Raining on patchwork hearts
It's really hot outside, when I go, so it takes me by surprise when the rain comes and I am stuck in something brisk, even more-so when it begins to storm and I am lost in the city. I don't mind the rain so much anymore, it's quite common these days, so I tend to roll my eyes and wait for it to pass. I take to wandering the town when it's storming, never really expecting to find refuge anymore. Now I simply like to peer in the windows of the local shops, just to see what I'm missing.
Through a large glass pane I see you. Your silk skin, soulful black-button eyes and the finest fabrics to adorn your visage and drape your frame lure me ever closer.
I've never been much of a doll person, but you are a patchwork goddess, sitting in a little box, queen of the mountain over dusty, clouded packages of baubles and good for nothings. It's instinct to put my hands on the glass and look inside, the rain is picking up and blurring my view of you.
It seems that hours go by, but the rain hasn't stopped, the awning of your store keeping me from the lightning. I have so much time to take in every detail. The sheen comes off your beautiful black buttons and with a crooked stitch you smile at me. Your body is held up by a small rail of silver, hanging over it and peering out of your window of plasticwith yearning eyes. You're longing, it seems, to be free.
I'm sifting through what seems to be change. The rain is making it impossible to see anything but the window. As it all fumbles from my hands I look up just in time to see him. A lanky old man, no doubt the owner. He looks in disgust at me, shooing me away and taking no more notice of my gawking. He takes your box in his crinkled old hand. With his tight grip, I can see he is a collector, steady sewing hands and fingers to tear you from my view for moments on end.
When you return to me, he is setting you atop his private display next door, opening your package to take you into the world you yearn for, and at least I can be happy for you now. But with the opening of your tiny plastic door my fingers curl. Your window is blackened and opaque. The world can see you, but you can't see anything but your little plastic life. All the time we've been staring at each other, you never once saw me. My heart sinks and I begin to tap on the glass. The old man doesn't seem to notice. He just looks at you, his black eyebrows furrowing to inspect your every little detail and is deaf to my tapping and strangely so am I.
My heart almost breaks when he tosses you into the box, not setting you on your railing that you love to lean on. He just tosses you to hang halfway from your box, blind and confused while he shoos off even more on comers who admire your beauty. He chases off someone by yelling out "She's mine! She's not for you!" My previous fumbling for money now hits me as futile. He's claimed you, a blind patchwork doll. His blind patchwork doll.
Thunder mutes my protests that you should be free to enjoy the world you look to but never see. The rain is heavy on my back now, whirling around me as I watch him open and inspect many more dolls in his collection, taking them out of boxes with windows, dusting them off and putting them back with such love and care. He slides you back in and sets you out front, with the others behind you, you'll never see them. You don't belong out front, you belong on top of them, queen of this world, as I first met you, shining above dust covered nothings. Now you are devalued.
I'm screaming now, such rage for the blind patchwork doll...you are imprisoned, you are a slave and as I pound and claw at the old man's window, it shatters, raining glass and light around me as the water and wind overtake me. I am myself, blinded and carried into mundane existence, slipping from my foothold and falling to the streets below.
When I come to, I find myself staring into the heavens, surrounded by water and broken glass. I try to regain my footing, but I slip and can only look up to see the old man. He had hurled a brick through his own window to scare off someone behind me...looking at you with some perverse interest. It seems this old man would even become self destructive just to hoard you, to keep you only to stack you with his other treasures. I try to cry for you, but when I look down I only see a black button, and discover I'm going blind.
I try once more to stand, only to find my leg is torn from my fall...I've ripped a stitch. I drag myself to the curb and curse who made me. My strings are tearing and I'm coming undone. I suppose you would be happier in blind enslavement than you ever would with a ragdoll. As I fall backwards to look at you once more, a black cat is waiting to grip me by the shoulder. It doesn't hurt, you know, it's actually quite peaceful. The storm even turns to quiet rain as it runs off with me in its mouth, carrying me into an alley. I'm not sure where it is taking me, but I'm not much obliged to care at this point.