Once a Solid Doll
Copyright © 2009 by Heather Payer-Smith
The smell of burnt plastic wafted through the night air. Blackened curls of residue spiraled out of the ruby embers as flames burst forth from the small doll now sentenced to dissolve in the oblivion of the fire. The coy, indifferent eyes became glassy as fire licked at the once rosy cheeks, now ashy and warped.
Meredith stared, eying the flowing locks of golden hair as they recoiled and withered under the heat. Her over-sized tongue prodded her lips like a hungry bat lapping fresh blood. Her eyes became glassy, mirroring the blank expression of the doll.
Its perfectly molded face contracted and shrank within itself. The emerald eyes, already barren of their lush lashes, rolled to one side before falling into the crevices that were once eye sockets.
A tune formed in Meredith’s head, melodically corresponding with the cracks and pops of the fire. It wasn’t until she closed her eyes to relieve them from the sting of the smoke that she realized she was humming the tune out loud.
She stopped suddenly, and looked around feeling as if someone were watching her; watching her burn, watching her scream and melt away. But it wasn’t her screaming.
The plastic wailed and sizzled in the heat. The high-pitched cry echoed in Meredith’s ears. Flinching, she poked at the melting heap, forcing her skewer deep into the flesh of her precious doll.
“I did it,” she whispered, though she couldn’t hear her own voice. “It’s over.”
Meredith watched the fire dwindle around the black glob until the night air blew a chill breeze over her shoulders, causing her to shudder violently.
She kicked dirt over the pit to subdue the fire, fearing it might reach out and drag her into the makeshift crematorium where she would become part of the black glob.
“It’s better this way.”
Her knees popped as she knelt down to give one final thought, one final regret, to her little pile of amorphous plastic still smoking in the coals.
Her head felt light as she stood, straining in the moonlight to see the path that led her back to the house. Her eyes filled with orange and yellow blotches. She buried her fists into her sockets, rubbing fiercely to adjust to the cold, dark night.
Stumbling over roots and sinkholes, Meredith strolled barefoot along the worn pathway. Her big toe connected unkindly with a surfacing rock, leaving a noticeable gash in her skin; but she didn’t stop to look. She was used to pain.
Dirt gathered in the oozing blood, quickening the clotting of her wound. It was sure to get infected, but Meredith didn’t care. She had ugly feet anyway. Imagining that some rotting disease would grow and fester in her toes, she laughed, wondering if anyone would ever notice or care if they fell off.
She wrapped her stubby fingers around her foot and held it securely behind her so that she had to hop down the path. Blood and dirt smeared on her skirt, right below her butt, leaving signs of stains soon to come.
Another rock coupled with the twisted leg of a root latched onto Meredith’s hopping foot, pulling her down to the ground like a dead branch giving way to a strong wind. Slow to react to the inevitable pull of gravity, she held tight to her foot, leaving her knee to catch the majority of her weight. It popped louder than usual sending a sharp sensation of stabbing needles up her thigh.
Her throat tightened and she felt a wave of nausea consume her, but she resisted the urge to vomit. Choking back acid and apple pie, Meredith rolled onto her back, cradling her knee to her chest. She didn’t cry. Her lip trembled and her nose ran, but she didn’t cry.
“Crying is for babies,” she chastised. “I’m not a baby.”
Dirt gritted in her teeth.
“I want a drink of water.”
She rocked from side to side until the weight of her own heavy legs rolled her over. She hobbled to her feet. The pain dulled to a numbing throb, but each step she took left a resounding POP echoing along the path.
Meredith walked habitually in rhythm with the POPS, stopping every now and then to add a dramatic pause to the symphony of agony she created in her head. The creak of her joints, with the throbbing and popping of her knees set the bass tone. The swish of her hands against her skirt and the soft patting of her feet along the dirt path held the melody, while high chirps escaping her throat when she stepped a little too hard on her right leg gave a sweet harmony she could not resist dancing to.
She twirled and tumbled toward the glimmering light of the house in the distance, carefree, like a pixie in a field of forget-me-nots.
Meredith was free. That was her plan. She wasn’t a plastic doll. Her ratty brown hair was her own, her thick ankles supported her ambiguous torso and her clumsy arms were free to grope and flail as she saw fit.
