A room.

Just a room.

Dark walls. Dark bookshelf. Shadows. No colors.

A carpet. A round carpet. A woven carpet. The broken doll sat on a woven carpet. She looked between her legs. Her right leg was covered in ice. It wouldn’t move. Her legs wouldn’t move.

Thin palms pressed into thick carpet. Something crawled under her palm. It tried to escape, but she clutched it. She clutched it.

It tried to escape, but she clutched it.

The walls had outlines of shelves. The shelves had outlines of books. Horizontal and vertical architecture. No color.

A television. It was one of those old televisions made of wood and as big as a lion. The screen remained gray. It looked dusty.

Where were her glasses?

A remote control of black and gray had little rectangular buttons. But she couldn’t see the numbers. All the buttons looked the same. It clicked when pressed.

Click. Click. Crunch. Click. Click.

It was so gray and dull and lifeless. If only it had more color.

Click. Crunch. Click. Click. Click.

Suddenly where there had been so little light, there was brightness. Where there had been silence, there was sound. The static of the television screen buzzed over her body.

She sniffed.

This place was thought. Pure thought. The static buzzed against her face.

Click. Crunch. Click. Crunch.

The remote refuse to work. She sniffed again. A hot wet ran down her cheek. Then again. Then again, then down her other cheek. She sniffed.

Static buzzed against her face. The remote didn’t work. Could there be a word in the static? Shhheeee vvvveeeee uuuuuuhhhh pop shhheeeee. No, it was just static, just nonsense.

She stared into the screen. Static pelted her face. The television was too big. Too old. Static pelted her face. Hot wet ran down her cheek.

There had to be more to this room. There wasn’t. She blinked. She gasped. She clutched her heart and heaved. The remote crawled against her chest. A gulp pushed nothing down her throat.

The static didn’t change. It never changed. It just felt louder. She didn’t care anymore. She needed to let it out. Static. Sobbing. Static. Sobbing. It came down heavier, hot, and wet like static. The television screamed and danced incomprehensible images in front of her face.

Shadows crept along the wall. They avoided the static. But she didn’t want to do anything about it.

Where was her corner? Where was her book? Where were her glasses? Where was her wall?

Her hand gripped around the remote as it tried to escape.

This room was dull.

This room was gray.

This room was afraid.

The room was static.

And why shouldn’t it be!? Other rooms only took care of themselves anyway. Other rooms tried to show off and be something they weren’t. Other rooms tried to break her more! Like they were so special because they weren't broken!

The window cracked. The jagged line ran across the bottom left pane. She sniffed.

This room broke more.

She clutched her heart and sobbed. So utterly and totally worthless a heart. Who would want to live in a place like this? Everything was dull. Everything was gray. Shadows crept along furniture glued to the walls. Empty frames hung on the dull faded wallpaper. The architecture was vertical. The architecture was horizontal.

The television flickered into a series of horizontal and vertical black and white lines before shifting back into static. She sniffed. Hot wet run down her cheeks. Hot wet soaked the carpet.

Legs skittered over her heart. Her head slumped. Tears dripped. The remote ran away.

She felt her heart beating like the hammering of nails. Pins and needles tickled her icy right leg. Deep breaths flowed between her lips.

Voices flowed out of the static.

You can’t leave here. This is where you belong. You can’t change. Never wake up.

She heaved. She sobbed. This was where she belonged. A shadow hugged the wall. A great bull with harsh glowing red eyes. It had the only color in this monochromatic space. A harsh judging red that made her legs shake and increased her sobbing.

“I don’t want to play with you. You’re a broken doll.”

Crying stopped. Stitched lips wouldn’t move. Stitched eyes wouldn’t close. Cotton spread across the floor from a torn leg. The doll sat limply. Static poured over the face of a doll made from fabric scraps and porcelain shards.

“I don’t even want you as a sacrifice to my realm. You disgust me. I want to erase you.”

No response.

What could a doll say?

What could a doll do?

Nobody had ever liked her. Come to think of it, she didn’t even have any friends. There were people she knew, but did that even count? How many real friends could she count?

A string of report cards and evaluation sheets lined up in an arch with the horridly itchy carpet.

Trouble making friends.

