Mannequin Syndrome

It's Tuesday, and Larry’s sitting in his car, engine off, windows up, in the parking lot of Discount Paradise. The last place on Earth you’d expect a revelation. This place smells like plastic-wrapped failure, aisles of cheap nostalgia sold two-for-one. The air is thick with the scent of stale popcorn from the adjacent dollar theater and the distant hum of traffic, a constant reminder of everything just out of reach.

Larry stares at the automatic doors, wide open like a mouth frozen mid-scream. His job is restocking shelves with discounted dreams: off-brand happiness in bulk. The fluorescent lights inside buzz like flies in a summer trash can. They turn people into their own shadows. Nobody leaves Discount Paradise without losing a little color. The walls are a sickly beige, the kind of beige that tries not to offend but ends up depressing everyone. The floor tiles are cracked, with ancient chewing gum fossilized in the grout, a testament to all the people who came and went, who thought about better days and never found them.

And Larry, he's halfway out the door already—or he would be, if there was anywhere else to go. He watches the mannequins through the window. Those plastic bodies. Limbs stiff and smiling. It's not envy, exactly, but there's something about them—their eyes are hollow but free. They don’t fake the smiles, they just are. No pain, no hurt. Nothing to lose. They don't have to think about rent or the water bill or the credit card debt that piles up like unopened mail in the corner of his kitchen. They don't have to pretend they're okay when everything feels like it's crumbling. The mannequins are lucky—they're immune to all the disappointments that come with being alive.

Inside, Larry finds himself staring at one of the mannequins. Her head cocked at just the right angle. One hand lifted, as if waving goodbye. Her lips painted in a frozen red grin. He notices a small chip in her nail polish, a flaw that somehow makes her more real. His chest tightens; something old and almost forgotten scratches at his brain. Memories of prom night, of a red dress and a smile that looked just like this. The weight of a corsage in his hand. He reaches out, touches her hand—cold, hard plastic. And something clicks.

He feels it before he understands it—his own fingers, stiffening. The skin going smooth, then harder, the joints fusing together. Larry watches, expressionless, as the color fades from his flesh, everything glossing over, and his breath catches, then halts altogether. His face fixes in a neutral half-smile, an expression empty enough to sell cheap jeans. His heart, once pounding, slows to a stop, but there's no panic. Just a strange calm, a sense of inevitability, like he's finally becoming what he was always meant to be.

And this is when he realizes: he’s not breaking down, he’s breaking free. No more alarms. No more bills. No more pretending. Just the perfect stillness of being a plastic man in a plastic world. The weight lifting off his chest, replaced by hollow perfection. Freedom from every ugly thing that makes him human. No more fear, no more shame, no more aching loneliness gnawing at his insides like a hungry rat. He's letting it all go—every failure, every regret, every mistake that ever haunted him. And for the first time in years, maybe ever, Larry feels... okay.

Hours later, the manager walks past, a clipboard in hand. He glances at the new mannequin on aisle four. Doesn't remember ordering this one, but it's fine. It's perfect. Smiling. Empty-eyed. Just like all the others. He scribbles something on his clipboard, a quick note to double-check inventory, but he doesn’t think twice. Larry blends in, and that’s all that matters. The manager moves on, shouting at a stock boy who’s slacking off in the back. Life in Discount Paradise keeps chugging along, fluorescent lights buzzing, plastic dreams waiting to be sold.

The plot twist comes when Larry notices—even now, even plastic—he can still see. He can see the shoppers, the lights flickering, the manager with his clipboard. He can see his body, fixed, immobile, and he can feel the hollow inside stretch, grow, consume what little is left. He thought he'd escape the ugliness, but he realizes now—he's just traded the mess of life for something worse. An eternity of watching, of witnessing, of being frozen while the world moves on without him.

He watches the shoppers pass by, their faces tired, their eyes glazed over. He can see the mother with her screaming child, the teenager with earbuds jammed in, trying to drown out the world. He can see the old man who comes in every Tuesday just to walk the aisles, just to be around other people. He sees it all, and he starts to understand—there's no escape. Not really. The ugliness he wanted to leave behind is still there, all around him, but now he's powerless to do anything about it. No mistakes, no love, no heartbreak. Nothing. Just the voyeur of his own unmoving existence, an observer to life but never a participant. A mannequin with a man's eyes. Forever aware, forever still.

Days pass, maybe weeks. Time blurs in the unchanging light of the store. He watches the seasons change through the front windows, the shoppers trading in summer clothes for winter jackets. He becomes part of the scenery, another fixture people pass without noticing. And Larry realizes that even the stillness he craved comes with a price. He can feel the emptiness gnawing at him, the hollow inside growing deeper and darker. He thought he could escape the mess of being human, but now he understands—there's nothing worse than being untouched by life.

One day, a little girl breaks away from her mother and runs down the aisle. She stops in front of Larry, her wide eyes staring up at him. She reaches out, touches his hand, just like he did with the mannequin before. Her fingers are warm, soft, alive. And for a moment, Larry feels something—a spark, a flicker of warmth in the cold emptiness. He wants to move, to say something, to tell her to run away and never come back. But he can't. He's trapped in the plastic shell of himself, and all he can do is watch as the girl's mother calls her back, her small hand slipping away from his.

And then they’re gone. The aisle is empty again, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the air thick with the scent of failure and resignation. Larry stands there, frozen, smiling, hollow. Forever a mannequin in a world that never stops moving. Forever aware, forever still.