Throughout the
majority of my life, my sister has been the pride of the family. Daddy’s little
princess, Mommy’s little star, Nanny’s little angel. She was a dancer, a good
dancer, I’ll give her that much… But it was precisely the dancing that led to
the events that I am about to recollect.
My parents were
busy individuals, meaning me and my sister spent a lot of time at our
grandmother’s house. This unfortunate arrangement seemed to benefit everyone-
everyone but me- my grandmother was the one who made all of my sister’s
costumes, therefore all our time there was spent dedicated to her. Measuring,
sewing, crafting, decorating and miniature performances, courtesy of my sister,
were how we spent our time there; sometimes I was dragged into the activities,
and sometimes I was pushed to the side-lines. I didn’t particularly enjoy it
either way. I wouldn’t say I was jealous as such, maybe a little, but mainly I was
just overcome with boredom due to my exclusion.
Anyway, when
my grandmother designed these costumes for my sister she would pin them on her
mannequin. For years she used the same one, it was a dismembered torso,
consisting of a hard plastic skeleton and blue velvet flesh. It was covered in
odd black tags which could be loosened or tightened to adjust the dimension of
the thing, I always though they looked like rotten scabs or skin tags. To top
it off, there were several hundred pins that had been jabbed into the body, as
if it were some giant voodoo doll. I hated that thing, it freaked me out beyond
comprehension, but then again, I was only young. Maybe it was because it was
lacking limbs and a head, maybe it was because it had furry, blue skin, or
maybe it was simply because it stood in solemn, perpetual silence.
I should say,
my sister was quite a few years older than me, and she was in her mid-teens by
the time I was seven years old. That was one of the reasons my grandmother
abandoned her old mannequin; my sister had grown beyond the dimensions the
mannequin could reach. Not only that, the wretched thing has become so battered
and torn that she had little choice to get rid of it, or rather, replace it.
The new model could not have been more different to its predecessor: it became
the object of my obsession.
The first
difference- this mannequin was full bodied and its flesh was the colour of-
well- flesh. It had been specifically crafted to be the exact proportions of my
sister, but that was where the similarity between the two ended. Her face was
brighter, kinder, she always had a smile fixed upon her face, her hair was
golden, and her eyes were a luminous, glorious green. She was less of a
mannequin, and more like an oversized Barbie doll.
The second
difference- this mannequin did not stand in solemn, perpetual silence.
At first she
was just another figure, albeit an extremely well-crafted one, but it wasn’t
long before that changed. She was extremely lifelike; she had all the features
required of a human, she only lacked that spark of life which would make her a
living soul, like myself. Her eyes were beautiful, but ultimately, they were
dead- but that didn’t stop them from following me across the room.
That was how it started.
At first I didn’t notice, but over time it became more
and more apparent. It filled me with hope, but I never approached her, for fear
that she would retreat if I did.
One night I was lying awake, stuck at my grandmother’s
house once again, bored out of my skull. The darkness seemed heavier than
usual, I assumed it was because I was tired, but not tired enough to sleep. I
heard something shuffling through the untrimmed grass in the back garden. I
pulled myself out of bed and peered cautiously out of the window.
And there she was.
Stood at the end of the garden, her plastic flesh
gleaming in the moonlight: my sister’s mannequin.
Her lifeless eyes gazed at me, looking into my own eyes
and into my soul. Although they were unmoving, and blank, I swore I could see a
glimmer of happiness inside her retinas. She waved at me, stiffly, and smiled.
I was in shock, she seemed so please to see me- why? It was only me. I waved
back enthusiastically, smiling just as wide. I don’t know how long I spent
gazing out of the window at her, but when I turned away- just for a second- she
was gone.
Things were uneventful for some time following that
night. Several months passed, with nothing out of the ordinary occurring.
Although there was one thing I found peculiar, my grandmother took more
interest in me, nothing extreme of course, my sister was still her pride and
joy- the apple of her eye- but I wasn’t as excluded as I once was, on some
occasions she even went out of her way to ask me question about school and my
friends. My sister remained as ignorant as ever.
