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The Model
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One day I was in town wandering around in the local shopping mall about lunchtime: there was the usual mixture of overpriced shops selling clothes, CD's and many other things I didn't really want. I happened to pass a shop I'd seen before, but hadn’t walked past for a long time: they were having a “closing down” sale - everything was half price, as read the big signs everywhere inside and out. As it was a shop selling clothes for young women, I wasn't particularly interested, but then my eye saw a figure standing in the corner. Just for a moment, I thought this was a person, but then I blinked and realised it was just a shop dummy. It seemed oddly realistic, in my humble opinion, so I stopped to look.
“She” was wearing a tight fawn-coloured top, a short, equally tight leather-look skirt; fishnet stockings, which were quite coarsely knit, and high heels. It seemed quite an impressive and appealing ensemble, and I would have dearly liked to know the girl wearing just such clothes, I mused to myself. There was just one thing about “her”, which in my opinion was the usual failing that normal women had: without glasses, I wasn't particularly interested, even if she happened to be utterly spectacular in other areas. Of course, a plastic mannequin wouldn't wear glasses, so I shrugged, told myself that such an idea was silly, and walked off.
However, all that afternoon I couldn’t keep my thoughts from the shop dummy, perhaps rather absurdly wondering what “she” might look like in glasses. Being a good OO, I possessed a small collection of interesting pairs of glasses. I kept seeing “her” in my mind's eye, but sporting one of my nice thick pairs of glasses. I do think about some decidedly silly and strange things at times, and this was definitely one of those times; but this idea had me hooked, thus much later that afternoon I was in the shop again, inquiring rather flatly, as if I wasn't anywhere nearly as interested as I really was,
‘how much for the shop dummy?'
I span a tale for the barely-interested young shop assistant about my being an artist and thus requiring a model for painting. She glanced at me a little askance, then shrugged: considering that the contents of the shop had to go one way or another, getting a little cash for something they didn’t need anymore wasn't a problem at all, so she sold it to me.
I pushed the dummy into the back of my car, thinking with dry amusement that I’d never do this with any real woman: she’d be kicking and screaming by now. Once home, it was mercifully dark, so there was no way I'd be seen carrying my new “friend” upstairs into my flat. I stood her in the lounge, straightened “her” arms and clothes a little, and then stood back. “She” stood there, her dead eyes staring blankly back at me, a few inches shorter than me, slim as you would expect a shop dummy to be, and not so well endowed that “she” couldn't wear anything that a shop might wish to hang on her.
Then I went to get what I really wanted to hang on “her”: my box of glasses. I tried all the pairs of glasses one after another: plastic frames, metal frames, plus lenses, minus lenses, a couple of myodisk glasses, all precious things that I'd seldom taken out and shown people. For some reason, my gentle rummaging around in my glasses box resulted in my finding a glasses case I'd lost some time ago, and hence long since given up on and forgotten all about. “She” looked good in glasses, any glasses: some of the thicker, and hence more interesting pairs of glasses didn't fit “her” so well, so I didn't try them for long, but I wanted to see what “she” looked like in the glasses contained in this particular case.
I opened the case, took out the glasses it contained, then opened out the earpieces, sighing a little at their strength and beauty: I saw few women wearing glasses like this. They had black metal frames, with thick lenses that spilled past the frames, around 16mm thick: enough to correct quite a bit of myopia, and enough to give me a headache looking through them. I turned to “her”, still staring blankly at the wall, and told “her”,
'I wish you were real, and these were your glasses',
showing them to “her”, as if “she” could see them.
I pushed back “her” ringlet-styled plastic dark blonde hair and pushed them onto “her” face. Oh, “she” looked lovely, as you will have guessed I might have said, “her” fake eyes now staring at me from deep within the lenses. I stood back, smiling, admiring the facial cut in and coke bottles as only someone like me could. I had to get a photo of this: I imagined that perhaps I could post it on the net. Thus I went into my bedroom, found my camera, then returned to the lounge, and went to stand before “her”, admiring the view again for a moment before pointing the camera at “her”; just before I pressed the appropriate button, I jokingly said to “her”,
'smile, please!’
