The Ballad of Mona Lisa

Maybe objects have thoughts, too.

It could be tiring, after four years. It could be exhausting, really.

But, as he watches her scurry about, busy with other things in her life, he thinks it isn't so bad sometimes. At least, though it's useless, he's some form of support for her. He doesn't fool himself into believing it, but the phrase is repeated in his head, nonetheless.

"You're one of the most important things to me."

Even he, having been around for such a long time, doesn't believe it.

But he doesn't speak up--because he is an object, and therefore has no right to have an opinion. He is blamed for certain things in her life. Not being strong enough, not understanding enough, not being dependent on her enough. He doesn't try anymore, not after the four years he's been denied. He simply sits here, on his little perch, hands in his lap, unmoving, because if he leaves, she'll collapse. She'll break. She'll be the injured one by his absence.

So he stays.

And, some days, some days it is good. She'll open up to him, talk, laugh, share little things. She'll pretend to care. He'll pretend to need the caring.


"I've made a mistake."

...he doesn't care. He doesn't care. It's that simple--he's an object, so he can't care. She's proven this by throwing him aside and back. By all the times she's had him trashed, just to dig him out again. Although she has other toys she loves to use, he's always the one to return, to be plastered by her side. He's an object to be used.

Why does his chest ache with an unbearable pain, then?

It could be exhausting, this cycle, after four years.

The End

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