They stared at me with cheerful smiles and plastic eyes. With perfect pink formal gowns and tangled blonde hair. The one brunette lay on its side near the edge of the pack while pink-haired, winged, plastic children covered their skirts. One, created entirely in pink lay on the floor today, but could often be seen in the kitchen or the bathroom or tucked purposely into bed with its tiny head propped on the pillow.
They'd appeared suddenly one day, not long after the birth of my daughter, and seemed to be multiplying exponentially ever since despite the fact that I had never seen a male version of this toy around the house. Though they all looked the same, a new doll was needed to model each outfit, each different job, or imaginary stage of life. I had one formal gown in my closet that I'd worn once, on a cruise.
Of the eight plastic faces staring at me, four were dressed in formal gowns, two weren't dressed at all, one wanted to be a fairy, and one seemed to be from NASA. Formal balls, space exploration, and costume parties. The life they must live when I'm not around. I keep glancing at them wondering if they'll slip. If one day I'll see the party happening in the corner of my eye or if they have practiced so well they never make mistakes.
Or how they would repair their perfect plastic image if a mistake does happen. I have a theory having to do with the unsolved crimes division that also explains why they'd shed those pretty cocktail dresses, but they no longer return my calls. I know one day I'll be their next victim, but I can't stop watching them any more than they seem to be able to stop watching me.