She stood there every day, and watched the world move. People would come and go. They would talk and laugh and cry. They would ignore her completely, or stand and look for a moment, or some would tease and pose for photographs or abuse her in ways she would try to forget.
Now and then, some kind person would come along and change her clothing for her, or style her hair, or give her a bit of a makeover, and that was nice. It was a horrible, horrible thing, this affliction that she suffered, and she often wondered if anyone even knew that she was there. She often thought that they saw her as some kind of non-living thing, an amusement, or a toy. If she could cry, even a single tear she thought, that would show them, but even that small symbol of humanity seemed to be beyond her. Her frustration and sorrow and heart-break would go on, it seemed, without notice.
She stood there every day, and watched the world go on, and longed to be a part of it and move as they did, and laugh as they did, and know the joys of food and touch and kisses and dancing and laughter and tears.
She stood there every day, and every day, she died a little more inside. |
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