Lifeless Eyes

A Story by Bookots

Dolls represent what society expects from me. I hate that.

Pale and flawless skin, rosy cheeks, bright and sparkling eyes, pink lips curled into the happiest of smiles.

A dress, so pretty and perfect, free of creases and colored a bright lilac. Shoes matching the bright color and socks a clean and pure white.

I reached up on my wooden shelf where my collections of dolls sat; a perfect army of soft hair, shiny eyes, and bright smiles. I let my fingers graze their fluttery skirts, my eyes searching their lifeless ones.

Admired by all. Beautiful and the epitome of perfection. Something people aspire to be like or already thought of themselves as.

But why?

Because being perfect like that turned heads. People wanted to be like you if you achieved that beauty. You become the want, no longer being the one who desires.

I was taught throughout my life to be the want. Given only the best from birth. Prettiest of dressiest, toys, brushes, bows, and pets.

And dolls.

The very dolls that reflected the view of what the perfect person must be like.

I grabbed the closest doll within my reach, turning her over in my hands and inspecting her as I lowered myself to sit on the ground.

The doll in my hands looked back at me, face frozen happily for the rest of her life. Blue eyes alive and dead at the same time. Soft brown hair never to grow. Skin never to form any blemishes. Lips never to grow chapped or split. Never to stop smiling.

Dresses that wouldn’t ever grow dirty or wrinkle. Shoes that would never scuff from rough playing. Socks that would not be allowed to rip or stain.

An expected state of appearance. One I had been forced into since the start of my life. I compare myself to dolls on a daily, wondering if my dress was pretty enough, brushing my hair until becomes soft brown waves, and my face always flawless.

Chains root me to these expectations. Iron and unmovable, clanking loudly whenever I attempt to stray. A constant reminder of my position. A position in which I’m so vulnerable to the thoughts and actions of others.

I hate it.

Hate how I have to wake up early every day to get ready, get into the persona expected of me.

Hate how people smile and remark how lovely the outfits I despise look on me.

Hate how happy the dolls look as I glower at them.

Hate how the dresses feel when I hold them.

I hate it all.

While I trudge on this track, my happiness is in danger.

I never smile anymore. Not genuinely anyways. They’re all fake and complimentary. I can’t remember the last time I really smiled. It just doesn’t seem necessary anymore. No one notices the difference anyways. Not even my own family.

Is this supposed to bring me happiness? Being forced into this physical state daily, draining my mental and emotional well-being? Because if it is, it most definitely isn’t working with me. Instead it chips away my mental and emotional state, making me wither like a flower on the inside, yet bloom brightly on the outside.

The doll is heavy in my hands. Perhaps not physically, but mentally. The weight of the world holding me down through these invisible chains. The looks and words of others swaying and pressuring me into succumbing to their wishes.

I hold her soft hair in one hand, letting her dangle helplessly in my grasp. She rocks gently from side to side, delicate lilac dress fluttering around her pale legs and white socks. She smiles still, as if she’s having the time of her life. I can’t blame her. She can’t help her eternal state.

The sound of scissors slicing on nothing but air is audibly satisfying. Thoughts wander in my head as I position the silver blades. If she were real would she feel fear? What would be the cause of it? The scissors themselves or no longer being physically ideal?

The latter most likely.

I snip at her hair. The sound of hair separating and the feeling of her body falling onto my lap lifting a small amount of weight from my shoulders. I pick her up again, this time grabbing her by a leg, and start hacking away at her hair. The brown strands litter my lap and the wooden floorboards beneath me.

The smile stays the whole time, though it’s not like there’s anywhere it could go. It stays there, her face immobile as always while I chop off her hair in irregular snips. Soon enough, her hair frames her face in uneven strands.

Different. Still like the others, but different at the same time.

Similar to what I aspire to be.

Could I ever reach my aspiration, though?