Just a Paper Doll
The song is by Kittie…therefore it doesn't belong to me. However, I do own the characters and the story. Please read and review!
I've always wanted to be something. I've always wanted to be special and different and a girl who everybody wants to have as a friend. But I suppose I've only had that dream since I knew it would never be mine. They say that everybody has something about them, whether they're beautiful, intelligent or have a special talent, there's always something. I suppose in that way I have always been different. There's nothing particular about me; nothing that makes me stand out in any crowd. Each day, in the same tedious and monotonous fashion, I'm never noticed by anybody. I go to school, skulking around corridors, hanging out by myself at lunchtime in a darkened area somewhere, and I do my work. I don't do it well; I don't draw attention to myself in class by asking or answering questions, or by getting halfway decent grades. The teachers have given up on me…they did that a long time ago now. They've complained to my parents many a time that I show absolutely no interest, and I don't have that hidden spark that so many of the other promising students do. In other words, I'm a waste of their time. My parents show no interest either, so I guess I'm content to be a waste of everyone's time. I'm ordinary. I hate being ordinary, but then again, I've never known anything different.
I'm not like Angela. Angela, who is beautiful and tall and slim. Model-like Angela. I hate her, but I worship her. She's my most convenient enemy and yet she's an idol to me. I wish I could be like her…I wish I could be her. She's perfect, my Angela, with her long blonde tresses and young girl's figure, her clear, flawless skin, tainted by a very slight amount of makeup. She doesn't need to ruin her natural beauty with artificial and gaudy colours on her face. Her eyes are emerald, and unlike my blue eyes, they don't turn red in photographs. I look like a devil creature, with bloodshot eyes and a shocking expression, but Angela wouldn't look out of place with a halo hovering above her. I have many photographs of her. I love to take pictures of her and I love to draw her. I'm not good at drawing, but there is a similar likeness to her. I could never capture the beauty she exudes; grasp the purity of her nature, of her whole being. I keep the pictures in my cupboard, where no one will find them. My mother thinks I'm strange anyway, but she would never be able to understand my love for Angela. That would be forbidden completely…I know it would be dirty and wrong, and I could never pollute Angela's image to anyone in that way, not even someone as unimportant as my mother.
I Look At her In That Paper Dress.
I Wonder Why She Won't Burn.
She's Just A Paper Doll,
That's All, Just A Paper Doll
I'm watching her right now, as I keep to myself at school. I can see her through the chain-link fence as she stands on the other side, laughing with one of her friends. I would give anything to be one of the friends who make her laugh, that sweet tinkling sound, although I can barely hear it. Curse the wind for taking her pretty sound away from me. The wind, though, however much it howls, will never take away the seamless image I have in my mind of her. The clear, pure and transcendent image that she projects.
Weeks go by slowly for me. There is nothing major in my life at all; I have no keen interests that enable me to get out. So I devote my time to her. I'm glad that I don't have any friends. They would take away those precious minutes that I need to perfect my imaginary existence where Angela knows who I am. My mother is too interfering as it is, always wanting to know why I don't have any friends, why I don't go out more often, and why I don't make an effort to be liked or to look nice. She would be horrified to know that she has a daughter who likes girls. Only one girl though. Only Angela.
It's been a few months now, since I first started to dedicate myself to her. She still has no idea who I am, but tends to avoid me in corridors if ever I pass her, or divert her eyes to anywhere but me. I heard that her friends have been telling her that I'm obsessed with her; that I'm always watching her wherever she goes. And they think I'm creepy. People refer to me as "the dyke that fancies Angela". I don't care what they think; I've always ignored them anyway. I hate to associate myself with any of them; none of them are on her level. But I'm becoming fidgety. Not to tell her anything about me, or to become conversationally adept with her, but to stop her from shamelessly flirting with boys. It upsets me. Not to know that she likes boys and not girls. I don't want her to lose that innocence…that wonderful purity that she possesses, and it envelops her like a delicious scent. A heady scent that I feel the need to inhale all the time, like a drug that I'm dangerously addicted to. A narcotic, but one that only invokes the most pleasant of dreams.
I Dress Her Up She Knocks Me down
They Try Her On For Size, she Fits Nice.
One Size Fits All
I hate the new thing that she does with her hair. She flicks it when she's talking to boys, and I can tell that she's flirting. And it starts to make me angry. What is she trying to do? She's making a statement and they're receiving clear signals that she's willing to lose her wholesomeness. I hate it.
