A Perfect Dream

Before I knew it, dreams felt better to be in than reality.

I dreamed that my family was perfect. I had a mother that took care of me. Who was never stressed out about having to pay the bills because Father was always there supporting her.

Mother crafted dolls that were beloved by all and fetched a pretty penny. Because of that, we lived in a nice house, where she cooked me food every day. She spent just enough time on her crafts while I was at school, so weekends were about going to fun places and playing all day.

I found myself loving the same craft as her, not because that was the only thing we could do to connect, but because I felt pride in being able to please her. She even helped me make my first doll, one that looked just like me! Honing my dollmaking gave me a sense of purpose as I filled my room with all sorts of dolls based on the wonderful people in my life.

In that way, she raised me perfectly so that I never felt lonely or sad. And that the neighbors around us became jealous at how amazing of a family we were.

My school life was perfect as well. Even if I didn’t want to be popular, I made friends along the way. Somehow, even the bullies at school found it difficult to stay mad at me. We went on adventures and became the best of friends. Of course, we got into arguments. Sometimes, we had epic fights, but we always seemed to make up in the end.

The most popular girl at school found me interesting as well. I noticed her, and she noticed me. We spent our lunch periods making other people jealous, eating lunch together while flirting. How perfect it was to find someone who didn’t judge appearances, who became enamored by my talents, and who didn’t hesitate to prioritize my desires.

My studies went well because my teachers saw how wonderful of an environment that I lived in, supported by many who cared about me. Even still, they knew when to step in whenever someone decided to be unfair. They always saw the problem before things got bad. I was fortunate to go to school every day with no worries about whether something I did was looked upon poorly.

That was such a wonderful dream. So much so that I thought about it every day.

As Mother ignored my pleas for attention.

As she spent all day crying over a craft that left little to show for but mountains of failures and wasted effort.

As I stayed home, playing with nothing but scraps I swiped from her room.

As I felt different that I wasn’t like the other children. That Mother and I were seen as recluses that no one wanted to bother with.

As there was no escape even at school, where the easiest target to tease was the poor and dirty kid.

As girls balked at my presence, unable to look me in the eye. Much less consider that I was still a damn human being at the end of the day.

As even the teachers had given up, since my situation was too bothersome for what they were paid for.

Certainly… dreams were so much better than recognizing the reality before me.

But somewhere along the way, I started forgetting what it was like for reality to mean something to me. After all, the only ones I could talk to were the dolls in my room.

Dolls never avoided me. They never said no to my requests. Nor did they do anything to hurt me. I realized that I could do anything to them – make them become anything, anyone. If I snipped a piece of hair and sewed it into them, then it would be like a part of me was experiencing it for myself. And by giving them names, it was like a spell was cast to create the perfect world I wished to be in. That way, my dreams could be fulfilled, no matter how far-fetched they were.

I played and played until the dolls became dirty from my sweat and tears, ragged as the threads frayed and split. Until their button eyes fell off and the yarn holding them grew loose. I wasn’t as good as Mother at making them.

I knew that nothing good ever lasted. I had tasted how short any amount of joy in life could be. I noticed that others became good at burying their grief and finding outlets to cope with sadness.

My preferred way of doing so was a little nursery rhyme paired with a ritual of farewell.

Unravel… Unravel…

I heard Mother singing that every so often, her eyes crazed as she cut through her latest creation, woven full of love but ultimately a disappointment. I watched from the crack of a slightly open door as she took her grief out on the doll in her hands, letting out a sigh of relief afterward. That was how she made it through the day.

It seemed to work for me as well.

All the sorrow that soaked into me every day found its release at the end of scissor blades as I bade farewell to my own failures. Sung words on my lips felt like I was casting those bad things into the doll. The way that yarn popped as the bound strands were severed and the cut ends flew back made it seem like I could break the terrible things myself.

If I cut it off, then it would no longer bother me.

If the dolls I created to be perfect betrayed me in any way, then I could simply make new ones.

After all, what was reality anyways?

Why did suffering make something more real?

Why not live with only the good in life?

That was the only thing I could believe in, as I found everything outside of my room to be horribly broken. Irreparable and a lost cause.

At least with dolls, I could create new ones to substitute any shortcomings. Even with this borrowed skill that made ugly things, I could pretend that they were beautiful. Perfect even.

Because of that, I could no longer tell when something was a dream anymore.

All I knew was that no one would take it away from me.

No one would take my dolls away.

No one would kick me out.

No one. Not even Mother.

The sound of snipping drew close to my ear. Instantly, I knew that it didn’t come from me. Even being so self-absorbed, I couldn’t shut it all out. I could feel the strands behind my head being cut. I could sense something was being robbed.

I reached down to grab my own scissors, swinging wildly at the shadow that decided to ambush me.

“I SAID NO ONE!”

With a single stab, the shadow stepped back, holding its neck. It started to back away, but the damage had been too great. It crashed into the door and tumbled backward, granting me full control of this domain once again.

The dolls were mine and mine alone.

I looked down at the doll at my feet, one that resembled me. It was my most precious one, the very first I ever made. It was the only one to never bear a name. It was the only one that I would fix again and again. If a time came for me to end its life, then the dream would end with it.