Teenage Toys

“Misfit toy” is what the accepted had always called her, for that WAS the only name she knew of

herself. On the odd occasion, she would even take a jet-black pen and trace from one corner of

her pale red lips down to the lowest edge of her chin and repeat the other side resembling a doll’s

mouth. She would even add a touch of blush to her now oh-so-rosy cheeks and place sparkles in

her eyebrows. She smelled of many blossoms and her skin was as soft and smooth as velvet.

Auburn hair liked to get in her way so she could not see in front and because of this, she snipped

the halves off until her eyes could meet another’s. Just days after, wads of crumpled paper were

being tossed at her because of her doll face (she did not understand this since they called her a

toy anyways.) They would smirk and point nasty fingers at the girl crying, “A doll! A doll! She’s

turned into a doll!” And with every midnight sky, it could feel the drastic changes in its body. It

started to smell of plastic from a factory rather than blossoms, and its skin as hard as nails. A

kind gesture would be thrown at it and not even its mouth could rise to show content. Its

movement was a struggle since its arms became stiff and would prefer to lie at its sides. Its legs

also making a screech every time they would spread. Later, the kids would quietly ask

themselves, whatever did happen to that misfit toy? Or, what could it be doing now? But now,

for years, all it does is sit in the frayed plaid rocking chair and stare at the marked wall; not

making a sound or without a blink because it couldn’t. It couldn’t eat, sleep, talk, frown, or sadly

smile. The others had finally convinced it and there it was. A toy.