a true friend.
Jul 10, 2021 5:56:04 GMT
Post by "DONNA." on Jul 10, 2021 5:56:04 GMT
“Donna” Beneviento is playing with her dolls.
She is sat, small knobby knees splayed beneath her, on a plush brown rug her mother spent days crocheting for her bedroom. It is soft, warmed by “Donna’s” prolonged presence atop it. She has been playing for hours, though it feels like little time has passed as her parents titter downstairs to gently playing music from the radio.
She can smell her mother cooking. It is her favorite. Paella. She can smell the saffron, the mussels opening under the heat of the pan. Garlic wafts through the house, sizzles and pops in time with the music. It smells like comfort.
Their father is reading aloud, a story book. Every so often “Donna” can hear her sister pipe up, questions like it’s a scientific lecture. Her father responds kindly, unbothered by the persistent interruptions, laughing softly at the more childish of Claudia’s questions. Donna can not see the arrangement downstairs, but she can hear the light tapping of her father’s foot against the floor, bobbing Claudia on his knee. It sounds like home.
“Donna” is fussing with the dress of her doll. It is a wedding dress. Her mother sewed it herself, gingerly draped thin white fabric against lace, pricking her fingers and cursing softly under her breath. Her father had made the doll proper, lovingly clasping her joins with their locks, gently, firmly, slotting her head into place. Holding the doll, hearing her family down stairs… This is what life is meant to be like, “Donna” thinks. She presses the doll tight to her chest, a small child’s simulacrum of a hug.
Her name is Angie. Short for Ángeles. She is small, well worn from play, cheeks rosy. Her parents lovingly crafted her, a perfect little lady, a true friend.
Angie Beneviento is playing with her dolls.
She is sat, small knobby knees splayed beneath her, on a plush brown rug her mother spent days crocheting for her bedroom. It is soft, warmed by “Donna’s” prolonged presence atop it. She has been playing for hours, though it feels like little time has passed as her parents titter downstairs to gently playing music from the radio.
She can smell her mother cooking. It is her favorite. Paella. She can smell the saffron, the mussels opening under the heat of the pan. Garlic wafts through the house, sizzles and pops in time with the music. It smells like comfort.
Their father is reading aloud, a story book. Every so often “Donna” can hear her sister pipe up, questions like it’s a scientific lecture. Her father responds kindly, unbothered by the persistent interruptions, laughing softly at the more childish of Claudia’s questions. Donna can not see the arrangement downstairs, but she can hear the light tapping of her father’s foot against the floor, bobbing Claudia on his knee. It sounds like home.
“Donna” is fussing with the dress of her doll. It is a wedding dress. Her mother sewed it herself, gingerly draped thin white fabric against lace, pricking her fingers and cursing softly under her breath. Her father had made the doll proper, lovingly clasping her joins with their locks, gently, firmly, slotting her head into place. Holding the doll, hearing her family down stairs… This is what life is meant to be like, “Donna” thinks. She presses the doll tight to her chest, a small child’s simulacrum of a hug.
Her name is Angie. Short for Ángeles. She is small, well worn from play, cheeks rosy. Her parents lovingly crafted her, a perfect little lady, a true friend.
Angie Beneviento is playing with her dolls.