text: Something Ive been writing for a couple of months. I'd really love some feedback! The story is kinda long. “Vinse Hannibal et non seppe usar' poi / Ben la vittoriosa sua ventura” -Petrarch, Sonnet 82 For a while now, there has been a beautiful woman named Eva. But everyone who knows Eva simply calls her “The Mannequin," owing to her astonishing beauty. Photographers from across the world have captured her soul thousands of times. She appears in magazines and medicine commercials, smiling and poised like a statue. Armies of photographers keep watch over her with soldierly diligence. Their mission is to catch her every pose. The seasons cycle passed her at a lethargic pace, while she sighs in boredom. Day after sickly dying day searches for room to bury itself in the skyline outside the studio window. The Mannequin wants nothing more than to be taken out of time: an almost-sexual experience to stem the hole which slowly drains her resolve out on the cold linoleum floor of the studio. Uncaring, the stiff-faced photographers illuminate her figure with their solar camera flashes. The camera shutters click, over and over. Meanwhile, she poses forlornly on a couch to make ends meet. It occurs to The Mannequin that she's forgotten what butterflies feel like. She thinks to herself that she's been caught in the monotony of the fashion world for too long, and she lets out another sigh. Her sapphire eyes finish their seductive gaze to contemplate the freezing, cream-colored floor. Her painted lips curl into a frown. She is lonely, but the photographers refuse to notice. Instead, their bulky professional cameras flash rapidly, irradiating the set like stars outlining her night black satin dress. They grunt like apes and cackle like hyenas, shuffling their feet around her with unyielding stares. The Mannequin can rarely see the studio past the line of photographers. They have her cornered. She is confined to a prison of human walls. Because of this, some of the photographers with a better eye for the camera shiver with orgasmic delight. They notice her captivity through their camera lenses, and they grin like newlywed grooms. She does not speak their language, nor does she share an eye for exploitation. The Mannequin knows only of her existence and the automatically visible. In the past, the Mannequin had dreams of being free. She thought that she saw ways out, cracks in the human wall that encases her. She’d marvel at glimpses of freedom, collecting the thin beams of white light that crawled through the prison walls and excitedly leapt to her eyes. The Mannequin would lose herself in such wild daydreams. Her mind wandered like a nomad on the Siberian steppe. She dreamt that she could transform into an agile mouse who could navigate the labyrinth of cold and shuffling loafers on the studio floor. But this was futile, only possible in the painted universe of the mind. As shape-shifting was hopeless, she dreamt up elaborate schemes and daring escape plans. She told herself stories of an intense battle with the photographers. One by one she’d beat them with their tripods and bite their makeup-caked faces, tearing off dry chunks of flesh until the parasitic vampires bled to death. But those too were dreams, and nothing more. The Mannequin thought these things were unfitting of her: so grievously barbaric that she couldn’t fathom acting on her daydreams. She couldn't imagine leaving. This was the photographers’ goal. They guarded her with vigilance, ensuring her dreams stayed up in her head and out of her hands. She would never leave them. “Miss, we need you to stand.” barked a round and sweaty tomato of a man. The Mannequin noticed breadcrumbs and bits of strawberry stuck in his unkempt beard. Her eyes wandered down to the camera strap on his swollen red neck. She wished it was a noose. The Mannequin stood up straight like she was told. She shrunk her hands into fists, sternly placing them on her hips. Head held high, she rolled her eyes away from the blinding camera flashes. The photographers eagerly scattered around her to capture her poses. She felt powerless to defy them in any other way. The Mannequin noticed it was difficult to move her legs. Her heart began to beat with the rhythm of a nervous drum. She shivered slightly, but she didn't know why. The Mannequin does not know herself. She knows only of her existence and the automatically visible. Her eyes began trickling tears, and she sighed for the third time that morning. The Mannequin began to feel the weight of her head upon her neck. A bubbly glaze filled her perception, like her skull was full of ginger ale. She was very dizzy. More tears welled in her eyes and drowned them in a pool of sorrow. Her legs felt unable to support her weight a second longer, and her hands softly unclenched. Her knees buckled under the weight of her form, and the Mannequin collapsed. She lay limp and unconscious on the studio floor. The photographers collectively shrieked like rabbits being torn apart by falcons. They leapt around in a frenzy, beating their chests like apes and crying confusedly like children abandoned in a supermarket. In a dream she opened her eyes. The Mannequin laid on a grassy slope in a vast field. A serpentine blue ribbon unwound down and around gentle green slopes, humming a soothing white hiss. It sprayed cool droplets upon the rocks and crevices around its belly. Scaly fish flickered in and out of the humid haze, scattering the Sun's rays with silvery cyan scales. In the distance, she saw towering rocks watching over the unkempt