FICTION: I don't love my dolls anymore by Jude C. Perera

Anjela; Jeanie and Roberta look dumb; they’ve never looked dumber. They were the pick of the lot. I had kept them, souvenirs from the past. They were my babies; I had bawled my tearless eyes out to own them; I can still remember. They had never left my bedside; but now the plastic is obvious; their dark eyes glassy and vacant; cheap stuff. I can’t believe that I fell for their hokey glamour and pretend sincerity once.

I’ve had endless conversations with these three. I am on the brink of wanting to have one now. My tears have drenched them; the plastic cuts through my chest as I cuddle all three. It feels good though and the shame that had bristled earlier had thankfully chickened out.

If only Dad was here, I wonder what he looks like. He had decamped after generously fulfilling his half of the biological contract. Here I am marooned in my room again, I have precious little time to brace for the onslaught of dusk. The three beauties are still hopelessly trapped in my remorseless clutch. It’s like losing a friend; seeing the last slivers of orange, pink, and red stage their daily swansong. Hopefully shutting the window might blot out the ordeal.

The crunch of gravel; the rough squeal of the brakes; he’s back. My nerves are on strike again; they labor as my ears strain for the front door. My heart’s running an ugly race. His steps are soft, gagged by Mom’s sloppy shuffle. I can see the shadows pass through the slit of my closed doorway, and I hope my sweat is non-toxic. I have learnt to celebrate every second of peace, but there are billions of seconds left; to occupy before those orange and red slivers make their vengeful comeback. And peace has been a notorious ally. If only I could sleep some of it away and survive the rest. But sleep had obviously spurned my overtures. I might still get away with it if I can ignore the doorknob. It’s hard too when you are straining to catch all the subtle noises from beyond the door, particularly footsteps that are gingerly negotiated.

Anjela; Jeanie and Roberta stare back empty; the plastic cuts through my chest again. But they have lost my trust, forever. The doorknob hasn’t budged, old habits die-hard. Every sound is a footstep; I can hear them still, even through the two pillows that have sandwiched my ears. My cheeks are wet and dawn is still a distant promise. The pillows don’t feel safe at all. Mummy could have helped, but our rooms are worlds apart. I so badly want to tell her that I don’t love my dolls anymore.

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Slim shafts of light play comfortingly on my face, they have exploited the chinks in the blinds. The sun is begging admission and the night is now a distant threat.



Author - Jude C. Perera

Other publising credits

My Mom - Hackwriters

My Niece - Hackwriters

Redemption - The Fringe Magazine