During that
period, the mannequin remained still. For some reason, after that night, she
became extremely shy. I would sometimes go up to her during the day and ask her
why she didn’t move, why she wouldn’t talk to me, but I never received an
answer. Eventually however, she did move again, and like the time before; it
was at night that she came to life. Apparently she wasn’t shy when it became dark;
I thought maybe she was self-conscious.
I don’t
remember much from that first night, It is hazy now, I just remember seeing her
standing still outside my door, peering in, studying me. Her hand, with her
fingers all stuck together, opening the door just a fraction more. I invited
her to come in, but she shied away at the sound of my voice. I was so bored,
and so lonely at my grandmother’s house, I just wanted a friend to play with,
just someone to relieve the monotony of each day spent there, and she was
unwilling to come and play with me. Eventually, however, I coerced her into the
room.
I guess the reason I loved her so much, was because
whenever I was in that house I felt unloved, and uncared for. When she was
around, it was all about me, which is selfish I know, but for a brief amount of
time, it was what I needed, because I wasn’t getting that kind of attention
anywhere else.
After that first night I would look forward to visiting
my grandmother’s every week. Me and the mannequin would play almost every night,
once everyone had gone to sleep. We played lots of games, but out favourite was
always hide and seek. Sometime she would be lying under my bed with her
motionless hand sticking out, or she would be hiding in my wardrobe with the
door open just a crack so her inanimate eyes could peek to see if I was coming.
It was more fun than usual because we had to be extra quiet, so we didn’t wake
anyone. This went on for some time, until one night we made a little too much
noise.
We woke my sister.
She emerged from her bedroom, and her mannequin ran away
and hid. She asked me what the hell I thought I was doing, and I told her
everything. Needless to say she didn’t believe me, she told me I was being
stupid and that I should go back to sleep. I insisted that I was telling the
truth, but she refused to believe me, eventually however, after some persistence,
she agreed to let me show her.
We ventured down the stairs and into the front room where
the mannequin stood, still and lifeless. However, no amount of convincing or coercion
could wake her from her slumber, and eventually my sister returned to her room, and I returned
to mine, confused and disappointed.
I knew she was shy, but I didn’t understand why she did
not want to play with my sister as well as me.
I was determined to prove it to her, not matter what. The
next time we stayed at my grandmother’s house, I told my sister to hide in the
wardrobe, so she would be able to see that I was telling the truth when her
mannequin decided to visit me that night. She reluctantly agreed, stating that
she was only doing it to ‘prove me wrong’ so that I could give up my ‘stupid
story’.
Night came, and I settled into bed as usual. Time passed
slowly, and I soon became fearful that she wouldn’t show. I came close to
admitting defeat, maybe I had in fact, imagined it all, but just as I was about
to tell my sister she was right and that she could leave, I heard a familiar
creak sound from the stairs. I was overcome with excitement as she appeared at
the door. However, she wasn’t smiling like usual, something was wrong.
She entered without hesitation and sat on my bedside. She
was silent, and wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Your sister- she can’t know about me- about us.” Her
voice sounded tired, and hoarse.
“Why?”
“She wouldn’t understand.” That was all she said to me.
I remember beginning to cry and the mannequin holding me
in her cold, solid and unmoving arms. The rest has faded from my memory.
When my sister emerged from the wardrobe, once her
mannequin was gone, she didn’t speak a word, instead she simply left the room
in silence, her eyes wide, and went to bed.
The next day our parents picked us up. When we arrived home,
my sister asked to speak to them in private- without me. She’s excluding me again! I thought to myself. I don’t know for
certain what she told them, but I can imagine it was about what had happened
the night previously, because when they came back there was a lot of crying and
hugging- from my mother at least- from my father; there was only anger.
I didn’t see my grandmother again after that day. We
never stayed the night, or even visited, I didn’t really understand why. My
main reason for returning of course was for the mannequin, but my parents would
never let me go back. According to my mother, my grandmother had done something
extremely ‘bad’ and according to my father she was a ‘monster’
I don’t remember a monster, I only remember the
mannequin.
It became clearer to me in time what had truly happened
in that house. I cannot remember the reality, but honestly I don’t think I want
to, I much prefer to recall the mannequin.
Although it is no longer a source of obsession, not
anymore, now she simply haunts my dreams, my nightmares, and I cannot remove
those apathetic eyes from my mind.
