Mannequin

Daylight breaks my nighttime window shattering pieces of dark across the floor. It slips over the sill one leg at a time. This home invasion is the same every day and the thief only robs me of sleep.

Morning and I have never been friends. It was once regarded as a pesky relative I was always happy to see. When the feeling transitioned into slamming the door in its face, it found other means of entry.

I get up, tired from the endeavor. My bones and muscles feel weak. With deliberate effort I shuffle my way past the curtains, too numb to feel shards of remaining night cutting into my feet.

The sound outside is growing. Barking dogs, loud engines, and honking horns blend their noises with the rest of the city to form a unified voice. The voice tells me life is moving forward. The voice is lying. Time is moving forward, but not life.

I flip on the television seeking company. A celebrity made of aging plastic tells me her product will take years off the skin. She mentions nothing of a product able to take years off the soul.

Her voice fades as I enter the kitchen. I go through the motion of preparing cereal. My appetite is lost because there is a deeper hunger gnawing into my guts. It overshadows the need for food by threatening to devour me. My breakfast companion on the cereal box beams a winning smile at me, encouraging me to eat. I am disheartened that a cardboard face has more life in it than my own. I cup my hand over his nose and mouth so he will look more familiar to me.

I have somewhere to go. The mottled bricks of this place are perched into a short statured structure. The other buildings are taller and more cleanly dressed. They look down upon this building, and other similar architecture, asserting their superiority over them. The place I am going takes pleasure in the sadistic task of swallowing up souls every morning. It digests them for a while before spitting them back out in the evening, eroded from the experience. I know it has a name, but I scarcely remember it. I think it is called “Grindstone.”

I choose colorless clothes to match the atmosphere. Before I can leave, the weatherman takes over the T.V. screen to warn of rain and tell me to remember an umbrella. I obey the command, rummaging one up from the closet. I step out the door and back into the same footprints as yesterday. 

Once outside, I catch a chill. I glance up to the sky and feel the heavy clouds mirroring my thoughts. Muscle memory pilots my stride leaving me free to cast my vision upon the same things I always see. I strain my senses in search for signs of something new or renewed. The scent of fear overpowers everything. Anxiety now runs through the veins of this city. I understand. I feel it deep in the threadbare fibers trying to hold me together.

Mannequins shuffle toward buses and transit trains. Tires crunch against pavement and roll past me on the street. Exhaust fumes go unnoticed as other mannequins zip through the mist on bikes. I see them…I can always see them…but I am invisible.

The only eyes I sense upon me come from the surrounding establishments. The lights shining from within cast subdued glances in my direction. As I walk toward my gray destination, I see myself in the heavy plate glass windows. My transparent reflection is a ghost, haunting the mannequins inside, barely noticeable to even myself.

I begin to suspect no one can hear or see me. My suspicion is confirmed when a mannequin and her overzealous dog walk toward me. The leash is long, and the tiny “yapper” runs ahead of her hoping to sniff my feet and see if I am real. It feels good to be noticed. Before the dog reaches me with his happy inquisitive eyes, she draws the leash up close then distances herself.

“Good morning.” The words leave my lips as more of a plea than a greeting.

Her painted-on eyes remain glazed as she stares through me. Though I know I spoke loud enough for her to hear, silence echoes from beneath her mask.

The somber atmosphere deepens the burden of the clouds. The sky opens its eyes and cries. As dusty pavement dampens, I seek out the familiar scent of rain. Today it is fainter. It is harder to appreciate through the cloth covering my face. The crying turns to weeping. The wind vocalizes the sky’s sorrow in despairing moans. The beat of the rain changes the city's cacophonous music. Quickened footsteps add new rhythm to the tempo as thunder shouts at us from overhead.

I bolt into the coffee shop I pass every day and hit my foot against a barrier of tape on the floor. It asks me to please maintain a safe distance. It's the first time anyone has been polite to me in weeks.

I decide I can use more caffeine so I stand in line to purchase coffee.

Plastic beings have been placed throughout the shop. Each one is carefully balanced on its own piece of tape. A pile of tables and chairs congregate in a corner. They silently whisper to one another of their craving for use and purpose once more.

Seated at one of the remaining tables in the open, a mannequin sips iced coffee from a straw shoved under his mask.

An empty voice calls out the name, “Mannequin.” The line parts in fear of someone breaking the invisible barriers and coming too close.

The only thing familiar in this environment is the aroma of coffee. Its friendly greeting overwhelms my eyes. Tears escape, adding moisture to my face covering. I want to tear it off; I want to scream, but my lips are unable to part.

I see a cup with my name written on it being placed upon the counter. The voice calls out my name. I am frozen in place.

“Mannequin,” she persists but still, no one moves.

Her vacant eyes search the room. Her gaze falls upon me. She raises an accusing finger and points,

“Isn’t that you?”  

I'm unsure how to respond because I no longer know the answer. Despite it all, I move up to the counter to get my coffee and leave. I step back out onto yesterday’s footprints, leading me to my gray destination.