Day 65 – I Don’t Know What to Call This

Word count: 650

Rain. Black clouds above pregnant with a brooding, heavy storm. The street ahead: umbrellas, splashing puddles, exposed pedestrians running between cover before their clothes would become sodden. Every building was painted with a dull grey that darkened the mood of the soul. The trees were sad to see the world turn so wet and dreary; their leaves were drooping towards the pavement below and shed tear after tear.

The crowd on the urban shopping street moved as cogs in a giant machine. Every person that brushed passed another; of strangers briefly locking eyes; of the meanderers and wanderers; of the quick-footed souls dodging and dancing around their idle enemies as headed with great purpose to somewhere beyond the machine. The shops fuelled the machine with their seductive items and their alluring models, so perfected and trimmed of humanity. The machine would never stop; it could never stop. It needed to move and to keep moving. Though the parts may be upgraded and the fuel replaced, the machine could never just cease.

One such cog in the machine had stopped to sit on a wet bench on the park-side of the square. The tears from the trees dripped on to her head, though she did not notice nor care. Her arms were folded in a curious way. They were not standing off to the world; they were not raging at some one in particular; they were not hanging in sadness and they now shivering in the cold. They were just folded as she thought; the saddest expression carved on her face.

She was like a waxwork. Not a smile on her face and the soul beneath those eyes were as ice cold as the sky high up above. She had pretty features. Crystal blue eyes and high cheekbones. She was thin. She might have been made of porcelain. But she was the saddest doll there was.

A black cab swept by and tidal wave overflowed onto the pavement and washed up underneath her bare feet. They were muddy and scattered with scars. Her toenails were painted – a brilliant shade of blue. The jeans she wore were soaked through at the bottom. The girl appeared to have been walking for many miles before taking residence upon the waterlogged bench.

People walked by her but all failed to notice the orb of sadness that was encompassing her. They did not look down and they did not see her bare and broken feet. They did not see her wooden expression of despair and they did not see they curious fashion in which she was holding her arms. Neither did they notice the small patch of blood bleeding through the inside of her jeans. As it reached the ankle, it dripped into the ocean at her feet and was swallowed by the world. No one noticed her at all. She was the invisible doll, an ornament of decoration. No one particularly cared that she was there at all; no one would ever make objection to her sad sentinel and no one would take heed of her silent tears that could so easily just be rain dripping from the stormy skies above.

Further still, the transient world would have never have looked beyond those folded arms. They would have never seen the crooked way her arms inflected each other and they would never have looked just inches below to see the smallest of bumps of a tummy on a girl that was too thin to describe. But if any one of the cogs had looked away from their destination point; had swivelled a sideways glance and paused mid conversation or had thought to sit and stop and sit beside a broken china doll on a bench in the inner city shopping district upon a rainy Sunday afternoon, they might have noticed that the curious way the porcelain girl cradled absolutely nothing in her arms.

~ by S.G. Mark on December 11, 2011.

One Response to “Day 65 – I Don’t Know What to Call This”

  1. That was brutal and sad.

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