Fiction Friday

Once again, I am linking up to The Red Dress Club's fiction meme Red Writing Hood. This week's prompt: "write a short piece of prose (or a poem if you so choose) from the perspective of a broken inanimate object."

From Barbie to Rambo, With Scorn

If I tell you I used to be beautiful, will you believe me?

It's all right, dahling. I wouldn't believe me.

My left eye has been gone since 1984. What do you mean what do I mean? It's gone. Rubbed off. Washed away. I'm not a fucking bath toy, you know.

Don't waste my time with such a ridiculous question. You know who I am. I'm an icon. An ICON. You know, dahling. A legend, a star, someone to emulate.

Emulate, dahling. To copy, to try to be. They all want to be me, you know. Jem and her friends used to try. Those swollen-headed Bratz girls. Even Dora, since she's started exploring adolescence. So many copies, Rainbow.

Oh, sorry, dahling. Rambo.

Tell me, you shirtless, painted-on-pants man, were you an icon?

What? Yes. Yes that is a hole in my hand. I used to have a ring. A ring. You know, a RING. Oh, you don't know. It's a bauble, dahling. An accessory. Did you have any accessories? Besides that headband, I mean.

AK-40 what? Oh. No, dahling. I've never seen anything like that. Packing? Certainly, Ken could pack. We had the most adorable pop-up camper. We'd pull it behind our pink van and get away, just the two of us, when Midge and Tracy and Skipper and the Dream House just became too much to-- What's that, dear? Heat? No, dahling, I don't think Ken packed that. The only bag he owned was from a "Rocking' Gym-Wear" line. It was racket-sized, really.

What about you? You're a well-built little figure. Did anyone copy you?

Oh, G.I.Joe. I met him once. He was on leave. Took him for a ride in my Corvette. A small man, but not at all small, dahling, if you know what I mean.

Well then, never mind. I'm certainly not going to explain it to you. That's not important anyway, dahlng. I think you're better equipped than Joe, but I do like thinking about him. About those days. I had my eyes and my original hair and the attic? I never though I'd even visit, much less take up residence.

What? Oh, no, dahling. This mess? It didn't used to look like this. I didn't come with spikes. In my box, I had waves that cascaded over my shoulders. That sounds cliche, doesn't it?

Cliche. You know, expected, unoriginal, tired. Like that streak of painted-on blood in the center of your cheek. Like my cornsilk hair and sky blue eyes. Like my name. Peaches and Cream. After my complexion and the chiffon ruffles of my ballgown. My god, I even had sparkly plastic slippers, you know, reminiscent of Cinderella.

Cinderella, dahling. The scullery-maid turned princess that all the little girls dreamed about. Even my little girl. She's not so little anymore, I bet.

Did you have a boy, Rambot-- sorry, Rambo?

Ah, that's a lovely name. What was he like?

You know, dahling, you can really tell a story, especially for a tough guy.

I'm sorry if my voice sounds dusty, dear. It's just-- I can picture him in my eye, the way you describe him, and when I see him, I see her, too. My little girl. The one who made me so ugly and always thought I was beautiful.

No, honey. I don't mean to smile.