field. The cracked white crag cried a millennium of human tears onto the riverbed below. Millions of gallons poured forth onto helpless stones sanded from birth into smooth pebbles, weak enough to break with the hand of a strong man. Amidst the easy emerald pasture loomed a terrifying lighthouse. Water tumbled out from the windows in frantic flows filling full the rolling river below. The blue rope knotted itself around the lighthouse like a noose encircles a neck. A small rowboat sat tethered to a dock on the riverside. The Mannequin started towards it with a drive of curiosity that she couldn't place her finger on. The river flowed calmly into the endless garden, carving it up like a butcher to a pig. Turquoise threads traveled throughout the pasture like tentacles from an octopus, sucking away the leaves and trees with uncaring efficiency. The Mannequin watched as the river calmly carried multicolored flower pedals and bright green leaves on its back in a beautiful rainbow film that stretched across its surface. She rowed her boat through the kaleidoscope and her eyes teared at the thought of destroying such a sight. After quite a bit of rowing, she arrived at the lighthouse's dock. The Mannequin trudged over rocks to reach the door. She noticed it was detailed with a bronze plaque, engraved with the following: “We are laid asleep / In body, and become a living soul: / While with an eye made quiet by the power / Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, / We see into the life of things.” -William Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey The Mannequin looked at the engraving with a puzzled complexion. She knocked on the door and found it open, with stairs leading down an impossible depth. She started her descent into the darkness of the lighthouse. Following what seemed like an eternity, she reached a door at the bottom of the stairs. Just as with her wall of photographers in the studio, small pylons of light leapt out through the edges of the doorframe and climbed onto her eyes. She opened the door. Mounted upon the drywall next to the door was a small plastic bottle of crystalline hand sanitizer. Beside the hand sanitizer was a red plastic bin. It was filled with needles, and the bin seemed shrunken and boxy too. The Mannequin felt like a Barbie doll in a playhouse. She thought that she recognized the room as a doctor’s office. Her stomach growled quietly, and she felt a discomfort rise into her throat. The Mannequin realized that she hadn’t eaten at all that day. She recalled the morning's breakfast cart at work. The caterers bring in wide arrays of breakfast foods each day: tart pineapple slices, sweet oranges, bright green apples, firm strawberries, and a different dish each day: yesterday, bagels. Today, the caterers brought in soufflés. The Mannequin woke up later than usual. She sleeps on a small and lumpy bed in a little closet that grows out from the studio like an ugly mole. Loud noises scare the photographers, so she doesn't keep an alarm. This morning, no one had bothered to wake her. For this, she was partially thankful. Her loneliness keeps her awake until the early hours of the morning, and consequently she doesn't get much sleep. Her well-rested bliss was quickly interrupted when she met the morning breakfast cart. It had been raided to its metal bones. Food scraps littered the floor in an apocalyptic mess. She scoured the lower rungs of the cart for any surviving bits of breakfast, but all she could find was a chocolate soufflé wrapped in thin black paper. Her soufflé hadn't risen properly, and she found it far too sweet for her tastes. The Mannequin decided not to eat breakfast that morning, and she went to adorn her night satin dress. Back in the doctor's office, her eyes wandered to the large plastic clock hanging on the wall. Its narrow black hands began to express noon as her attention sharply turned to the door. Then the doorknob began to rattle. The office door slowly rolled on its hinges with a loud creak. It reluctantly came to a halt several inches from the door frame. A small and bony hand grasped the rotting wooden slab, shaking like an old man scared of death. Whether it shook out of fear or age, she couldn’t tell. The Mannequin knows only of her existence and the automatically visible. Perhaps she was projecting. “Right. What do we have here?” croaked an ancient voice. It radiated across the room in a sweet and slackening tone. A spotted head peeked into the examination room. His wrinkly dome was covered in bleach-white relics of a forest of hair. There was a pause for several seconds, a space filled with such confusion that there was no room for words. “Where am I?” she pleaded. The Mannequin’s eyes examined him cautiously. His forehead was scarlet and sweaty. The overhead lights made the man's cheeks glimmer, and a rose-colored hue that spilt over to his nose flushed the man's porous skin. His nose, she thought, was thick and swollen. Timid beads of sweat trickled down his face, but his warm smile spelt no signs of exhaustion. She mused to herself that he looked like a cherry. “What do you mean?” asked the man. His snowy mustache twisted somewhat as he bit his upper lip. The old man set down his ancient wooden clipboard with shaky hands and he cocked his head at her in a gesture of confusion. Then she froze for a moment. Neglecting to reply, The Mannequin examined the stubby man before her. He wore an ancient lab coat covered in fruity stains. His coat's breast pocket was embroidered with the name Puglisi in small cursive