A MANNEQUIN

In class it feels like I cannot move.

The seminar starts and I am welded to my chair, too brain dead to find the way to pick-up a pen and carve some nonsensical words onto a page. It is like someone pressed pause on my TV programme but pressed fast forward on everyone else’s. Their brains seem to whir incessantly, new ideas forming by the minute as they hungrily devour each new word on the page.

Whereas, I am a mannequin. I show all the outward signs of life, superficially I am there with them but behind the layers of clothing and the appearance of humanity, I am simply a faceless, brainless figure.

I am held in time, unable to function in the classroom I am trapped in. I want to scream in frustration and run away in fear but instead I just stare blankly into space. The professor may catch my eye but quickly he looks away, disturbed by the eerily empty gaze he has happened upon.

I am Isobel. I am a mannequin. I’m not very well.

 

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