A strange stillness is about a doll who sits in a chair at a table. Her skinny arms look as though a cat used her wooden stock to sharpen its nails. The once polished wood hangs unnaturally at her sides, as though she is a puppet, instead of the proper doll she is, put to rest in chair, unable to hold any form on her own. Her pale, pointed chin is propped up against the desk in which she sits at. All of the pink paint on her cheeks has worn away, leaving the pine stripes on her face. Time has pitted the glass her eyes were made of, as her eyes can't close. Her red hair is scattered over her skinny shoulders and has the texture of the plastic fuzz of a little girl's tortured Barbie doll.
She is in a small, dull, Biology I classroom, with many other children her age chatting quietly. They sit upright on their own. A round, cherry red Coca Cola clock is on the wall; its sound vibrating around the still room. The room is a gloomy grey, with buzzing electric lights, because it has no windows. In fact, it is a normal room by all accounts, except no one notices the wretched doll but me. I can't look away.
Finally the end of period bell sounds, cutting through the heavy quiet. The doll raises her head, and stands up slowly, wooden joints squeaking. "Quit staring at me," she says. Her lips don't move, but through the crack where teeth should be, I see a speaker. "You're kinda freaking me out."