We're Just Paper Dolls

I picture us to be like paper dolls. We are three dimensional though. Our body is just made up of layers upon layers of thin paper, wrapped meticulously to form a working body. See, when we start out, we are a big thick lump of paper. So much paper, you really can't even see the form of our body. Every new life experience ends up staining the paper we are made up. Now, the word 'stain' doesn't always have to have a negative connotation. It can be a good stain. Like, the first time you went potty by yourself. That, I would consider to be a very nice stain. Then there are also the markers that we take to ourselves. The self inflicted stains. Those can be like, smoking, or studying. You're the one taking the marker to yourself. Every time you are stained, the dye seeps through every layer of your being until it gets down to the core. And every time you make a new step in life, you can peel back a layer of paper. A couple of layers will get really dirty. Some will remain pretty darn clean. And at the center of all those layers is a heart. It's a pumping, working heart. Made of paper. And on it is every single stain you have ever experienced. It pumps the ink through your body, fueling you. I think I would like to color my heart with vibrant colors. Maybe throw in a couple of designs. You have to make something you're proud of. Something, that when you die, you want to present to everyone and say, "See? Look what I've done with my life. Isn't it wonderful?" How do you want your paper heart to look like once you've peeled back the final layer?

Theory of Happiness

We are now living in the perfect world. This is paradise. Humans are incapable of not being hurt, of overlooking the bad. There will always be something that will be less satisfying then something else. That will become the bad- the thing that we associate with less then pleasurable happiness- and we will wish for an even more “perfect” society. The things that go wrong in this world help you appreciate everything you have. War helps us appreciate the relative stableness of our government. Hunger helps us appreciate the greasy school lunches. Death helps us appreciate the relationships we have with other people.

I would not want to live in any other world. I do not wish for a paradise, or hope that I will someday get into heaven. Spending my life in heaven or paradise will make me lose the appreciation I have. I am proud of the way I have matured in life and the way my opinions and conscience have been shaped by the world I live in now, and I do not want to lose my beliefs by living in paradise where all of my morals and ideas would have no relevance.

I Had a Dream

"Doctor, I think something is wrong. I can't ever feel my pulse when I check for it."

"We can help you with that. We will just need to open you up."

I'm laying on the operation table.
Take the scalpel to my skin.
Peel back the skin, crack open my rib cage.
Hands dive inside as they search for my heart.

"We're sorry to inform you ma'am, but your heart isn't beating.
Your lungs have stopped working
And we believe you have no liver."

"That's a lie! Let me see the proof!"

I yell, sitting up, frustrated.
They take out my dead heart
And show it to me.

"Oh, well what do you know."

TIME

I look over my shoulder to it, sitting under the shade of the sagging tree, smoking a cigarette. It doesn’t notice me- its acne infested face looking off into some other direction. Its buzzed hair not moving in the wind that whips at my cheeks. I take a deep breath, prepare myself, crouch down slightly, and run. I run like my life depends on it. Because in some weird way, I think it does. Here it comes… I’m reaching the end of the field… I close my eyes in hopes that I will finally be able to break free. The millisecond my big toe stretches past the grassy field, I am thrown backwards. It sounds like I ran into a giant building made of jell-o. The strange scene outside ripples, then relaxes as I am flung across, landing in an awkward position on my neck. A fall that should have broken my neck. I should be dead. It looks at me, and cackles, its voice breaking as it flicks its cigarette butt at me. Immaturely, I stick my tongue out at it as I rub my neck. It’s not sore though. I rub it out of impulse. In reality, it should be sore. Just like it should be broken, and I should be dead.

It won’t stop laughing as its voice deepens, and the acne sucks in on itself and retreats back into its skin. A change I’ve always found disgusting. Now it’s a cruel business man chuckling at me, smoothing his hand down his paisley tie which goes awkwardly with his brown suit. I grit my teeth and stare back out at the stranger world I desperately try to get back into. I don’t know what I’m trying to escape from, or what I’m trying to escape to. All I know is right now I stand in a field with Time, staring out into where there should be a sky, but really it’s a light fixture surrounded by ceiling tiles. I sigh as the fluorescent bulb in the light fixture flickers. I have spent countless days now staring at the six ceiling tiles and the light that is collecting dead bugs. I know it’s my only escape, but I can’t get there.

Its laughing still hasn’t ceased. It’s now a high pitched, wheezy giggle. I turn on my heel to look at the ugly withered old man. Clear snot trails down from his crooked nose and drool escapes from gaps between his teeth, oozing down his chin to soak into his thin shirt. My lips curl in disgust at Time. I can hear family members talking faintly in my ear on occasion. I want to say something. Something simple, like “Hello” or maybe even “Help”. But my voice is the music box that can’t be wound up again. Needles prick my skin and doctors poke me in the most uncomfortable ways possible. I can tell its doctors. Their giant masked faces loom in my mind’s eye when these strange sensations overwhelm me.

Time makes an ugly baby. Fat cheeks, pudgy arms and legs with an overly round belly make it seem innocent, but its grey eyes are filled with mirth. Time smacks its lips as it kicks its feet in the air. The repetition of its smacks reminds me of a clock. I pace back and forth, cracking my knuckles.

