Plasticide

By Rebecca Demarest

 

In 2004, the tabloids proclaimed 

“Blood & Plastic

The Horror Break-up Revealed.”

 

When Mattel announced the break-up

Everyone thought I was taking it well.

The spin was, I broke up with him,

Rebounding with the Australian Surfer Blonde Wannabe.

 

But through the press conference,

And the publicized dates,

My mind was filled with rat poison,

Lead, glass in water, gas stoves left on,

Brake lines worn through.

 

From the moment he said

“Sorry, doll, this just ain’t workin' anymore.”

From the passenger seat of my

Hot pink convertible Corvette,

My mind went on autopilot.

 

I could think of nothing else

But those 60 years that we had shared:

Changing jobs, finding my long lost sisters,

Fads and fashions, and plastic surgery.

 

I snuck out one night, leaving my surfer in bed

And crept spider-like through the velvet.

 

His bathroom was full of overly priced hair cleansers

In their bright silver aluminum dispensers.

I slipped a bottle from my bag, 

A bottle that had taken weeks to get, 

Reams of forms and background checks.

 

I popped it open and poured it in,

The poisonous cocktail shaken, not stirred.

 

Then back through the night, ducking in bushes

As he drives in

 

In my Jeep

A girl firmly ensconced under his arm.

I tiptoe away, careful not to let the hate show

and break my careful smile.

 

That next morning the news had a horrible story.

“Skipper Mattel had met with an unfortunate fate.”

Apparently the product she had used at an

Undisclosed gentleman’s house

Had been laced with Acetone,

 

 An unfortunate thing for a person of plastic.

 

The newscaster’s shiny face was stiff

As she asked for anyone to come forward.

 

I picked up my rosy Razor, dialed 911

“Sorry about my sister, it was supposed to be Ken.”

 

The police were at my house in minutes.

The trial was quick

The jury concise.

 

Perhaps I shouldn’t have said 

“I’d do it again, never liked my sister anyhow, goody two shoes that she was.”

 

The DA asked for the death sentence,

I didn’t fight it.

I’d lost my contract with Mattel anyway.

 

And now the priest had come and gone,

I told him he was too late, I’d already sold my soul.

So they led me down that long hall

And I held my head high, not a quiver.

 

They closed me in that blank white room

With vents all along the top,

And those 5 short beeps,

 

1, 0, 0, 0, Start

 

And I felt myself melt.

A puddle of plastic, the smile gone last.


About The Author

Rebecca A. Demarest is an award-winning author, book designer, and technical illustrator living in Seattle, WA with her husband. Together, they maintain a household jungle, cater to a dog-like cat named Cat and a Portuguese Water Dog named Teal’c. When she isn’t writing, you can find her at the Bureau of Fearless Ideas teaching the youth of Seattle how to get their ideas onto the page, crocheting, embroidering, and playing lots of Dungeons and Dragons. She is currently working on the sequels for everything, so, before you ask, yes, you’ll find out what happened to Benny, Sophia will keep sticking her nose in dangerous places, and Thea will find the seedy underbelly of Oz.

Rebecca’s website: http://www.rebeccademarest.com/