Dolls - S. G. Ricketts (top 100 novels of all time TXT) 📗

The little girl sits in the corner, party dress on, doll in her lap. Her green eyes stare, glassy and vacant. The doll's eyes catch the candle light, seeming more alive than the girl. Ribbons and bows spill off the dress, pink against the lightness of her skin. She sits, back straight against the chair, waiting but not watching. People buzz around her, flies to the carrion called life. One small hand strokes the golden hair, one little finger rubs against the skirt. No one sees her. No one cares.

She is invisible. The tiara on her head and the name on the cake say it's her birthday, but she is invisible. No one sees her, sitting there in the candlelight, glassy-eyed and still. In the background, she can hear her aunt's shrill laughter, hated woman that she is. Her brow wrinkles slightly at the noise. Because of her aunt, she is in this poofy masterpiece of chiffon and lace. Her sleek grown-up girl dress hangs forgotten in her closet, green silk cast away for "something more suitable." She blinks. Someone trips over her shoe, catches himself before he spills his drink, and continues on his way. She watches him, blank.

Adults swarm the floor, faces sweaty and flushed. They are all dressed in their finest, tuxes and gowns, diamonds and cologne. It's overwhelming, all the smells. The lights in the chandelier cast shadows across the faces, hollowing out eyes and sallowing skin. Her empty gaze drifts across the multitude. They are all dead, she knows. Dead inside. Here a woman laughs, an echo of her aunt's empty mocking tone. There, a man flirts with a woman he clearly doesn't want. They are fake, every one of them. She hates them. There isn't a child in the room. Her mother's idea, the guests. "You do not have a birthday of class with miscreants. You must celebrate with style." A finger traces circles on a porcelain leg.

Abruptly, she stands. The fabric falls with a soft sh-shh, the back wrinkled from the chair. The doll hangs limply at her side. No one looks at her. No one stops their mindless chatter. Dead, all of them. Eyes only for the masks they all wear. Her aunt and mother brush past her, hardly giving her a glance. She watches them as they walk, heads flung backwards with a laugh, hands grasping desperate to their champagne.


The party was done. The mother picked up a soiled napkin, wrinkled her nose, and flung it away. "Where is Marie? She made this mess. She needs to help clean it up." The aunt nods and searches the room. Patrons hover at the doors and caterers clatter in the kitchen, but there is no little shadow.


The green dress is a breath against her skin. She counts the bumps on the ceiling. One-thousand fifty-two, one-thousand fifty-three... The doll lays at her side, golden hair splayed across the bed spread. This was all she had wanted. Her dress. Her day. She hopes they never remembered.

Publication Date: 03-06-2011

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