- Vol. 05
- Chapter 02
It’s faraway, this freedom
I halfway see the end of every day, when sudden, empty of the throngs that busy criss-crossed through the selling hours the aisles lay, quiet as dawn roads. Beyond the doors, I halfway see the people leave, swing open, swing shut, one gone, three gone, ten gone, all gone. I halfway see this freedom they have to come and go, wander through gaudy islands of hanging gowns,
waiting to be made bulbous by body and breath. I halfway see them, judging necklines, plucking buttons, sighing at lace. Some laugh. Some stare ahead. Some shout. Buy little, or lots. None of them sense how much I am wishing to wave. I have skin like the shell of an egg – chalky, a little nubby to touch. Crackable. Unlike the egg I am empty – there is no promise within.
Just hollowed gloom. I halfway see for my eyes are only different shades of paint – they must store what they can in the corners of my sinkhole mind. I will never know what lives beyond the other side of my head. I would ask but my throat holds no sound – I have no lungs, no flexible mouth. No heart to break, no veins, no blood. I would filthy my colour with tears
if only I had been blessed with ducts. When the last person leaves and moonlight mildly seeps across the marbled floor, when electric adds its relentless fuzz to the stilled night – when the air sings with a mannequin’s silent prayer I will remain, face forever tilted, chin fixed firm beneath my plastic pout. Tomorrow, someone will change my dress. When it's done, I will still feel the sweat from their hands.