And she did! A moment later her previously dead, blank eyes filled with movement and life, albeit much corrected behind the lenses of the glasses she was wearing. They blinked: I gaped at her in astonishment, as well I ought in the circumstances: she moved slightly, then shifted her weight into a position far more suited to a real person who didn’t wish to fall over, rather than a shop dummy plonked down on my lounge carpet. Her face and skin seemed to glow with the stuff of life, the real thing, not the obviously unreal colouring of a mannequin. Her eyes blinked again, then she spoke, softly, but clearly asking,
'aren't you going to take my picture then?'
I did so, with my hands shaking: I couldn't believe what I was seeing! I muttered
'I'm dreaming. This is crazy.'
She looked puzzled, and responded,
'what's crazy? What's wrong, darling?'
I nearly choked at the thought of this magnificent, sexy lady in thick glasses calling me “darling.” What made it so crazy was that a few minutes ago I could have shut her in the attic without a second thought whilst I made my dinner.
She came toward me, an honest, curious look on her face. I had every right to be curious too: I wondered if she was still made of plastic, and also whether she would make a funny hollow sound if I tapped her arm. She hugged me as if she'd known me forever, then looked up at me, inviting me to kiss her. Oh, she was lovely, a dream on legs! And warm, and soft, as you'd expect a woman to be, or anyone else for that matter. I realised I had to start at the beginning with this: if she was calling me 'darling', that meant she knew me, but how could she have known me? That question slipped by. I pulled away from her, then asked,
'what's your name?'
She looked at me quizzically; I had to ask again, so she replied with a note of exasperation and irritation in her voice
'I’m Mandy. Don't you know my name by now? How long have we been together?'
She sounded and looked scornful, as well she might, except that what she was saying still made not the slightest sense to me.
Well, for an OO looking for a nice myopic girlfriend, this was just what the doctor ordered, if one didn't want or need to ask where she came from. I thought to myself “what on earth should I say to her, that she is a dummy? If she's real as she appears to be, then that will not go down well. I'll probably get a slap if I said that to her. I'd best say nothing about it for now.”
I had little choice in the matter: Mandy was real, and my girlfriend, and evidently had been so for quite some time, at least as far as she was concerned. One glance at her still somewhat puzzled bespectacled visage was enough to make me ignore the awkward questions - for now, at least. She continued to gaze up at me for a long, lovely moment, and then asked,
'want a coffee, Darling?'
'Yeah, OK.'
Mandy disappeared into the kitchen; I sauntered after her, trying to act casually whilst being totally confused. It transpired that she knew exactly how I liked coffee. Then she sat with me, and we watched TV together for half an hour, during which she cuddled up to me in a very possessive way, which was strange for me, considering that from my point of view, we'd just met!
After a while she got up and went into the bathroom, then came out again. I sensed that this period of innocent pleasure was over, and that something was definitely “up” with her. Although the bathroom was clean and tidy, for her there was something missing. She stood looking down at me, and asked,
'darling, what did you do with my toothbrush? I can't find it. I can't find any of my stuff.'
Rather dumbly I asked,
'what stuff?'
She gave a sigh, then ran off a long and instantly tedious list of the items she apparently used to keep herself beautiful. At the end, she asked,
'did you throw it all out?'
I shook my head, as there was previously no stuff to throw out: this situation was getting complicated, and I almost longed that she would go back to being a shop dummy and I could get on with my life as before. But again, a single look at those shrunken eyes stuck blinking behind those thick lenses, and I was easily persuaded not to. It was time to tell her, I told myself. I gathered myself, and told her,
'go in the bedroom, and look at all your clothes in there.'