text. Taking note of her bewilderment, Dr. Puglisi began to counsel her again. “Well, miss?” he begged inquisitively “The lighthouse. Where are we?” “Yes; We’re in a lighthouse.” he joked “Is something amiss?” “Never mind.” she mumbled. A focus in her eyes illuminated a moment of shy embarrassment. The Mannequin shifted back onto a cushion against the wall. “Right.” Dr. Puglisi said, “What can I help you with today?” “I can’t recall how I got to the field outside.” she muttered with hesitation. “No memory at all?” he replied “None.” “Hmmm” he grunted as he picked up his clipboard. Then the doctor quickly began to scribble notes with a rotted old pencil. “Can you tell me what you do remember?” “Well,” she began, “the last thing I recall, I was at work, and I felt very ill.” She shook her head and gently shrugged her shoulders. Dr. Puglisi continued to feverishly note her condition. “Miss..” he said, his voice drifting as he flipped through papers on his clipboard “Eva.” she replied firmly for the first time that day. “Right. Have you been in an accident recently? Did you hit your head?” “No, why?” “I’m just doing my job” he replied as he continued to make notes, “how are you feeling today?” Her eyes began to water again. With hot tears rolling down her cheeks The Mannequin struggled to open her mouth and speak. “Well...” she began, trying so hard to control her sobbing. The doctor locked his inquisitive eyes on her, expressing a level of intrigue she knew too well. Perhaps, this time, it was with a different motivation than what she was accustomed to. "I feel so horribly exhausted.” she sobbed “It’s the sort of feeling you get when you can't eat anymore. And yet, there's still food on your plate. I grapple with the feeling that this life doesn’t belong to me." Dr. Puglisi faced his sobbing patient in silence. His eyes wandered down towards the floor, and then he tapped his shoe on the linoleum tile, over and over in spidery bursts. “Hmmm.” he grunted again, placing his hands on his hips. The ceiling lights overhead hummed electric hymns. He passively watched her rub her reddened eyes with tight fists. “I’m sorry about this” she said With unsteady hands the doctor reached into his coat pocket, and then he furnished her with a white handkerchief. Reluctantly, she trained her eyes on him and accepted. The doctor smiled warmly. She smiled back in the same fashion. “Where do you work?” he inquired with a relaxing sweetness. “I’m a model.” “Why don’t you quit?” The Mannequin’s eyes stared somber at the floor. She crossed her hands and set them in her lap. The overhead sodium lights continued their buzzing, and Dr. Puglisi rested his pen in his breast pocket. In the light of the doctor's office, the pair faced each other with sewn lips. There was a pause for several seconds, a space filled with such little confusion that there wasn't any need for words. Then Dr. Puglisi broke the quiet blanket wrapped around them to demonstrate his understanding. "Hmmm" he grunted. "Money is money, I suppose." "A couple of months ago," she replied. "I signed a contract in the hope that I could pay for my mother's funeral expenses." "I see." he added, "But that's over now." "She's been in the ground for nearly a year." "I'm sorry." he muttered indifferently. "We weren't very close." "She is your mother." "Exactly." she contended. The Mannequin's eyes drooped down to engage with the floor. She had an especially sad gaze. Dr. Puglisi's calm medical visage remained unbroken. "Don't blame yourself" he added. "There is no justice in car accidents" she sighed, "Enough about this." "When does your contract expire?" he begged. "In a couple of months. They like to keep me in the studio around the clock." "I'm sure that they wouldn't mind if you visited the doctor's office." "Someone will reprimand me, I'm sure." "I think you need to start sending out resumes" he joked. Before she knew it, The Mannequin began to cry again. Her eyes drooled fountains of slim tears. The Mannequin's face flushed with the doctor's cherry red hue behind her hands. "Doctor, why do I feel so sad?" "Is it your mother?" he begged, placing his hand on her shoulder. "I think it was at first. But it's grown so much since she passed, and every day the thought of her death hurts less and less." "Your job, then." "I want to leave them," she cried "but it's so unlike me and how I've treated them since I started work there." "Tell me" he began, "First of all, how do they treat you?" "As if I'm not even human!" she exclaimed, "I can't leave the studio, I can't talk, I have to stand like a statue, unmoving for hours at a time." "Hmmm" he remarked, jotting notes on his clipboard, "Second, how do you respond?" "As politely as the situation allows, of course!" she replied. Her tone was stern for the second time that day. "Finally, do you have freedom?" "Yes.” she declared, "Of course there is. All humans have free will.." "Interesting." he responded, clicking his pen to a close and placing it gently in his breast pocket. "I believe I have a diagnosis." he smiled. "I'm listening." "You don't have any teeth" he gasped. The doctor's mouth began to sputter like an old car exhaust. He laughed heartily and collapsed to the floor. Laying on his back, the doctor continued to cackle. "Doctor!" she exclaimed in a moment of utter confusion. "What's so funny?" Dr. Puglisi's laughing fit was interrupted by sudden choking. The Mannequin felt a balloon form in her mouth. The pair vomited teeth, and the doctor's incessant giggle grew in intensity. It was intermittently