Damselfly by Jennie Bates Bozic Page A

years older now, as am I. We have both grown into our faces and wear them with confidence. We know the landscape of the other’s body better than our own.
    Still, I hesitate to touch him. The featherweight blanket of quiet has settled upon us. I watch him sleeping, but staring and even touching is an intrusion into his space, a violation of his trust. And his trust is my most priceless treasure. I have fought to keep it with sweat and tears.
    Somehow, now, we are nearly the same size. I’m not sure how it happened. I don’t know how he forgave me for lying to him or what he said when he discovered the truth. I don’t know why he loves me, why he stays.
    But he does. And I do. I always will.
     
    I seal up my story within myself. I seal up my body, heart, and soul so they will remain safe. I seal myself inside of my bedcovers to block it all out.

Chapter 9
    It’s almost three o’clock in the morning, and I still haven’t fallen asleep. The glowing numbers on the clock cast a pale blue on the white wall. This is not my room, but I live here now. The only way I’m allowed to leave it is in a cage. They call it a “carrier trailer,” but it’s a cage.
    A seamless white pillow and a small metal chamber pot are the only pieces of furniture. The pillow is far too big, and I wake up in pain every morning from the lack of support. I have a small pile of my things on the floor that Jane took from my house: a few books, my toothbrush, and some pens and paper. That’s it.
    I alternate between blind rage and hopelessness. It’s an exhausting cocktail. Since that first day, my life has been an endless parade of photo shoots, costumes, and the Toms whom I’ve grown to resent. I have become the master of the fake smile. All Dr. Christiansen has to do is mouth the name “Jack” to me and I become the picture of happiness on the outside.
    I have an entourage now. They’re all former doll-makers, puppet costumers, and doll repair specialists. They come in each morning to stuff me into whatever “look” the show’s chief stylist has decided I should sport that day.
    The first thing they did was bleach out the purple dye from my hair. I was too tired to protest. If I’d realized I would be a Barbie when they were done, I would have made more of a fuss. Not that it would have done any good. They pull out their magnifying glasses to paint my face with makeup. They strip off my clothes without any thought for my privacy. I have learned to go silent, to hang on to my memories inside so I don’t go crazy. Then again, maybe insanity wouldn’t be so bad. I’m already locked in a white room with no means of killing myself. Why not go the extra mile and give them an actual, logical reason to keep me here?
    I stare up at the ceiling, eying the edges of the recessed lights. I haven’t been sleeping well since my birthday, and all of the days run together in my mind in one confusing blur. It actually seems surreal. I’m not sure all of this is happening to me. Except there, on the wall, is the shooting schedule for the show.
    I have two weeks to figure out what to do before they start taping me live and putting me on international television.
    Some small remnant of me in the corner of my mind keeps asking, Why? Why does Dr. Christiansen want this so badly? Why are there six of them and one of me? They are questions I should pursue. I should figure it out. But the rest of my soul is so very tired. It turns out apathy is stronger than life itself.
    I close my eyes. The little remnant keeps poking at me. Why?
    “Shut up,” I whisper to myself. “I want to go to sleep.”
    Why?
    My eyelids flutter open, and I scan the room as I search for answers inside my head. Dr. Christiansen has never been a pleasant woman, but she’s not one to do something without a reason. It might not be a reason I’d agree with, but there’d still be a reason. What logical explanation could she possibly have for putting me on the international stage and