She looked puzzled, but went in to look. I could hear her rummaging around, looking for her stuff. But she would never find them: again, they were not there to be found. She came back into the lounge looking even more puzzled, and also as if she might burst into tears. Her voice broke a little as she asked,
'darling, what's happened to all my clothes? And my wardrobe? Don't you want me anymore? Did you chuck all my stuff, and hope I'd go too?'
'No, no... Mandy. It's a bit more complicated than that. Sit down, and I'll try to explain.'
She sat, and I told her my version of events. She looked at me in utter disbelief, then said almost angrily,
'what are you talking about? That I'm a shop dummy? Why are you doing this to me, to make me feel like shit?'
I shook my head, and told her I was just trying to tell her the truth. I told her to look around the room. She looked around, evidently wondering what nonsense I would come out with next.
'So?'
'So, Mandy, where are you? You say you've known me for over two years, yet where are all the photos of us together?'
Slowly she answered,
'you took them all down?'
'Then there would be gaps. Pictures up on the wall leave marks, where the light can't fade the wallpaper. If I took them down, you'd see where they’d been.'
She glanced around, touching her glasses gently with her fingers in order to ensure that she was seeing right. She neither nodded, nor shook her head. Then I asked her,
'what did we do this afternoon?'
She stared at me, and said,
'we were out shopping together.'
I nodded, for in a vague sense, this was the truth. I then asked,
'were the pictures up when we left?'
She nodded, slowly. I asked,
'were your toiletries in the bathroom, and your clothes in the bedroom?'
She kept nodding, now looking bemused. She sighed, then looked accusingly at me, asking sharply,
'do you want me to leave, is that it? Don't you love me anymore?'
'No, of course not, Mandy. I... Find you attractive. That's why I brought you here.'
We sat in silence for what seemed like a long time. She still looked quite bemused, so I decided to try proving it to her. I had come to the conclusion that the glasses were something to do with all this: granted, glasses had a magical effect on me, that is especially with a good-looking woman included in the package, but I hadn't ever bargained on this type of magical effect, though! I asked her,
'take your glasses off.'
'Why? Don't you like me in glasses now?'
'No, Mandy, I love you in glasses.'
She stared at me, then shrugged, raised her hands to her face, and softly pulled off her glasses.
She looked quite pretty, but without the glasses, somewhat strange and unfamiliar. She said, trying not to squint or sound too irritated or angry,
'well, this is how I look...'
She never completed the sentence, being as her entire body froze, again taking on that obviously unreal pallor of a plastic doll. Her eyes blinked once, opened wide, then stared blankly at nothing. She was again a plastic shop dummy, sitting on my sofa, holding her glasses in her hand. She did look just as appealing as when I'd seen her in the shop, but honestly speaking, the live version seemed far better, even if the conversations were complicated. I got up and took the glasses from her, then inspected them carefully. As I'd thought, they just looked like a normal pair of glasses. As she was at that moment just a normal shop dummy, I had to put the glasses back on her myself. As before, I slid them onto her face, stood back and waited. Seconds later she came back to life, looking up at me and saying,
'darling, you're not still telling me I'm a shop dummy?'
I sighed, and pointed to the clock. I said,
'look, it's at least 2 minutes since you took your glasses off. Tell me, what's been happening here in that time?'
'We've been talking about whether you think I'm a dummy or not,'
she answered, again with a note of irritation in her voice. I asked,
'can you remember exactly what I said?'
She sat for a moment, and then shook her head,
'of course not. Can you?'
I related what had happened: she simply looked exasperated and a little confused.
I told her what I thought was happening: that when she wore glasses, she was alive, when not wearing them, she was a shop dummy. That didn't really please her, so I let her alone and went into the kitchen. After a while she came in: she looked drained, still bemused, but was now groping for the truth as I saw it. She told me,
'darling, I'm going to take my glasses off, then you can change something here, then put my glasses back on, and I'll see if I can remember what it was.'
