It happens every so often. My dreams start off like this; I'm wearing my favourite black dress, but no shoes. I'm paralyzed and afraid, unable to do anything about the darkness swallowing me whole. Suddenly, a sliver of light shines through the ajar door, emphasizing the presence of my small figure in the corner of the room.
The light is very faint, but is enough to see that I am a porcelain doll. My pitch black hair is untamed and falls just above my shoulders, framing my moon-like face. I have skin the colour of milk-tea and almond shaped eyes that are home to dull brown irises. My lips have a baby-pink tinge to them and my cheeks have gloss over them, representing the tears I've shed.
I call for help, but to no avail; being a doll has inevitably rendered me mute. I rest my head against the wall behind me, slightly tilting it to one side. It's all I can do, really. Limply my arms hang by my sides, palms facing up, revealing the deep red marker on my wrists. What looks like blood, but is actually paint, pools around each of my hands, giving the impression that I've bled to death.
Just beneath the hem of my dress, scars can also be seen. They are light scratches, etched into the pale surfaces of both my thighs. They remind me of the vandalism on the windows at my School. They aren't very deep, and were probably done by using the box cutter sitting less than a couple of inches away from me. Also, a box of matches accompany it, and the word "FORGOTTEN" has been shakily burnt into the calf of my left leg.
Whispers and murmurs from the other side of the door start to fill my ears. The incomprehensible words bury themselves in my mind as morse code. I long to be apart of their conversations. But no, I am not wanted. The light goes out, and I am again left in the darkness.
This is how I feel every now and then; I am a doll and my friends are my owners. I feel like I've been tossed to the side because they've lost interest in me.
Dolls just sit there looking pretty, unable to do anything about being abandoned by those they thought cared for them the most. But I am not pretty. I am tattered and worn from being used by them. I am unable to say anything about being left. All I can do is wait, and probably for nothing.
I sit in the shadows, where my inner demons are free to prowl, thriving on my self pity and depression. I can't escape. I've become as fragile as the porcelain-me that haunts my dreams. There is no such thing as miracles. This is a cruel world we live in. A world where my own friends hate me, and have left me to fade away in the shadows.
Sadly, I've become what I've always feared the most; forgotten.