She's seeing someone now. He's her regular boyfriend and she seems extremely taken with him. I can see through the way he regards her. He's only looking for one thing. But she's naïve. She thinks he actually loves her, for her personality and her beauty. Nothing to do with her virginity, the fact that he could take something so precious from her. Something she'd never get back. My poor, sweet, silly Angela. If only I could talk to you, warn you of the disaster that you're embarking upon. I can't look at you in the same way, knowing that he's going to take that essence from you. The essence of your perfume, your glory, your pride over everybody else. That one thing that makes you better than all of them. And I can't stand to think of you with someone else that isn't me. I wouldn't force you to do anything, Angela. My love is pure, just as you are. Why are you persisting in this downward spiral? It can only end in tears and bloodshed.
Now Her Soul Is Dead, Now Her Bodies Raw,
You Can Numb Her Pain
One day she comes into school looking brighter than usual. She's giggling uncontrollably with her friends and they're appearing surprised with lit faces and curious expressions. I can hear them talking, but even before hearing their words, I can smell the scent of a male on her. He has ruined her already. My face drops in bitter disappointment. How could she do this to me? Didn't she realise that it could only be me? I'm the only one who could ever make her happy. She should know. How could she do that to herself? To her own body. She disposed of part of her without a given thought. I feel disgusted with her. I thought she was different from all the others, but now I can see that she is just as impure and worthless as they are. Her soul is bleeding now, and I have the bitter taste of her blood in my mouth, making my tongue swell and barely enabling me to breathe.
Watch The Blood Run Down Her Face.
But Don't Take Notice.
Watch The Blood Run Down Her Arms.
Please Don't Take Notice.
I've burned many of her pictures now and then drowned the charred remains in my astringent disillusionment. I can't forget her though, she never manages to leave my head, and so I still watch her from time to time, wondering why she torched herself. She continues to be happy at school for a couple of weeks, often in the company of the boyfriend who stole her chastity. But at some stage, this being after I have lost all track of time, and the days all seem to merge into each other, she trudges up to her friends, looking downtrodden, and I realise that I was right all along, and she's now been dumped because he took the spark of light that was within her. He stole her essence and now she is nothing. Angela pretends not to care. She has now changed her flirtatious little head-flick into something defiant and rebellious, seemingly unperturbed by what has happened. She flirts with even more boys and I grow even angrier with her.
One day, I follow her out into a secluded park area. It's after school and because it's winter, it's already getting dark, but I'm curious as to where she's going, and why. The truth soon becomes obvious. She's gone to meet a boy, at his suggestion, and because she still holds a little bit of naivety, she has gone to meet him. I watch them from behind some bushes, and they are unaware of my presence. Angela is smiling and flirting and he keeps touching her. He leans forward to kiss her and at first she responds, but then becomes uncomfortable as his hands start to roam. I shift slightly in my position, willing her to walk away from him, to keep her dignity intact and treasure what little she has left of childhood innocence.
She roughly pushes him aside, shouting that she didn't want this, and begins to walk hurriedly away, but he catches up to her. He calls her a prick-teaser, and that his mate had boasted about "having her" so he wanted to have a ride as well. She starts to shout for help and to struggle against him as he forcibly kisses her again. She slaps him, but this only heightens his passion more and he rips her shirt. She looks at him, pleading with him, terrified of what he's going to do. But he is manic and doesn't care now.
I Know You Have Her Soul.
(And) I See It In Your Eyes.
She Knows You Have Her Soul.
(And) She Sees It In Your Eyes.
I don't care now. I stay behind the bush as I watch her thrashing, but he is much stronger and pins her to the ground, hitching up her skirt and roughly pushing aside her underwear, cursing as he violently enters her. I can hear her sobs. But they're lost to the wind.
After a few minutes, he's finished with her. She is exhausted from thrashing and crying and shuts her eyes against the world. The blinding hatred of the world. The boy walks away.
Now Her Soul Is Dead, Now Her Bodies Raw,
Wash away her pain.
She curls up, clutching her knees to her chest, crying uncontrollably, her whole body heaving. I stand up. I know she won't see me. She never does see me. She never did and she never will. I could have prevented all of this, but she never took notice and she chose to go her own way and give up her essence. She can't stand the anguish. She's slapping herself and tearing at her hair. She wants to get out of her head, out of her body.
She Wants You To Eat Her Pain.
I look at her, disgust contaminating me like a fatal disease.
She Wants You To Eat Her Remains
I walk away and I don't look back at her pathetic figure.