Again, she took off her glasses, and as before, reverted to being a shop clothes dummy clutching a pair of thick glasses. This time I was determined to prove the truth: I went to get my camera, and took a photo of Mandy, in dummy version, and then moved a few tins around in the cupboard. Once back alive, I asked her,
'what did I move?'
Mandy had no idea, as I thought.
Then I produced the photo of her, and she gasped,
'this is me? But... It can't be... How?'
After a long, long pause she asked,
'are you sure you're not playing around with me? That you really want me to stay?'
'I don't know how or why this is happening, but I am very glad it is. Of course I want you to stay.'
She staggered tearfully toward me, and at that moment, as I hugged her, I completely forgot she was a part-time shop dummy.
By now I had decided, quite rightly, that the “live” version of Mandy was much better than the plastic dummy version. She seemed to accept that I liked her in glasses far more easily than that she was some sort of magical, weird thing happening to me involving a shop dummy. By the time bedtime came neither of us cared. I was so glad to see her face, bespectacled of course, looking at me or anything else, on occasion I would watch the reflection of the TV in the flat fronts of her lenses. The rest of her was pretty good: she was pretty and slim, just like the shop mannequin she came from. I did think her bust was a bit small, but then I liked them big.
Later on it became abundantly clear she wanted me to make love to her: well, even I could spot a horny girl! She was all over me: I was both amazed at my good fortune, and also wondering what was coming next - would she wear glasses for sex? She gave me a sultry smile, then said,
'I'd better keep these on, so that you've got a real woman to screw. Just be gentle and don't break them!'
The thought of breaking them scared me a little, but I was gentle with her, and later on, we slept together in my bed. Well, I say slept, in Mandy's case, as soon as her glasses came off, she reverted to being made of plastic. Turning over, I got a hard elbow in my ribs. Oh, the perils of this strange event!
The next morning I woke, and Mandy the plastic dummy lay beside me. I rapped her head, and it made a strange, dull ring of hard plastic. I said,
'sorry, Mandy... I'd better get your glasses, I want someone to talk to.'
I paused as I was about to put on her glasses, and thought that if some bit of her fell off, would she “wake up” with that bit missing? I felt that it would be cruel to deliberately deprive her of an arm and or a leg. She was confused enough about this situation, hardly surprisingly, then again but so was I. For a moment it seemed to me that it wouldn’t harm her, being as she was a plastic dummy, but then I thought that she was also Mandy, that lovely bespectacled girl who had appeared in my life out of the blue. My thoughts then moved on to waking her up. Thus I took the glasses from the bedside cabinet where I'd put them the night before: I opened them, musing on how strange it was that a pair of glasses could transform a woman. Or a shop mannequin, for that matter. I turned, slid them gently onto her face, and as before, she stirred, her eyes blinked and looked at me, then she smiled. Softly she said,
'hello, darling.'
It appeared that I wasn't dreaming: that thought filled me with delight.
An interesting day lay ahead, being as we needed to get her some clothes: if she could have stayed a shop dummy all the time, she'd have obviously not been at all concerned in the least about wearing the clothes she was bought in: she wouldn't have been capable of minding or not minding anything in that state. But, with glasses on, she was as she appeared to be: a normal woman. Well, a beautifully myopic one, but still otherwise normal, which entailed that she had the usual relationship with shopping that other women had: she was utterly exasperating at times! I just kept reminding myself about the glasses, and the exasperation melted away somewhat. And of course, it had to happen: we were out and happened to bump into some of my friends. They were naturally curious, having never seen Mandy before, either in mannequin or human form, but I was obliged to remind her that nobody else knew her, thus her potential idle statement that she’d known me for ages would naturally take some explaining. I just let them think that I'd kept her a secret; but they did ask me where I'd found her, to which I had to stop myself from blurting out “in a shop!”
