Patchwork People

The little people sitting on top of Emma's white, wooden bedside table were always smiling from ear to ear. Their tiny black plastic button eyes gleamed under the early rays of sunset that crept into the dark corners of her bedroom through the small gaps in between the curtains. The pastiche bodies were multi-colored rags and socks stitched together with brightly-colored thread and stuffed with straw and cotton. The wide, crooked smiles that were sown with black thread on their flaxen straw-filled heads were jagged and oddly uneven, but these smiles never failed to make the desolate soul Emma owned happy.

Emma wasn't exactly 'normal'. Oftentimes she'd run into her room and throw herself onto bed, her fingers digging into the sheets as she cried. When this happened, they always hopped off their posts on her bedside to gently pat her back and tell her everything would be alright. They then told her tales about mystic beasts and dragons and fairies and things that couldn't even exist in Emma's imagination to make her feel better. They danced around in her room and sang as she gladly joined in. These patchwork people always made her laugh. They share the little happiness they had in their smiles with her. With them, she experienced a kind of bliss that no human being could offer her.

She brought her little friends down to the kitchen to have breakfast with her one Saturday morning. Downstairs, the pungent smell of her mother's morning coffee hung low in the air, suspended in its own cloud of ambrosia. She sat at the table, offered them her pancakes and told them that the toast was delicious, but they kindly refused her invitation every time she did. She understood, anyway. The little people couldn't eat as they couldn't open their tightly-stitched mouths. As she spoke to friends, she couldn't help but notice her mother's worried expression as she watched her daughter's actions.

She had noticed how old her mother had looked. The fine lines on her forehead became more defined and her eyes had become dark and sullen over the past few weeks. She asked her mother if there was anything that bothered her, to which the latter responded by briefly shaking her head and looking down at her plate.

"Actually, I'm taking you somewhere today," her mother's eyes landed upon her face as she was taken aback by her mother's tone. There was the slightest hint of venom injected in her mom's voice, like she was keeping something from her. "Where?" she asked effetely, careful not to ignite her mother's temper and push her further into the edge.

"You'll find out when we get there."

That was all her mother said before she slowly pushed herself away from the dining table and rose up from her seat to leave. She looked down at her little friends. Even with their make-believe grins, they looked so solemnly melancholic. "I'm scared," she whispered as they all looked down at their tiny woven legs. They told her she was going to be fine and that her mother was probably going to take her to a nice place, like a park for example.

At half past ten, Emma's mother called for her to come downstairs as the young girl hurriedly pulled over a light green cotton sweater and hastily tugged at the sleeves. She bade her little friends goodbye as they waved their little woven hands at her. She smiled at them and told them she was going to be back soon as they smiled back-or at least it seemed like they were smiling, judging by the permanent jagged grins on their faces.

She ran downstairs and into the driveway, where her mother's old car was parked, and quickly got into the vehicle. She asked her mother about their destination once more as the middle-aged woman simply frowned and responded with another 'you'll find out when we get there.'

Aside from the extremely irritating sound of the car's loud engine grating against the girl's ears, the entire ride was extremely slow and quiet. The fact that her mother refused to tell her where she was taking her agitated her even more. As her mother silently switched lanes and turned into little cul-de-sacs, she dug for the dirt underneath her fingernails with her right thumb and thought about her friends once again. Oh, how lucky she was to have friends like the little patchwork people in her house-friends who understood, friends who never mocked you or lied to you.