“I don’t have to be pretty,” she sang to her orchestra. “I don’t have to have long, blond hair, and I don’t have to be perfect like a doll.”
The pain in her leg was all but gone as she leapt over holes and dodged roots.
“I don’t have to look smart, or pretty or neat…” she stopped in her song long enough to become aware of herself once again. The stinging in her toe, the throbbing in her leg, the aching in her joints all taunted her, as though the pain was laughing at her naivety.
“…and I don’t have to have pretty feet!” she concluded, grabbing her ankle once again so that she was forced to hop down the path. Her balance gave way, but she caught herself before she fell again.
Her song silenced as she continued toward the lights, though every now and then a grunt or heavy sigh gave away that she was still the maestro of her physical orchestra, performing her best to a non-existing audience. The world was deaf to her music. No one could ever understand it.
Panting, Meredith clomped up the steps of the front porch. The boards, splintered and worn, groaned and creaked under Meredith’s clumsy weight.
“Meredith! Don’t walk so heavy, dearest.”
Meredith stood sullen in the doorway. A tall, slender woman glided into the kitchen. Her blue eyes looked at Meredith with dismay.
“Meredith, darling, you look a mess! You have not been very lady-like, have you?”
Meredith’s droopy, almond eyes studied the floor. She curled her toes hoping her mother wouldn’t notice the blood. She prodded her lips with her tongue.
The woman lowered to one knee to inspect her daughter. “You’ve hurt yourself, again, haven’t you?” She put her hands over Meredith’s square cheeks and wiped the mucus from her broad, flat nose. “And you’ve lost your doll again!”
Meredith looked at the door frame and scratched her head. Her eyes wandered to a spider building a web in the corner. She smiled.
“Don’t worry, my little angel, I’ll get you another one to play with. You know how much you love your dolls. They are so pretty, just like you,” her mother cooed.
Meredith nodded her head as she looked absently at her mother. Her eyes were always absent.
“That’s a good girl. Let’s get you cleaned up. I’ll curl your hair, just like your dolly’s.”
Her mother took Meredith by the hand and led her inside. Meredith’s knee popped, but she didn’t feel like singing anymore.
The smell of burnt plastic wafted through the night air. Blackened curls of residue spiraled out of the ruby embers as flames burst forth from the small doll now sentenced to dissolve in the oblivion of the fire. The coy, indifferent eyes became glassy as fire licked at the once rosy cheeks, now ashy and warped.
Meredith stared, eying the flowing locks of golden hair as they recoiled and withered under the heat. Her over-sized tongue prodded her lips like a hungry bat lapping fresh blood. Her eyes became glassy, mirroring the blank expression of the doll.
Its perfectly molded face contracted and shrank within itself. The emerald eyes, already barren of their lush lashes, rolled to one side before falling into the crevices that were once eye sockets.
A tune formed in Meredith’s head, melodically corresponding with the cracks and pops of the fire. It wasn’t until she closed her eyes to relieve them from the sting of the smoke that she realized she was humming the tune out loud.
She stopped suddenly, and looked around feeling as if someone were watching her; watching her burn, watching her scream and melt away. But it wasn’t her screaming.
The plastic wailed and sizzled in the heat. The high-pitched cry echoed in Meredith’s ears. Flinching, she poked at the melting heap, forcing her skewer deep into the flesh of her precious doll.
“I did it,” she whispered, though she couldn’t hear her own voice. “It’s over.”
Meredith watched the fire dwindle around the black glob until the night air blew a chill breeze over her shoulders, causing her to shudder violently.
She kicked dirt over the pit to subdue the fire, fearing it might reach out and drag her into the makeshift crematorium where she would become part of the black glob.
“It’s better this way.”
Her knees popped as she knelt down to give one final thought, one final regret, to her little pile of amorphous plastic still smoking in the coals.
Her head felt light as she stood, straining in the moonlight to see the path that led her back to the house. Her eyes filled with orange and yellow blotches. She buried her fists into her sockets, rubbing fiercely to adjust to the cold, dark night.
Stumbling over roots and sinkholes, Meredith strolled barefoot along the worn pathway. Her big toe connected unkindly with a surfacing rock, leaving a noticeable gash in her skin; but she didn’t stop to look. She was used to pain.