At the end of that day, we had a whole bunch of clothes for Mandy and a whole load of other feminine stuff: honestly, I never realised just how much they needed to keep themselves looking good. But of course, for me, the main thing that made her beautiful was the glasses. When we got home, Mandy had a bath, during which her glasses fogged up, so she naturally took them off to clean them. I only discovered her some time later: the bath had gone a bit cold, and therein quite incongruously sat this naked plastic dummy, yet I knew what had occurred. I then recognised that I needed to tell her to keep them on in the bath; and also everywhere else that she needed to be “alive”. This could get difficult, I realised, as I slipped them onto her face. Once again that magical transformation took place: from hard, lifeless plastic to soft, warm, naked flesh, and eyes that blinked, tiny but seeing clearly, through her thick glasses. She smiled, and after she'd got out the bath, we made glorious love.
I'd known Mandy a couple of weeks when I started to seriously think about a project I somewhat facetiously referred to as “Operation Bazookas.” It was indeed an operation of a kind, but had nothing to do with anti-tank guns. Since Mandy had first “appeared,” an event which I hesitated to label “being born,” my thoughts had moved from puzzling over where she had come from to what I could do with her. I had one morning tried removing her left arm before “reviving” her, just to see her reaction. Would she be angry? Sad? Puzzled? What would she say? It was worth trying just to see what would happen. Perhaps even it might be helpful, for if by some misfortune some part of her had became damaged, could I replace it and thus have her good as new again?
In fact, it didn't really bother her at all: it was as if she'd never had a left arm. Of course, being deprived of it, she took longer to do things, but didn't actually give up on anything. She was a tough girl, my Mandy, I thought: especially without glasses, I joked inwardly. During the afternoon, I casually asked her about her arm
'Mandy, what happened to your arm?'
She looked at me as if I'd instantly become stupid, with an expression that said “we’ve been together this long and you still don't know? Weren't you listening when we met?”
Of course I knew full well where her arm was. It was hidden in the attic! I had to talk fast and long to convince her that I wasn't having a cruel joke on her. The perils of this situation were many and unpredictable!
However, the upshot of this, after restoring her arm to her the following morning with no noticeable effect whatsoever, was that it was obvious to me that in her plastic shop dummy form I could do whatever I pleased to her, and upon revival, she'd not remember anything about being different. So, I thought to myself that “Operation Bazookas” was at least possible. I have mentioned many times my penchant for large-breasted women: it seemed a little bit of a shame that while Mandy was attractive, she didn't have that big a bust. She couldn't, after all, being as she was a clothes dummy: the window dressers couldn't put the clothes they wanted to on her. Since the whole point of a dummy was to be able to wear any clothes, she had to have fairly average curves. That was something I aimed to fix.
I wondered how this could be done: could I just get a couple of footballs, glue them to her chest and stick her glasses back on her face? I didn't dare try it: this had to be planned carefully. I managed to obtain another shop mannequin from the internet, but this time only a torso. As I started to cut up the buttocks, the area which I was most interested in being as it was most like the bust I wished to achieve, I felt a little like Frankenstein. It was all in a good cause, however. Every morning for a couple of weeks I was out in my shed early in the morning, cutting, gluing, melting and cursing a little, then one morning I had them ready. I had ideas of what they would feel like, in the flesh, but at the moment they were just two lumps of hard plastic. I asked myself, not the first time, whether this was wise. I went back into the bedroom: there she was, lying in bed, as always immobile without glasses. Trembling a little, I offered them up: they easily and completely covered her existing bust, and fitted reasonably well round the sides. A bit more cutting and shaping fixed the gaps, then they were ready to fit. Then I realised what I'd done wrong: she needed more clothes. All the stuff we'd bought recently would no longer fit her: I sighed, being as this meant another interminable bout of shopping. Again I wondered if this was such a good idea, but then seeing them on Mandy's chest, and with a little imagination, I could just picture them wobbling around. That was enough for me.
