Irises and violets spanned across the spectrum of purple. Crimson red roses contrasted against pure, white daisies. Echinaceas glittered with dew in the morning sun. The sky expanded before me and the bed of flowers in a blanket of blue freshness. Only had I dreamt of this moment.
I had made it but not without bloodshed.
Just hours before, I had been trapped in a warehouse where it was always hot and dark. People bustled around me, unbeknownst to my suffering. I saw their pain and mourned for them, yet I felt alone. There were others like me, forced to stand still as these workers pulled and pushed clothing onto us. The clothing was of the cheapest kind. I could tell by how stiffly it would rub against me and how easily it would tear.
The workers, mainly women, would sob if they tore something. I wanted to comfort them, but I was too scared. The people in black clothing would strut over if they so much as heard a thread snap. Backhands found the cheeks of many of these tired workers.
Their fingers would bleed, staining the pretty fabrics. My favorite was a black and white striped pattern, something I had heard them call zebra print. Yes, their fingers would bleed, blooming crimson onto the lighter fabrics, and again they would be struck to the ground.
The worst for me was the needle pricks. Hundreds, if not thousands, of times the workers would slip, jabbing my side or stomach or breast with a sewing needle. I wanted to flinch or strike out at them, but couldn’t. Most days I wondered how the clothing didn’t run red with my own blood.
Recently there was a new woman at the warehouse. Her face was battered and old. The people in black were harsh on her. They gave her no time to learn or adapt to the dim lighting.
Every day, I had a different worker forcing me into the same outfits over and over, and every day the workers had a new girl to force into clothing. I wasn’t the only one standing stiffly and uncomfortably in the warehouse. I watched the other girls cringe and close their eyes against the workers’ dreadful needles.
That day I had the new woman, not so new anymore I suppose. She mumbled under her breath anytime the people in black were outside of her range of hearing. It was a language I didn’t understand. Whispery words that sounded evil would pour out of her mouth for hours as she worked on me.
Toward the end of the work day, the woman stopped dead in her tracks. She seemed to think for a second, looking at the floor, then continued her work, sewing along my waistline. Kneeling down before me, she snapped her eyes to look into mine.
I felt naked and exposed as this woman stared into my eyes. No one had ever done so before. She stared for a good long while, her focus intense. I tried to look away but found myself transfixed into her dark gaze.
Would she ever look away? I wondered that as she continued to sew without looking down. Her mouth hung agape as she stared, almost as if she were surprised at what she saw.
I knew if I spoke up, she wouldn’t understand me, so I remained silent, our eyes glued together.
A person in black walked by, breaking her gaze. She looked down at her hands, silently tending to a hem. Even after they had walked away, she wouldn’t even glance at me.
I didn’t have her again for a few days, maybe weeks. Time didn’t exist in the warehouse. Only when workers would enter would I see a sliver of blue sky peek in through the doorway.
I tried to look into their eyes as they worked, staring with vigorous intent, but none gave a glance.
There came the day, that special day, where I had that woman again. Immediately she stared into my eyes. I felt naked yet again, in a deeper way than I usually was, as if this woman saw everything about me through my eyes.
She worked persistently that day, her mumbling growing louder the faster she worked. Nimble as her hands were, that needle kept finding its way to my body, piercing me over and over. Her eyes met mine, and she spoke loud and clear, only I still couldn’t recognize her tongue. She stood up straight, screaming at the top of her lungs and holding the needle with a raised fist. Down she brought it, fast and quick, where it landed in my chest.
I took a deep breath and let out a scream, the first scream I had ever uttered. Her eyes widened as much as her smile did. I ripped the needle from my chest and threw it at her. It bounced harmlessly off her stomach, landing on the dirty floor below.
Every eye in the room was on me, even the people in black. They all appeared stunned. Their gaze fell upon my chest. I looked down to spot a drop of blood oozing from the hole in my skin, something I had never seen before.
One of the people in black shouted something, and a bang like I’d never heard before rung my ears. The woman before me dropped to her knees, a spot of red blossoming in the same place my chest bled.
The warehouse erupted in running, screaming people, even the girls in half sewn clothes ran. I stood, still stiff and unsure before taking my first step off my platform. Never had I wanted to move so badly before. I stepped over the woman, my mind taken over by the mess of swirling skin and crimson before me. Screaming and thunderous cracks racked my brain, but in an instant I was able to focus. My breath came out of me like a locomotive as I charged for the door. Warm wetness sprayed me as people around me fell.
The door swung open, allowing people to push through, and there I saw the sweet blue sky. My bare feet slapped the concrete, splattering through dye and blood. Muscles burning and mind fraying as every second passed, I fell into the crowd swarming the door, and was finally shoved out into the sunlight.
The workers scattered like roaches, and I followed suit, following close behind a man with bloody hands. We dodged around buildings and through alleyways, and when he stopped to catch his breath, I barreled past him, determined to never be caught.
A life lived in darkness, I’ve never seen the sky so open. It took all of my focus to look at the ground and not up.
The buildings grew smaller and smaller as I ran down a road, becoming quaint houses rather than industrial warehouses. I stopped before one of these homes, staring at the garden in front.
The flowers dazzled my eyes. I had only ever seen these shapes and colors within fabric before. I leaned down to touch one, movement catching my eye. The front window of the house stared at me, and within it, my reflection was held.
I did not resemble the workers I saw, instead my skin shone unnaturally in the sunlight, glaring and glinting. My face did not express how I always imagined it did, rather, it remained in one fixed position: a sick smile exposing big, white teeth. I pulled at my face, praying it would feel like skin.
I am made of plastic and always have been, but my body moves like yours now, something I couldn’t have imagined. I have seen within your homes and stores. There are many others just like me, watching and waiting for their time.
Bodies may rot in the ground, but plastic is around forever.