The song is by Kittie…therefore it doesn't belong to me. However, I do own the characters and the story. Please read and review!
I've always wanted to be something. I've always wanted to be special and different and a girl who everybody wants to have as a friend. But I suppose I've only had that dream since I knew it would never be mine. They say that everybody has something about them, whether they're beautiful, intelligent or have a special talent, there's always something. I suppose in that way I have always been different. There's nothing particular about me; nothing that makes me stand out in any crowd. Each day, in the same tedious and monotonous fashion, I'm never noticed by anybody. I go to school, skulking around corridors, hanging out by myself at lunchtime in a darkened area somewhere, and I do my work. I don't do it well; I don't draw attention to myself in class by asking or answering questions, or by getting halfway decent grades. The teachers have given up on me…they did that a long time ago now. They've complained to my parents many a time that I show absolutely no interest, and I don't have that hidden spark that so many of the other promising students do. In other words, I'm a waste of their time. My parents show no interest either, so I guess I'm content to be a waste of everyone's time. I'm ordinary. I hate being ordinary, but then again, I've never known anything different.
I'm not like Angela. Angela, who is beautiful and tall and slim. Model-like Angela. I hate her, but I worship her. She's my most convenient enemy and yet she's an idol to me. I wish I could be like her…I wish I could be her. She's perfect, my Angela, with her long blonde tresses and young girl's figure, her clear, flawless skin, tainted by a very slight amount of makeup. She doesn't need to ruin her natural beauty with artificial and gaudy colours on her face. Her eyes are emerald, and unlike my blue eyes, they don't turn red in photographs. I look like a devil creature, with bloodshot eyes and a shocking expression, but Angela wouldn't look out of place with a halo hovering above her. I have many photographs of her. I love to take pictures of her and I love to draw her. I'm not good at drawing, but there is a similar likeness to her. I could never capture the beauty she exudes; grasp the purity of her nature, of her whole being. I keep the pictures in my cupboard, where no one will find them. My mother thinks I'm strange anyway, but she would never be able to understand my love for Angela. That would be forbidden completely…I know it would be dirty and wrong, and I could never pollute Angela's image to anyone in that way, not even someone as unimportant as my mother.
I Look At her In That Paper Dress.
I Wonder Why She Won't Burn.
She's Just A Paper Doll,
That's All, Just A Paper Doll
I'm watching her right now, as I keep to myself at school. I can see her through the chain-link fence as she stands on the other side, laughing with one of her friends. I would give anything to be one of the friends who make her laugh, that sweet tinkling sound, although I can barely hear it. Curse the wind for taking her pretty sound away from me. The wind, though, however much it howls, will never take away the seamless image I have in my mind of her. The clear, pure and transcendent image that she projects.
Weeks go by slowly for me. There is nothing major in my life at all; I have no keen interests that enable me to get out. So I devote my time to her. I'm glad that I don't have any friends. They would take away those precious minutes that I need to perfect my imaginary existence where Angela knows who I am. My mother is too interfering as it is, always wanting to know why I don't have any friends, why I don't go out more often, and why I don't make an effort to be liked or to look nice. She would be horrified to know that she has a daughter who likes girls. Only one girl though. Only Angela.
It's been a few months now, since I first started to dedicate myself to her. She still has no idea who I am, but tends to avoid me in corridors if ever I pass her, or divert her eyes to anywhere but me. I heard that her friends have been telling her that I'm obsessed with her; that I'm always watching her wherever she goes. And they think I'm creepy. People refer to me as "the dyke that fancies Angela". I don't care what they think; I've always ignored them anyway. I hate to associate myself with any of them; none of them are on her level. But I'm becoming fidgety. Not to tell her anything about me, or to become conversationally adept with her, but to stop her from shamelessly flirting with boys. It upsets me. Not to know that she likes boys and not girls. I don't want her to lose that innocence…that wonderful purity that she possesses, and it envelops her like a delicious scent. A heady scent that I feel the need to inhale all the time, like a drug that I'm dangerously addicted to. A narcotic, but one that only invokes the most pleasant of dreams.
I Dress Her Up She Knocks Me down
They Try Her On For Size, she Fits Nice.
One Size Fits All
I hate the new thing that she does with her hair. She flicks it when she's talking to boys, and I can tell that she's flirting. And it starts to make me angry. What is she trying to do? She's making a statement and they're receiving clear signals that she's willing to lose her wholesomeness. I hate it.