Doesn’t work well with others.

Wanders off to herself.

Doesn’t pay attention in class.

Mister and Mrs. Sheffield, Your child sat in the corner all day with a book and refused to move or participate in activities. We need to have a meeting to resolve her unusual behavior and determine the origin of these problems.

Poor coordination.

Mister and Mrs. Sheffield, please teach your child that it is not acceptable to bite others.

Frequently self isolates.

Why did she have to look at this? Why did she have to remember this? What kind of dysfunctional, broken... doll...

A sharp stabbing pain twisted her stomach.

You never paid me back!

That’s right, that’s all anyone ever cared about. Money. The thing that was the least important. Money.

Never.

Paid.

Me.

Back.

Back!

The broken doll sat as static pelted its face. Evaluations from grade school littered the old carpet. The shadow bull with the chaotically insane heart refused to come close. Yet it badly wanted to dispose of her. Most of the world didn’t care whether this doll became trash or treasure anyway.

But? How had she not seen any of this before? Water returned to the eyes of the doll. Sobbing resumed. Despite everything, it was what he’d been trying to say all along. He wanted her to come back.

She had a friend. She actually had a friend.

The fabric of her hand manifested a peanut bar: PAYOUT. The orange and blue of the wording could be seen against the static. Her fingers wrapped around it. And the doll cried, sobbed so hard that hot wet streamed down her clothes once again.

But she smiled too.

Statistics appeared amidst the television’s static. The stat of her spirit couldn’t fit. The numbers blurred into a figure-eight loop. Then the number nine filled the screen. It ran repeatedly across the static. The screen filled with a static of pinks, purples, reds, oranges, blues, and greens that colored her face. The remote skittered up her leg and returned to her hand

The room quaked. A snake erupted from the tongue of the shadow bull. It hissed frantically.

You’re worthless! Nobody likes you! Your brain is abnormal! Nobody cares. You can’t do anything right! Nobody thinks you're pretty. You break everything you touch. Your parents only tolerated you because they had too! You can’t make friends! You don’t pay attention! You can’t manage money! You’re weak! Everybody you meet is secretly disgusted by you! You're flat chested. They talk about you behind your back. You’re frail. Your power is garbage! Look at what the others can do! What have you accomplished!? How do you expect to compete with any of them!? YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING! You're Worthless!

The broken doll craned its head and looked at the bull.

“I don’t like you,” Circe said, “Please leave.”

The bull screeched before it became dissipating static. Circe wrapped her hands around the candy bar and sobbed. How had she not seen it? He was being kind, to her of all people. All the trouble she had put him through and yet he actually found the time to help her. She just- she just- never noticed.

She needed to do better.

The screen flickered.

Creation: Birth of all things.

Preservation: Nurture of all things.

Destruction: Erasure of all things.

Restoration: Return of all things.

Alteration: Balance of all things.

It ties the others together. How had she not seen this? How had she not known this? How could she possibly forget this?

“I'm going to forget this?”

A soft soothing hand caressed her cheek, “Of course you will. But you won’t forget everything. You won’t forget how you felt. Because you’re not a statistic. You’re not a number. You’re not a grade. You’re a beating heart. You're a mind. You are energy. You are emotion. You struggle. You will always struggle. Because you're human.”

Circe turned around, “Dad?”

But nobody could be seen in the room with her.

“Just a memory,” Circe blushed as water ran from her nose and dripped off her chin, “He always tried to make me feel better in such a goofy way. How come I never saw it before? They really did love me. I'm sorry. But I can't fix it now. I'm dead. But, I’ll try harder to do better here.”

She fell on her back and started laughing as she sobbed. An outpouring of spirit covered the room with colorful energy. It brightened every corner and chased all the shadows away. And yet she was under no illusion that those shadows wouldn’t be back. They were very real, and very bad, and very strong, but she would do her best.

Circe laughed and cried. Water ran from her nose and her eyes. Her hands couldn’t stop wiping it away. The television popped; the screen cracked from the inability to contain the accounting of her spirit. Rays of sunlight streamed through the broken windows.

This was her room. Full of color and sunlight.

It was still broken. More broken than ever.

But it was her heart.

And somehow, Circe felt happy.