I pulled her into a sitting position, and stuck her new bust on with Sellotape: I needed rather a lot of it, being as it was heavy. This wasn't how it would be, but it was only for the purposes of measurement, so I could buy her a few clothes, and most importantly new bras. My hands were shaking a little as I drew the tape measure around her bust. It was, as I'd hoped, and could see, a large increase, which was to me a big improvement. She'd gone from 32B to 32J: just thinking about that almost made my eyes water. I wished I could have completed the job right there and then, but she needed clothes, so I had to order them online, then wait for them to be delivered. Before that, however, I had to remove her new bust: time was getting on a bit, so I was in a rush taking off the Sellotape. When I revived her, she pulled a piece off the side of her body, looked at me curiously, but I simply said,
'maybe it was in the bed from the other day, and you rolled on it?'
She shrugged, completely innocent of my plans.
I waited impatiently for the new clothes to come. When they came, the bras, well, as you can imagine, they were huge! I looked forward to seeing her in those, or not in them, whatever her state of dress was, it promised to be worth seeing! I had to wait until the post had come each morning, then hide the new stuff, then quickly revive Mandy. This was getting too much, this waiting. Finally one Friday the rest of what I was waiting for came and got hidden away, so the next day, Saturday morning, was time for “Operation Bazookas” to be completed. I'd made it easy on myself by trying them for size a couple of weeks previously. Again, my hands shook as I positioned each one, and then applied glue. What would happen if they fell off? I hadn't a clue. I sat in the lounge, waiting for the glue to dry off: never has glue seemed to purport to be “instant” and yet taken so agonizingly long to dry. It was way past 11 o'clock when I decided they were on firmly enough: pushing them gently didn't seem to do anything untoward, so I took her glasses, and put them onto her face.
Moments later, Mandy came to life. Perhaps I'd more than half expected her to scream “what have you done to me?” Or words to that effect, in anger or whatever. But no, far from it: she met my gaze, now torn between the twin attractions of her new bust and her old thick glasses; she smiled, knowing my dilemma, and said with a note of amusement,
'you need two pairs of eyes, one for my tits, one for my eyes...'
For emphasis, she jiggled her bust around: it heaved mightily, then she blinked her eyes softly. She rubbed around the side of her left breast. I saw a strange red mark there; a small scar. In her plastic form, the glue hadn't quite set properly there. Concerned, I asked,
'does it still hurt?'
'A little, darling. It happens, you know, when you have a boob job.'
Well, I cannot begin to tell you the amount of sheer unadulterated pleasure and fun we had together, me and my lovely busty myopic girlfriend Mandy! It was as if she’d been waiting for me in that shop for all of what passed for her existence, and then, with that lovely pair of glasses, some spell or something had been completed, and there she was, ready for me! Of course, her origins meant that her life with me could never be entirely what anyone would call normal: for instance when we planned a holiday, I thought long and hard about taking her with me as luggage! Just take off the glasses, pack her away, come out of customs and get settled into the hotel room, and then - hey presto, one instant girlfriend, just add glasses! I am glad to say I couldn't really do such a thing.
Another time, though, things did get a little difficult. We went to a restaurant, I think it was one of those Chinese places where you can eat loads of food in innumerable courses, and they keep on giving you more. Perhaps they didn't want you to leave? Anyway, we were there, chatting away, eating, and eyeing each other across the short distance of the table's width... Oh, those eyes, those glasses, they were to die for. And, with a flick of my eyes, I got another glorious eyeful: Mandy was wearing one of those short-skirted, low-cut dresses she appeared to like; I was hardly complaining about it myself.
Presently, she went to the toilet, and seemed rather a long time. In fact, after a very long time, she still wasn't back: there was a little concern from the staff, so they called me, and we went into the ladies' toilet together. I called out
'Mandy, are you OK?'
