Hey :)
This is my first story so comment and vote pleaaasie please.
Enjooooooooy.
Barbie.
I hate it here. It's stuffy and cramped and I've been standing on my feet for God knows how long. The shrill shrieks of the over excited children striding through the toys' section are driving me into hysterics. Won't they be quiet? I've stared aimlessly at the polished linoleum floor for what seems like an eternity. I've memorized every crack and crevice, every nook and cranny. The permanent grin on my shiny plastic face is making my cheeks ache in the most excruciating way. Yes, I'm smiling. But on the inside, my heart breaks. It kills me to watch the happy, care-free people wander through the store, most not even glancing twice at me. How I long, crave, yearn to be free like them, to be able to walk and run and jump and talk to people, instead of being confined to this box of torment. I want to experience the world, the world outside this box, like the other Barbie's do. I want to be bought.
I mean, it's not like I'm bad looking. I'm sporting a pink frilly number, lots of ruffles and ribbons, and it's nice and silky. Little girls like that, right? They must do, because almost all of the other Barbie's have been bought. There's only five of us left on this shelf, and I think I'm the prettiest, if I do say so myself. Well, we all look the same, but that's not the point. But then how come I still haven't been bought? I don't want to be the last doll on the shelf, that's just shameful. Or what if, oh I can't even bring myself to say it. W-what if I don't get bought? What if, they take me off the shelf, and throw me in the garbage, to make way for the new, hip Barbies? What if they put me in a closet, and I just sit there for centuries, growing dust? I have to leave this store, I have to get bought. It's always been my dream, right from when I left the factory, to live in one of those dream houses and marry a Ken doll. Oh, all day, I'd just stand here and get lost in my reverie; a young girl, telling her mother she wants me, taking me to her home, opening my box to reveal me in my silk clad beauty. She'd comb my hair with her tiny fingers, and tell me how gorgeous I am. She'd talk to me to me, and I'd listen. We'd be inseparable. After that, is my favourite part: the dream house. I haven't exactly seen one of them before, but I can imagine. It would be huge, three storeys, with a vast kitchen, and a beautiful living room where me and my Ken would sit and talk to each other about our day. There'd be four bedrooms, and eventually, once Ken and I have settled down, we might consider having kids. Oh, it would be amazing, and for just one moment, I feel happy and hopeful and -
Sigh. Then it sinks in. I'm still here, almost two years on, and nobody wants me. It's strange, when people think of Barbie dolls, they usually have an image of poise, confidence and glamour in their head. They think that just because we're pretty on outside, that means we don't ever feel self-conscious, don't ever worry. Well, they're wrong. It's not easy being me. I stand here every day on this pedestal, while people walk past and judge me at their whim. They don't know me. But they make assumptions about me based only on my physical appearance. The other day, a gaggle of teenage girls walked passed me. One of them glared at me and hissed one word - plastic. It hurt, it truly did. I am not plastic. Well, literally, I am but I'm not a plastic. A plastic is a narcissist, a shallow, egocentric creature who thinks of no-one but themself. That's not me, surely? Beneath my plastic shell is a timid introvert, hiding, trying to fit in, and I wish that people would learn that side of me before they assume I'm just a plastic. I may seem shallow at first, with all my chatter about Kens and dream houses, but a girl's allowed to dream, right? My dreams and aspirations alone can't make me a plastic.
I blame the media, with its stupid social stereotypes that make us Barbies come off as narcissistic airheads. If you look a particular way, then there's a label for you. If you like black, then you're a Goth. If you wear a hoodie then you're a thug. If you like pink, then you're a plastic. But what about the people beneath all the black, and the pink, and the hoodies? What about their personalities, thoughts, opinions? They just get ruled out, because they look a particular way? Well, I think that's stupid, and I don't want to be part of a society that belittles people who don't conform to what the majority think of as normal. Because who's normal, anyway?
Woo. I feel much better now. I've been holding in that anger for a really long time and it feels good to finally let it out. It's funny, how I'm beaming on the outside, but seething with rage on the inside. Shows how what you see isn't necessarily what you get. But anyway, I've got to keep positive. Maybe if I think positively, then someone will pick up on my positive thoughts and buy me. Gosh, that sounds really stupid. I must be getting desperate. Hey, a little girl's coming this way. About five years old with lengthy golden curls bouncing behind her cherubic face. Her sea green eyes are locked on my shelf. She raises her finger. Points towards me. Her mother nods and extends her arm in my direction. At last, my time has come.
Or not. As I stare at the mother's arm in severe anticipation, I realize it is not me she was reaching for. It's the Barbie to the left of me. She picks her up, gives her to her daughter, and they walk away while the daughter talks animatedly to the doll in her hand. That should have been me! I try hard to fight the tears, but realize that I don't even have tears. No matter what I'm feeling, my face will always be moulded into the same artificial smile, that doesn't reach my eyes. Sigh. Is it all really worth it? Is all this pain really worth it in the long run? Maybe I should just give up, put myself out of this misery. No one's ever going to pick me anyway. Maybe, just maybe, I can muster up enough force to knock myself off of the shelf. The shelf is quite high, so the force would probably shatter me into a thousand plastic shards. I think. I'm not exactly an expert on gravity, or whatever. Even if I don't die, maybe I could find some way to escape, and explore the world for myself. Anything is better than sitting on this rotten shelf.
So here I go. Deep breath. It's now or never, to quote a cliché. I say a silent prayer to myself as I nudge closer and closer to the edge. This could be the beginning of my future, or the end of what never was. Closer. Almost there. I can taste it. Now I just have to wait for gravity to do its job.
