Meet the Jettisoned.

Peering through this thick fog, I blink bleary eyes. There are shadows and shapes just out of my reach. My hands blindly search through the intangible vapor, so many evaporated and unshed tears that Alice herself would sail the world had they just been allowed to condense and fall. There are shades of deep, frigid blue that taint every surface further back than I am able to reach out and touch. A shaky breath in, and I reach further. Further into what feels like uncharted water, so blue it becomes black. Filled with unidentified creatures lurking just beyond the surface. My breath leaves my chest with a ragged hiss as my fingers slide against one now. It rears it's head up, looking up at me with such familiar eyes that I stumble back upon locking gazes, a shock wave zipping down my body from my skull all the way through each individual toe.

Suddenly I am screaming for help but every cry falls on deaf ears. Panic shakes my chest, vibrating my core and I throw my body against white padded walls. "Please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please," spills repeatedly from my lips and I feel my face tingling and vision starting to periscope in and out. My nails claw desperately against my own skin, anything to prove that I am still real and I exist. Red weeps out around me. I tear pieces of my hair out to stitch my wounds up with. No one is coming. I am alone in this empty cage.

Every so often They come and remind me that I am bad. That this is my punishment. They force needles into my arms, slam me face down against the ground when I ask if I may see outside, then kiss my forehead. "This is because We love you."

I can't recall how long it has been now. I am hanging in the closet next to that fancy suit that is pulled out once a year on special occasions, small feet wedged into too large boots. I find myself wishing for the moths to munch on me next just to feel their fluttering against my skin. I am not pretty by the time I am next laid out on the bed. One last wear before I am in a box with the broken toaster and that old Christmas train that doesn't chug around the tree anymore. I am part of the isle of misfit toys now. A memory that no longer serves a purpose.