There was no answer from the one and only cubicle she could have possibly been in. One of the staff helped me up onto a ledge, so that could I peek over the edge of the cubicle door. What I saw was that which I’d half expected: her glasses had fallen off, thus instead of the living, breathing Mandy sitting on the toilet, there was the predictable plastic mannequin. Fortunately her glasses had fallen onto her lap and not broken: I don't know what would have happened in such a case. I leaned right over, and using a pole handed to me by someone else, pushed the door lock open, then opened the door. I went inside, restored Mandy's glasses to her, and as so often before, her eyes fluttered open, and natural living colour was soon in her face. She glanced at me, and then over my shoulder. I turned and followed her gaze.
A little Chinese woman was watching, old and wise-looking: my heart sank. I’d hoped that nobody else would ever witness the magic that these glasses brought into the world. But she smiled, and said,
'this I see before. Don't worry, not a problem with me. I tell nobody.'
That little revelation intrigued me, but I let it slip by unconcernedly for now. Mandy got herself dressed and generally undishevelled, then accompanied me back out into the restaurant proper. Once there, I asked her what had happened: as usual, her impression of what had occurred was oddly incomplete, as if it were happening to someone else and she hadn't a clue about half of it. She’d gone from having her glasses fall off to me appearing in front of her, for her so strange. I was by now getting quite used to strange.
Thus there was a matter that needed consideration, so I decided to broach the subject to her: that she should strap her glasses on. But, as soon as I mentioned this, she demurred, saying
'I'll look silly. My hair - it will get all pushed down. Must I?'
She fluttered her shrunken eyes at me. I replied,
'well, I’ll leave it up to you, but I don't want that happening again, especially with that Chinese woman looking as you came to life. She seemed to know something about this, although I'm not sure I want to know exactly what and why.'
Of course, I wanted the lovely bespectacled model-dummy Mandy to have a headstrap - I had long liked them, for reasons unknown to me. So, within a couple of weeks she was sporting such a strap, and thus her glasses never fell off again. Although I didn’t know this, perhaps on reflection it might have been wiser not to have done this, since a few days later something terrible occurred: we were travelling along a country lane in the dark and fog, then some animal, a dog, I think, suddenly appeared in my headlights, I panicked, hit the brakes, and we slid into the hedge along the side of the road, then crashed into a tree. The car was a little bent, it must be said, but it looked as if it would still go. I said to Mandy, as I got back in,
'looks like we were lucky, that could have been far worse!'
There was no reply. I touched her arm: she was just cold, hard plastic, but she was still wearing her glasses. I pushed her head around, and saw that the left lens was smashed, with a piece missing. She must have hit them against the door or the side of the car, I don't know; anyway, they were broken. A little blood ran down the left side of her face, so I mopped it up with a tissue. I drove home in a panic, more concerned about Mandy than the car. Her glasses were broken - broken! They no longer brought her to life, so I knew that I must get them fixed, just so that I could Mandy back. Never mind the car, I wanted Mandy!
The next day I took the broken glasses into the nearest optician, and had them to make a new lens for them. They did ask for the wearer of the glasses, but I told them she’d been in a car accident, and couldn't come. Obligingly they put in a new lens: once they had, I impatiently drove home, in the process coming uncomfortably close to collecting another dent in my car. I took the repaired glasses, then put them onto the plastic Mandy's face. I waited, and waited, but nothing at all happened: “She” still stared blankly at me. There was no life, warmth or softness, nothing. They no longer worked: I was heartbroken.
I still am. Mandy is still upstairs, stored carefully in a box and hidden in the attic. As for the glasses, well, I've tried getting them repaired a few times, but they still don't work. All I have is the dried blood on the scrap of tissue that I used when she “died”. But there is hope: I've recently tracked down that Chinese woman who’d said she'd seen this sort of thing before. Maybe she can tell me where I can get another pair of magic glasses, so I can bring my Mandy back to life once more...
Statistics: Posted by Puffin — Fri Jul 10, 2015 12:25 am