My (Our) Theatre

A Chapter by alice

I can no longer find hope except for my impending doom. I scrape through thesauri filled with enough words to entertain you briefly like I'm a marionette. My strings were severed by every word whispered about me. You bought the first and only to ticket to my pitiful show. A wooden doll with lifeless eyes and nearing her demise.

You ran to your mother and pulled on her pant leg, “Mommy, can I fix her? I found her under a box outside.” A quick glance and a curt nod with enough force to make you vomit. You took me home, tucked me in bed, put on your scrubs, and went to work.

You picked the loveliest golden thread, so no matter the insults, I could still write. You found some prehistoric blue paint and painted on my eyes again, so I could finally see your face. You found matted yellow yarn, with what looks like a booger in it, and gave me a stylish hairdo. And the attempts to use your sister’s Barbie clothes were quite laughable.

You took me back to my theater, my Broadway Theatre. You built my sets and hung the stage curtains. Illuminated the stars that shined upon my now-glorious Theatre. You threw open the doors and punched open the windows; with a gust of stale air, every last bit of all the clutter was gone and I could breathe for once.

We lived in our Theatre. You painted the walls whatever color I was feeling that day until our home got so cramped with the layers of paint plastered there from years past. After our home got filled to the brim with the noise of colors again, the words stopped flowing. And I mercilessly chipped through the paint colors, finding every emotion I forgot I had. I wrote down every color I felt while I was around you. There is never an empty seat in our Theatre.