Surrounded, I am engulfed in a sea of piercing eyes looking through my skin to a naked soul within me. My heart is racing, possessing a thudding rhythm that makes me jump out of my own skin. I am surprised that no one notices its thunder. Hair leaks out of my ponytail whisking strands in front of my eyes, blurring my vision. I can no longer read the title lingering above my head, “Classic Fairytales 1939.” A massive creature portrays itself in front of me desiring what it cannot have. Its face is a large, putrid, wrinkled mix of browns, oranges, and a little yellow similar to a mixture of an acrylic paint on a canvas. Fuzzy dark brown material covers its body masking itself from the outside world. An expression crawls on its face reminding me of the face of a bully taking candy from a little kid. The cloth pockets that encompass its clothing are colors that an artist would use on an oil painting. The scent of dust invades my nostrils. The fragrance is so strong inside my throat that it prevents air from entering and causes me to gag. Everytime they close the book I choke. A beet red color splashes onto my face like a paintbrush with watercolor on it whisking across a canvas. I am trapped within a drawing in a book with no escape to the proceeding page.
It’s been twenty years now looking at that horrid giant and yet I cannot seem to escape this mask of terror facing down at me each and every moment of everyday. I doubt the illustrator had the faintest clue about the fate he bestowed upon me with the swift movement of his arm. My only wish is to leap off this page and to never return, freeing myself from the cage of white paper that traps me for all eternity. Yet, I remain trapped in my fairytale past.

Page fifty-three, that is my dream, my solo quest that I know I am meant to accomplish during my lifetime. On page fifty-three, a beautiful young girl is depicted in her classroom with classmates and is being praised by her teacher. My desire to be that young girl is so strong; it is breaking down my very being. Why must I be on page twelve? It isn’t even an odd number; I cannot stand even numbers, they are so bland and ordinary. Now odd numbers, you can’t even divide two evenly into them, they just burst with a flavor of originality! Oh, how I wish I wasn’t on this page! The nostrils on the monster seem to be moving, I hope that it cannot smell the stench of fear from my clothing.

My goal, aim, intention, whatever you call it, is to ultimately find a way to leap off the page, to run past the wall of words, to become a part of page fifty-three. I ache to become a storybook character. I guess fairytales who live the tale, who have the adventures on page fifty-three, fifty-four and even fifty-five don’t realize their luck. I ache to be free, to be have the god given right of freedom. We say everyone has the right to “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” but I have none of it! I yearn to have freedom of choice, to move, to react, just to be me, whoever that may be. I deserve to be me, not someone else’s image of me, to have my own identity.

Everyday as eyes stare deep into my ink created page, they read with curiosity. I pray nonstop, silent, as always, “please, please turn me into a cartoon, a movie, a videogame, a computer game or best of all put me on youtube, pretty please.” But then the book closes, and I am encompassed by blackness. Darkness entombs me once more as I am once again sheltered by the bitter taste of loneliness and the strong stench of stifled dreams that is my life.