She's seeing someone now. He's her regular boyfriend and she seems extremely taken with him. I can see through the way he regards her. He's only looking for one thing. But she's naïve. She thinks he actually loves her, for her personality and her beauty. Nothing to do with her virginity, the fact that he could take something so precious from her. Something she'd never get back. My poor, sweet, silly Angela. If only I could talk to you, warn you of the disaster that you're embarking upon. I can't look at you in the same way, knowing that he's going to take that essence from you. The essence of your perfume, your glory, your pride over everybody else. That one thing that makes you better than all of them. And I can't stand to think of you with someone else that isn't me. I wouldn't force you to do anything, Angela. My love is pure, just as you are. Why are you persisting in this downward spiral? It can only end in tears and bloodshed.
Now Her Soul Is Dead, Now Her Bodies Raw,
You Can Numb Her Pain
One day she comes into school looking brighter than usual. She's giggling uncontrollably with her friends and they're appearing surprised with lit faces and curious expressions. I can hear them talking, but even before hearing their words, I can smell the scent of a male on her. He has ruined her already. My face drops in bitter disappointment. How could she do this to me? Didn't she realise that it could only be me? I'm the only one who could ever make her happy. She should know. How could she do that to herself? To her own body. She disposed of part of her without a given thought. I feel disgusted with her. I thought she was different from all the others, but now I can see that she is just as impure and worthless as they are. Her soul is bleeding now, and I have the bitter taste of her blood in my mouth, making my tongue swell and barely enabling me to breathe.
Watch The Blood Run Down Her Face.
But Don't Take Notice.
Watch The Blood Run Down Her Arms.
Please Don't Take Notice.
I've burned many of her pictures now and then drowned the charred remains in my astringent disillusionment. I can't forget her though, she never manages to leave my head, and so I still watch her from time to time, wondering why she torched herself. She continues to be happy at school for a couple of weeks, often in the company of the boyfriend who stole her chastity. But at some stage, this being after I have lost all track of time, and the days all seem to merge into each other, she trudges up to her friends, looking downtrodden, and I realise that I was right all along, and she's now been dumped because he took the spark of light that was within her. He stole her essence and now she is nothing. Angela pretends not to care. She has now changed her flirtatious little head-flick into something defiant and rebellious, seemingly unperturbed by what has happened. She flirts with even more boys and I grow even angrier with her.
One day, I follow her out into a secluded park area. It's after school and because it's winter, it's already getting dark, but I'm curious as to where she's going, and why. The truth soon becomes obvious. She's gone to meet a boy, at his suggestion, and because she still holds a little bit of naivety, she has gone to meet him. I watch them from behind some bushes, and they are unaware of my presence. Angela is smiling and flirting and he keeps touching her. He leans forward to kiss her and at first she responds, but then becomes uncomfortable as his hands start to roam. I shift slightly in my position, willing her to walk away from him, to keep her dignity intact and treasure what little she has left of childhood innocence.
She roughly pushes him aside, shouting that she didn't want this, and begins to walk hurriedly away, but he catches up to her. He calls her a prick-teaser, and that his mate had boasted about "having her" so he wanted to have a ride as well. She starts to shout for help and to struggle against him as he forcibly kisses her again. She slaps him, but this only heightens his passion more and he rips her shirt. She looks at him, pleading with him, terrified of what he's going to do. But he is manic and doesn't care now.
I Know You Have Her Soul.
(And) I See It In Your Eyes.
She Knows You Have Her Soul.
(And) She Sees It In Your Eyes.
I don't care now. I stay behind the bush as I watch her thrashing, but he is much stronger and pins her to the ground, hitching up her skirt and roughly pushing aside her underwear, cursing as he violently enters her. I can hear her sobs. But they're lost to the wind.
After a few minutes, he's finished with her. She is exhausted from thrashing and crying and shuts her eyes against the world. The blinding hatred of the world. The boy walks away.
Now Her Soul Is Dead, Now Her Bodies Raw,
Wash away her pain.
She curls up, clutching her knees to her chest, crying uncontrollably, her whole body heaving. I stand up. I know she won't see me. She never does see me. She never did and she never will. I could have prevented all of this, but she never took notice and she chose to go her own way and give up her essence. She can't stand the anguish. She's slapping herself and tearing at her hair. She wants to get out of her head, out of her body.
She Wants You To Eat Her Pain.
I look at her, disgust contaminating me like a fatal disease.
She Wants You To Eat Her Remains
I walk away and I don't look back at her pathetic figure.