There is a room
A dark, musty room
In which nobody enters
This room
Is in my head
And in my head,
In this room,
A rag doll sits
She is made of scratchy wool
And strong thread
She is alone, immobile
No emotions
No logic
No time
She just
Sits
One day
A man comes in
And clips a thread from
Her stitching
She doesn’t make a sound
But to watch him
With empty button eyes
He smiles,
In no real way just
Smiles and walks away with the thread
Tucked into his back pocket
With each step, he tugs
More thread from
The ragdoll
She does nothing
The farther away he goes,
The more she unravels
Those things that are missing come to her
Anger, loss, pain
On the man walks
Though he never looks back
Never asks himself
Why
Because he
Doesn’t need to
When the thread
Is almost gone
The only thing left of the
Ragdoll, are the button eyes
No longer empty and lifeless,
But crazed and
Angry
As the last
Of the thread pulls through the holes she asks
“Why?”
The man finally looks back
And just
Smiles.
About the Creator
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A Few Moments More
You’ll give it one more minute, and then you’re headed back inside. It’s pretty chilly out, after all. Not that that’s a real issue - you’ve stood out here for longer, and in colder weather. The snow is nearly gone already; tiny, dirt-stained islands of the stuff form a shrinking archipelago dotting the sea of green that is your backyard. Striations of sunlight dance through the trees at the edge of the woods and paint the scene in a camouflage of brown, green, and gold.
By Gabriel Huizenga4 days ago in Fiction
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