Plaything

Published in BIGnews Magazine, 2004

I cry a little at a time. If I complain too much, too soon, I will be discovered for what I truly am — a sick little girl who needs constant medical attention. 

She twists my hair away. 

I don’t like her.  I don’t like her blonde hair. I remove it and her little blue dress too. I inspect her. She’s made well. She’s tight and pure. I scrape my sharpest fingernail against her seams until her threads fray.  

I feel myself being opened.  

I loved her before I took her out of the box. But then she sat there staring and collecting ill things in those blue eyes. 

She uses a small spoon to pop my eyes out.

I hate the color pink. She should be white. The color pink is a lie. You can’t be alive if you are pink, unless you are a flamingo or a stupid pig.

When I had a name, she used to sing to me:

"She’s a little doll dressed in blue, dressed in blue, dressed in blue.  Pretty little doll, just like you, just like you, just like you."

The songs have stopped. The stink of bleach fills my cotton lungs. If I had eyes I would cry.

I know she blames me, everyone blames me. I make holes in her. I peel her plastic skin away like the dead skin of my scabs. 

I was in the room when he came in. 

She knows too much. 

She tries to burn me, but stops when the smoke threatens to bring her father back.

He will come check the smoke and then check me for fever. 

Her father is not a doctor. Her father is a liar.

She’s the liar — that doll. He is a real doctor. What he does is not a game.

She sews my ears shut and scrapes my mouth away. But I could still hear the corruption in the room. I could still feel the shame in the air. 

I watch her when daddy leaves. This plaything is judging me. I will cut her open, check if she is dead, or if she’s just a wicked thing like me.  

You are a good little girl — I want to say this.

Daddy told me she’s just a doll. So, I stabbed her in the neck with my scissors, just to be sure, and split her down the center. Clouds of white cotton snag on my chipped nails. 

Her fingers are cold as she digs. She is closer. She has found it. It slips into her palm like a soft piece of chocolate. I want to stay and help her — but I can’t. 

The tiny heart thumps in my hand. Daddy will be happy that she is dead.