interrupted by choking and coughing. Tooth after tooth poured from his mouth into a mound on the cold floor next to his head. The Mannequin screamed in horror, and she resumed her cascade of tears. Her tongue pressed something hard and sharp up against the roof of her mouth. In the same fashion, she began to spit out her teeth, only she wasn't laughing. In the foggy dream, her choppy sobs seemed to merge with the yellow buzzing of the overhead lights. Her red face swirled and blurred with the sodium glow. Dr. Puglisi's white lab coat melted into the creamy floor tiles. The essence of the blue cushion bred with the endless black of her satin dress. All the colors in the room seemed to swirl into a kaleidoscopic palette around her. The hues danced around one another in galloping loops. Seconds smoothed Dr. Puglisi's haunting laugh into sweet chocolate symphonies. The Mannequin felt weightless, unbounded. Her terror was heightened to the uncut raw acidity of feeling that's only attainable in a dream. The orchestra of laughs tumbled over itself. At first, certain sections sped ahead of each other, until minutes later every instrument in the ensemble played a different tune. The bright hues of the doctor's office mixed into earthy tones. Her cherry red complexion and the lemon yellow lights became a deep pumpkin orange. The blueberry cushion dissolved into her black dress to concoct the color of a night sky polluted by the lights of a sleepless city. Dr. Puglisi was many hues sewn into one patchwork. He melted into a black puddle that dispersed over the cool white floor and climbed the walls like ivy on a brick façade. The bottomless black grew to envelope the room. The black mass climbed The Mannequin's legs and up her figure. Suddenly the bustling city slept. She wept profusely. At last, her field of view was enveloped in perfect black and her ears filled with the discordant symphony of screams. The Mannequin opened her eyes. The Mannequin awoke to find herself laying on her stomach. She woke up with her head turned to the side and pressed up against the chilly linoleum floor. She saw the labyrinth of shuffling loafers once again. For fear that she might be stepped on, The Mannequin sat up. Without delay, her ears collected loud and childish screams. She thought the photographers' shrieks sounded like injured infants. In view of the army of loafers milling about the studio, she crawled back upon her knees. The Mannequin retreated to the couch to avoid the panicked mass of grown men with cameras. In consequence, the photographers noticed her movement. They halted immediately. By the time all of them had processed that The Mannequin has awoken, it was as if nothing at all had happened. The photographers resumed capturing her image where she sat. It was with great passion and fervor that they skittered about the hopeless model. She attempted to regain her senses, at once bewildered and frightened by the dream she had, and equally angry at her captors. In contrast, the photographers picked up their intrigue off the tile. They once more begged at her figure with cold and haunting inquisition. The Mannequin's face scrunched into an angry frown accordingly. "In due time," she thought "all will be well. I need patience." Her stomach growled for the second time that day. The Mannequin looked at the studio's lunch cart. She started towards it, but was quickly rebuked by the photographers. They shrieked their dying rabbit screams in an uncanny symphony. In spite of the haunting cacophony that filled the room, she continued to the food cart. The Mannequin felt her heart race. Her hands began to shake in fear. A photographer stumbled towards her like a baby learning to walk. She rushed back to the couch. Her stomach growled once more. The discomfort returned to her throat as it was in her dream. She felt the teeth in her mouth slowly slide passed each other like interlocking puzzle pieces. The gears ground together in her head and she stared at the line of photographers with unwavering sincerity. She wanted to eat. They ceased taking photos and stared back at her with an unsure retaliation. The Mannequin started towards the food cart again. The photographers growled and murmured amongst themselves. She grabbed a bag of chips and walked past the wall of photographers towards the studio door. The chimps began their howling and stomping. The Mannequin felt like a new person. Now Eva, she opened the door and walk outside for the first time in months. Eva quickly shut the door and turned away. Fists pounded on its thin wood frame and crying could be heard inside. Outside, the city overflowed with people who were too busy to notice her plight. She lifted a chip to her lips and her finger touched one of her teeth. Eva’s eyes began to water. She dropped the chip and clasped her hands together. A smile began to wiggle its way across her face. She had forgotten how exhilarating it feels to really smile. The former mannequin turned her head towards the cityscape. The lethargic pace of the studio had faded from her perception. Time seemed to speed up before her eyes. The sky flooded with the melancholy pale blue of winter. Then the sky's sea evaporated into the hot red desert of summer’s sunset. A cavernous empty feeling as black as her dress filled the sky in the ocean's absence. The Moon rose, and light shrank back into the street lamps and neon signs. She saw trees weep their leaves and claw at the dark emptiness above amid an uncaring city. “Help!” she could almost hear them cry, but no one above would reach back.