I hear something now. It sounds like a drum. No, it’s a heart beat. Ba bump. I can’t tell where its coming from. Ba bump. Its getting louder. Ba bump. Louder and louder. Ba bump. I keep trying to pace and ignore the pounding. Ba bump. My face twists in concentration and sweat forms on the back of my neck. Ba bump. Just ignore it. Ba bump. It will go away eventually. Ba bump. My stomach is a pit and I feel my legs shaking. Ba bump. I trudge on and I’m having to drag my heavy feet. Ba bump. Keep going. Ba bump. Keep going. Ba bump. Ignore it. Ba bump. The pounding has me on my knees. Ba bump. I’m crawling, crawling away from the heart beat. BA BUMP. I choke out a simple world:

“Stop”

And I am left panting on the ground. Silence. I sit back on my heels as off in the distance I can hear the low whine of a heart monitor (in C sharp) go off. I grope my chest, and I feel no rhythmic beating of my heart. My head hangs in shame and defeat as Time waddles up to me. He removes his thumb from his mouth and grins, showing the two front teeth missing. I cry, and Time wraps its toddler arms around me.

Jed: During Reception 2

Jed was hiding behind one of the ivy covered brick pillars, sucking on a freezy

pop. Her lips were currently tinted blue and were in the process of turning red. Emily was offering her an entire box of freezy pops if Jed kept out of trouble and stuck to the back of all rooms, but Jed was starting to get impatient. A freezy pop can keep you entertained for only so long, you know. Jed looked down at her Mickey Mouse watch. Mickey had a large smile, and his two arms were crossed in a position that seemed to be quite uncomfortable.

She barely noticed when her mother briskly walked out into view. There was someone else out there. He was a tall, muscular man with a clean shaven face and short brown hair. There was some hushed talking on her mother’s part, a confused look on the stranger’s face. Now things were getting more interesting for Jed.

“Do you remember anything at all?” Emily asked, sounding frustrated. The guy shifted his weight to the other foot, taking a moment to think.

“Oh yeah! You’re the chick who dropped those hot garlic mashed potatoes on my crotch!” he said, his face brightening with realization. In contrast to him, Emily’s face fell, with an expression of complete disbelief.

“Are you serious?!” her voice had gone up an octave or two and cracked mid sentence.

“No drunken night comes to your mind from ten years ago? No drunken night 7 months later? Does the phrase: ‘Here’s twenty dollars. Buy a nice house for you and kid’ ring a bell at all?!”

Jed was trying her best to pay attention, until she saw a daddy long legs crawl over her foot and now she studied the spider rather then the dialog going on. The conversation went on longer. It seemed to get more heated, more frustrated and confusing.

“You have a nine year old daughter in this world, and I think it’s high time you come into her life!” Emily’s voice was a deadly hiss as she jabbed her finger into his chest. He winced, and rubbed his sore spot as Emily stomped back to the reception. Her aura said: death to anyone who talked to her.

Jed was frantically sucking on plastic now, her juicy ice long gone. Her eyes were wide as she stared at this man who was… her dad?

“What does mom mean by ‘drunken nights’?” Jed suddenly asked, her voice slightly scratchy from lack of use. The man turned around to look at her, and his eyes widened. His mouth formed silent words as he stared at Jed, and Jed stared back at him. Jed made it into a staring contest. And he was good at not blinking. It was just a question really. She didn’t understand why he took so long.

“H-hey kiddo.” He said, the words rolling off his tongue awkwardly. “What’s your name?”

“Jed Corey Garrison. I was born on January 29^th. And I like freezy pops,” she said, producing the mangled plastic.

“Danny Kingler. My birthday is August 7^th. I like…. erm... I like soda.”

Jed looked up at the Danny. It was an awkward silence between them, but Jed seemed oblivious to it. She inserted her freezy pop wrapper back in her mouth, grinding it between her molars.

“So… what are you doing to keep yourself entertained?” Danny asked her eventually.

“I watch Mickey.” Jed showed him her watch. Danny cleared his throat a couple of times. He scratched the back of his, sighing several other times.

“Um… did you hear the conversation between your mommy and me?” Danny hoped with all his might she would say: “That’s not my mommy!”

“She’s not ‘Mommy’.”

Relief.

“She’s Mom. Only babies say ‘mommy’”

The relief was short lived.

“So then you did hear Mom and me talking?”

Jed nodded her head. “What does ‘a drunken night’ mean?” she asked again.

Danny squatted down next to Jed, and tried his best not to compare this little girl’s features to his own.

“A drunken night includes… Jack Daniels. And some Sam Adams.”

“Who are they?”

“Friends.” Danny said quickly. “And maybe a mistake or two.”

“What kind of mistakes?” Jed asked, sucking intently on her plastic wrapper.

“What… kind?” Danny’s face turned a slightly rosy color. “The kind… where… you drink too much pop and eat the candy that your mom said you can’t eat.”

Jed nodded her head, her gaze diverting off into another general direction. Suddenly her eyes went wide and she leaned in close to Danny. “Do you want to hear a secret?” she asked.

Danny nodded. “Okay. Shoot.”

“Well. Sometimes, Mom has had a really hard day at work, and when she comes home she doesn’t talk at all. Then at night, when she thinks I’m sleeping, she will come into my room and cry. And she says stuff like ‘You’re not a mistake’.”

Another long silence came over the two. Danny didn’t know what to say to her. He stared at this nine-year-old little girl. This fatherless, nine-year-old little girl. This fatherless, foreign, strange, nine-year-old little girl. And he heard the DJ’s voice come from the reception room.

“They are… the Father-Daughter song is playing.” He said and Jed smiled. He had freckles across his nose, just like her. Her mom didn’t have any freckles.

“Do you want me to be your dad tonight?” he asked, and Jed nodded her head.

“Does it have to be just tonight?” she asked, and Danny shrugged.

“Maybe not. Maybe I can be your daddy tomorrow too. We’ll have to look into that.”

“Okay. But I don’t know how to dance.”

”Daddy will teach you.”