Sometimes I wonder if she even remembers me.
I try not to think about it, try not to let my mind linger on the alternative, but whenever she sits on her bed without a second thought, I can't help but question if she knows that I'm lying under it, and have been for five years now.
She first stashed me under there at age ten, and while I was a bit confused, I had no doubts that, in no time, she would retrieve me. I mean, until then, we'd been practically inseparable.
I was gifted to her as a Christmas present when she was six years old. My appearance was custom-designed on some app to look like hers--same curly red hair, same green eyes. I still remember her squealing, hugging me to her chest, and naming me Fiona the Second (she was Fiona the First, of course). From then on, I knew we would be the best of friends.
And we were, for a time. I was the most popular doll in her quite colossal stash, and we went on countless adventures propelled by her imagination: a glistening golden castle surrounded by a blooming garden, a deep, dark forest where elves and fairies roamed, a tropical paradise with rollicking waves and swaying coconut trees. I was her plus-one to all her friends' birthday parties, and we would coordinate outfits, accessories, and hairdos. It was the life, you could say.
However, when she turned ten, I noticed our visits becoming steadily more infrequent. She had begun to pursue other interests, such as graphic novels and lip gloss and crafting, and hardly ever paid a visit to her dollhouses of old. She still sometimes played with me, but I no longer was led on fantasy adventures--instead, she would choose a male doll to pair me with and create some sort of drama where one of us liked the other, or we were together, or we broke up, and so on. The so-called "whirlwind romances" really did make my head spin, especially because I was not at all interested in any of the male dolls. I much preferred the fairytale quests and fanciful stories.
Then one day, her mother asked her to take inventory of her belongings and put whatever she hadn't currently been playing with under her bed. She had done this several times before in the past few years, and I would always watch with secret smugness as she dragged other dolls over to that foresaken dark, dank place, never once considering bringing me with them. However, that year, to my complete terror, she brought me there along with the entirety of her doll collection, all of us shoved together in a huge plastic bundle in her arms. Which was absurd, because I was Fiona the Second, her namesake. I wasn't one of them, and I never had been. Which was how I knew she would come back to me, in time. At least...I thought so. I hoped so.
I was wrong.
As I said, I have been lying under there for five years now, stuck in a pile of dolls, toy trucks, picture books, and all of her other memories from childhood that she never seems to revisit. From the secretive darkness of this spot that I now call home, I have watched her grow up. I have witnessed her first period, her first kiss, her first heartbreak. I was there when she was accepted to spend the summer at a teen art workshop just last month. I couldn't help but fill with pride--she was still the same little girl who loved nothing more than drawing imaginary worlds. Even though she looks nothing like me now, with all her straightened hair and makeup, I am still Fiona the Second, and I always will be.
So here I lie, in eternal silence, wasting my days away. Hoping and praying that one of these days she'll just look under her bed...
I try not to think about it, try not to let my mind linger on the alternative, but whenever she sits on her bed without a second thought, I can't help but question if she knows that I'm lying under it, and have been for five years now.
She first stashed me under there at age ten, and while I was a bit confused, I had no doubts that, in no time, she would retrieve me. I mean, until then, we'd been practically inseparable.
I was gifted to her as a Christmas present when she was six years old. My appearance was custom-designed on some app to look like hers--same curly red hair, same green eyes. I still remember her squealing, hugging me to her chest, and naming me Fiona the Second (she was Fiona the First, of course). From then on, I knew we would be the best of friends.
And we were, for a time. I was the most popular doll in her quite colossal stash, and we went on countless adventures propelled by her imagination: a glistening golden castle surrounded by a blooming garden, a deep, dark forest where elves and fairies roamed, a tropical paradise with rollicking waves and swaying coconut trees. I was her plus-one to all her friends' birthday parties, and we would coordinate outfits, accessories, and hairdos. It was the life, you could say.
However, when she turned ten, I noticed our visits becoming steadily more infrequent. She had begun to pursue other interests, such as graphic novels and lip gloss and crafting, and hardly ever paid a visit to her dollhouses of old. She still sometimes played with me, but I no longer was led on fantasy adventures--instead, she would choose a male doll to pair me with and create some sort of drama where one of us liked the other, or we were together, or we broke up, and so on. The so-called "whirlwind romances" really did make my head spin, especially because I was not at all interested in any of the male dolls. I much preferred the fairytale quests and fanciful stories.
Then one day, her mother asked her to take inventory of her belongings and put whatever she hadn't currently been playing with under her bed. She had done this several times before in the past few years, and I would always watch with secret smugness as she dragged other dolls over to that foresaken dark, dank place, never once considering bringing me with them. However, that year, to my complete terror, she brought me there along with the entirety of her doll collection, all of us shoved together in a huge plastic bundle in her arms. Which was absurd, because I was Fiona the Second, her namesake. I wasn't one of them, and I never had been. Which was how I knew she would come back to me, in time. At least...I thought so. I hoped so.
I was wrong.
As I said, I have been lying under there for five years now, stuck in a pile of dolls, toy trucks, picture books, and all of her other memories from childhood that she never seems to revisit. From the secretive darkness of this spot that I now call home, I have watched her grow up. I have witnessed her first period, her first kiss, her first heartbreak. I was there when she was accepted to spend the summer at a teen art workshop just last month. I couldn't help but fill with pride--she was still the same little girl who loved nothing more than drawing imaginary worlds. Even though she looks nothing like me now, with all her straightened hair and makeup, I am still Fiona the Second, and I always will be.
So here I lie, in eternal silence, wasting my days away. Hoping and praying that one of these days she'll just look under her bed...
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