I found a mannequin at the thrift store today.
She was tucked in between a box of junk and a ratty old sweater, only the top of her dull head sticking out amongst the mess.
Head.
Hands.
Chest.
That was all she was. I thought she was the most beautiful thing I ever saw. I took her home and washed her. My crude hands gently scrubbed away the dirt with a warm cloth.
(I could feel her warmth beneath my palms.)
I think my cat is jealous of her.
We spend hours talking.
(She is a great listener).
I show her my favourite books.
(She likes Frankenstein the most).
I dress her up in tank tops and sweaters and dresses.
(Her body never fits them quite right).
She is just like me, in some ways,
Too quiet, with a face that doesn’t move when it’s supposed to.
She stares too much.
I know what it is like to be made of parts that
don’t fit together just right.
Her joints are old and clunky and move slower than they should.
Her face is a blank slate where emotions should be, but I don’t mind.
When I run my fingers along the smooth, bumpy curve of her breast,
I can feel her heart underneath, pounding in rhythm with mine.
Dull and steady.
That is enough.
Today, my mannequin kissed me on the lips.
It happened when I was comparing the size of our hands.
(Mine are far larger than hers, I think she likes that).
She leaned forward and whispered in my ear. I wish I could have heard her. (I’m sorry, I’m sorry).
I cling to her desperately. Lips touch plastic.
Cold.
Dead.
Warm.
Alive.
My teardrops blot on her hardened surface. They roll down her smooth
cheeks. Boys don’t cry.
My fingers yearn for her heart, pulsating in my palm. I want to consume her. Let her consume me.
I claw and scrape at my chest, peeling back layers of slippery pink flesh. I destroy myself and build my body up again. She is made of marble, and I am a lump of clay. I am a monstrosity. (Kiss me anyways).
You cling to her. This girl you could be, this woman that she is.
She drew herself out of the rubble and made a spectacle of herself.
She rips out your rib with loving delicatesse, a plastic bone that glows in the dark. (You feel humbled. As if such a beautiful creature could ever be fashioned from the likes of you).
The Garden of Eden is no longer yours.
(Was it ever?)
(can you own what was never made for you?)
I want to live like my mannequin.
Words unsaid lodge in my throat.
Étouffer.
A transitive verb.
In transition.
I trace a finger down her spine. Her sunflower dress is crumpled around her waist. The rays of sun streaming through the curtains turn her into a dappled fawn, newly born and clumsy. She is femininity and beauty enveloped in a blank plastic slate.
She is the epitome of womanhood.
(Can I be a real girl, too?)
My mannequin lays beside me as I sleep. I hold her close to my chest. We erupt into licks of white flames, sparking and consuming, shedding the weight of darkness with our light. For the first time, I can breathe.
For the first time, I hear my mannequin whisper.
(You’re breathtaking.)
(There are not enough words to describe what we are.)
(I wish you would let yourself be like me.)
(I know you.)
(I see you.)
(I love you.)
Parker Thomas Paquette is a second-year student at Carleton University, currently enrolled in the Creative Writing Concentration of the English department. When he is not typing away at his desk, Parker spends his time reading, drawing, browsing the shelves of the library, purchasing far too many journals, and creating meaning out of everything. He cites his inspirations as Lisa Hanawalt, Kimya Dawson, T.J. Klune, Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and the “camp” of vintage horror media. Parker acknowledges that Carleton University resides on the traditional, unceded territories of the Algonquin and Anishinaabe nations, and he thanks the caretakers for their continual dedication and kindness to the land.
