress for your seventeenth?” Faye pondered.
“Oh I’d love that,” I lied. I hated birthdays! Dresses never fit me elegantly. But I felt warmth towards Faye, I thought, laying down in the prickly grass and scanning the sky. Nightfall fell suddenly. The stars shone, but I didn't dare sleep. The darkness could swallow me.
Half-asleep dreams of glamor and beauty consumed me on the way home. I tried to visualize the dress. The image I patched together fed a new fantasy.
THREE MONTHS LATER
I stared at my distorted reflection in the glass, pale, like a full moon. The doorbell rang, followed by urgent knocking. I tiptoed downstairs to avoid detection. A tall silhouette shone through the translucent glass pane. Faye. As soon as I opened the door she triumphantly displayed the dress up in front of her face.
She lowered it as she gestured “For you” with a subtly sorrowful expression. Her smile looked as if it was stretched by safety pins. I felt my eyes getting glossy. There were no tears. The dress was A-line with a puffed off-the-shoulder cut. I took the fabric in my hands and up to my face. It was soft but not flimsy. It smelled of leathery perfume.
“Go ahead, try it on,” she motioned, seemingly more content. I invited her inside before I went upstairs to put on the dress. She stayed there awkwardly by the record player.
I felt my skin touching the bodice fabric on all sides. The zipper laid against my back. The skirt tapered at a faint angle along my waist. The lace trim at the bottom sat right above my ankles. If Faye was the artist, I felt like the muse.
I crept down the stairs. The light hit Faye at an angle I’d never seen. Her eyes glittered for a moment in a sentimental haze.
“Oh you look like a doll. A doll in a dollhouse,” she marveled. The years of connectedness flickered before my eyes.