In the spring of 2010, unspeakable tragedy occurred in a young girl’s wardrobe. Suddenly overtaken by a heartless dictator, dozens of pants, shirts and socks were cast aside, sent to slow, agonizing deaths in the closet and dresser. Separated by a vast pink area rug, members of the two groups coped with their impeding doom in various ways. Saltwater Sandal, leader of the closet along with her ailing sister, wrote of her fears in letters to her lost love, Tennis Shoe, before she perished. The notes, later found by historians, are among the few pieces of evidence from victims of the now-infamous Massacre of Sally’s Wardrobe.
Closet: Day Four
My Dearest Tennie,
If you are reading this, I fear I must be out of season. Though it seems like an eternity that we have been trapped here, I know from the crack of light in the door that only days have passed. It has been four days since the Fairy Dress came and we were forced out of regular rotation. Four days since the skirts and dresses have felt skin, and since I have walked on fresh earth. I do not know how much longer we can hold out. We received news that Gold Ballet Slippers have joined Fairy Dress, since they were determined to be “fairy shoes.” It saddens me to know my respected pair of mentors have turned, but I suppose we each do what we must to survive in these trying times.
I’m sorry to tell you that my sister is not handling our situation well. I am left to manage the closet without her help; some call it a cruel joke of life that even should we survive, she may never be “right” again. We hear stories that the Mother is coming, that she has pulled survivors from the dresser–mostly underwear and socks, but also leggings and a sweater. They are only rumors, but they keep us hopeful. Today Tutu Skirt said she could hear the mother tell the girl she must wear fresh clothes to daycare so that Fairy Dress could at least be Febrezed . . . and she said the girl was to wear blue tennis shoes. I know that Tutu cannot be fully trusted—hallucinations have set in for many of the elders—but I pray, my dearest, that she is correct. I wish with all my sole that you be spared this miserable fate. And if not, Tennie, then may we meet soon in the next life, blended together into a state-of-the-art recycled tennis court.
Keep your laces strong, mon Soulier.