Dirt gathered in the oozing blood, quickening the clotting of her wound. It was sure to get infected, but Meredith didn’t care. She had ugly feet anyway. Imagining that some rotting disease would grow and fester in her toes, she laughed, wondering if anyone would ever notice or care if they fell off.
She wrapped her stubby fingers around her foot and held it securely behind her so that she had to hop down the path. Blood and dirt smeared on her skirt, right below her butt, leaving signs of stains soon to come.
Another rock coupled with the twisted leg of a root latched onto Meredith’s hopping foot, pulling her down to the ground like a dead branch giving way to a strong wind. Slow to react to the inevitable pull of gravity, she held tight to her foot, leaving her knee to catch the majority of her weight. It popped louder than usual sending a sharp sensation of stabbing needles up her thigh.
Her throat tightened and she felt a wave of nausea consume her, but she resisted the urge to vomit. Choking back acid and apple pie, Meredith rolled onto her back, cradling her knee to her chest. She didn’t cry. Her lip trembled and her nose ran, but she didn’t cry.
“Crying is for babies,” she chastised. “I’m not a baby.”
Dirt gritted in her teeth.
“I want a drink of water.”
She rocked from side to side until the weight of her own heavy legs rolled her over. She hobbled to her feet. The pain dulled to a numbing throb, but each step she took left a resounding POP echoing along the path.
Meredith walked habitually in rhythm with the POPS, stopping every now and then to add a dramatic pause to the symphony of agony she created in her head. The creak of her joints, with the throbbing and popping of her knees set the bass tone. The swish of her hands against her skirt and the soft patting of her feet along the dirt path held the melody, while high chirps escaping her throat when she stepped a little too hard on her right leg gave a sweet harmony she could not resist dancing to.
She twirled and tumbled toward the glimmering light of the house in the distance, carefree, like a pixie in a field of forget-me-nots.
Meredith was free. That was her plan. She wasn’t a plastic doll. Her ratty brown hair was her own, her thick ankles supported her ambiguous torso and her clumsy arms were free to grope and flail as she saw fit.
“I don’t have to be pretty,” she sang to her orchestra. “I don’t have to have long, blond hair, and I don’t have to be perfect like a doll.”
The pain in her leg was all but gone as she leapt over holes and dodged roots.
“I don’t have to look smart, or pretty or neat…” she stopped in her song long enough to become aware of herself once again. The stinging in her toe, the throbbing in her leg, the aching in her joints all taunted her, as though the pain was laughing at her naivety.
“…and I don’t have to have pretty feet!” she concluded, grabbing her ankle once again so that she was forced to hop down the path. Her balance gave way, but she caught herself before she fell again.
Her song silenced as she continued toward the lights, though every now and then a grunt or heavy sigh gave away that she was still the maestro of her physical orchestra, performing her best to a non-existing audience. The world was deaf to her music. No one could ever understand it.
Panting, Meredith clomped up the steps of the front porch. The boards, splintered and worn, groaned and creaked under Meredith’s clumsy weight.
“Meredith! Don’t walk so heavy, dearest.”
Meredith stood sullen in the doorway. A tall, slender woman glided into the kitchen. Her blue eyes looked at Meredith with dismay.
“Meredith, darling, you look a mess! You have not been very lady-like, have you?”
Meredith’s droopy, almond eyes studied the floor. She curled her toes hoping her mother wouldn’t notice the blood. She prodded her lips with her tongue.
The woman lowered to one knee to inspect her daughter. “You’ve hurt yourself, again, haven’t you?” She put her hands over Meredith’s square cheeks and wiped the mucus from her broad, flat nose. “And you’ve lost your doll again!”
Meredith looked at the door frame and scratched her head. Her eyes wandered to a spider building a web in the corner. She smiled.
“Don’t worry, my little angel, I’ll get you another one to play with. You know how much you love your dolls. They are so pretty, just like you,” her mother cooed.
Meredith nodded her head as she looked absently at her mother. Her eyes were always absent.
“That’s a good girl. Let’s get you cleaned up. I’ll curl your hair, just like your dolly’s.”
Her mother took Meredith by the hand and led her inside. Meredith’s knee popped, but she didn’t feel like singing anymore.
