The Voice Beneath the Doll

Isabella didn’t grow up.

She survived.

Her earliest memories weren’t of lullabies or bedtime stories. They were of visits. Her mother called them “playdates” with uncles—Uncle Derek, Uncle Patrick, Uncle Greg. And her pop. Not the kind who taught her to ride a bike or read a map. The kind who taught her to dissociate.

Uncle Derek had rough, fat fingers, that had a way of "tickling". That’s what he said. That’s what she repeated.

“Mummy, Uncle Derek tickled me again.”

“Sweetheart, he’s just playing. You’re so sensitive.”

Isabella stared at the carpet. If tickling was innocent, why did it feel rotten?

But, that is what her mother told her, so that’s what she tried to believe. Repeating it like a spell, hoping it would feel true.

By the time her fourteenth birthday arrived, the visits had narrowed to just Uncle Patrick and her pop.

Years of abuse had taught her not to flinch anymore.

Tears dried on her cheeks as she just performed.

Because that’s what was expected of her:

Love is earned through obedience.

Safety is a myth.

And her body was a currency she didn’t remember agreeing to trade.

She didn’t know what love was.

She knew what it cost.

So when she entered adulthood, she gravitated toward what felt familiar.

Men who praised her submission but never her soul.

Men who called her “good girl” but never asked if she was okay.

Men who wanted her pliable, not present.

Dash. Greg. Justin.

Different names. Same choreography.

She wanted love—quiet, steady, nothing over the top. Not worship. Just worth.

So when Justin praised her body but ignored her soul, she felt the echo.

When Greg asked for her submission but never her story, she felt the echo.

When Dash disappeared after tasting her vulnerability, she felt the echo.

It wasn’t just a pattern.

It was a haunting.

An echo chamber—where her voice was swallowed, and her silence applauded.

She whispered, “Sometimes I feel like I’m still performing.”

He kissed her neck. “You’re so sexy when you get deep.”

She didn’t feel sexy. She felt erased.

Like a ghost in her own skin, praised for presence but punished for truth.

Isabella began to wonder: Is this all a catfish game?

Are they just avatars of the same wound?

They wore the mask of Daddy Dom, but none of them knew how to hold a child’s ache. Let alone a woman's soul.

They wanted her to kneel, but never to speak.

They wanted her to obey, but never to unravel.

She would have done anything to be accepted. Loved. Chosen.

To be wanted.

To be kept.

Even if it meant helping them manipulate her—just gently enough to not feel like discarded waste. Respectfully enough that she didn’t have to relive Uncle Derek’s fingers or her pop’s weight on top of her.

Just kindly enough that she could pretend it wasn’t a reenactment.

But it always was.

And now, at thirty-five, Isabella sits in the aftermath.

Wondering why men still treat her like a vessel.

Why her worth is measured in how well she drains their desire.

Why her tenderness is met with exploitation.

She doesn’t know if she hates her mother.

Or men.

Or herself.

Or if she hates anyone at all, after all her own mother taught her to smile through violation—and called it grace.

A known certainty was that the conflict was constant.

Because we all have choices.

And while it’s hard not to be drawn to toxic patterns,

While it hurts to be judged by people who lack the tools to comprehend,

She can only be who she is.

And who she is—is someone who tries.

Who offers compassion even when it gets her shoved face down in shit.

Who offers care even when it’s mistaken for consent.

Who offers understanding even when it’s weaponized.

She is not broken.

She is not dirty.

She is not disposable.

She is the echo and the voice.

The ache and the refusal.

The child and the witness.

She was done being the line of coke they snorted for ego.

She was done being the fantasy they projected onto her skin.

She was done being the echo.

She was the voice.

And this chapter is hers.

But even as she reclaimed her story,

The world still tried to write on her skin.

The silence after their praise was louder than any scream.

The scent of old carpet and stale perfume clung to her childhood like a second skin.

Because survival doesn’t erase perception.

And healing doesn’t make her invisible.

She walked into rooms and felt the shift—

Not in energy, but in gaze.

Not in welcome, but in possession.

Isabella hated being beautiful.

Not because she was vain.

Because beauty was a trap.

High cheekbones.

Blue eyes.

Blonde hair.

Scandinavian roots that made her look like a doll—

But not the kind you cradle.

The kind you pose.

The kind you use.

She didn’t get polite conversation.

She got entitlement.

She didn’t get kindness.

She got possession.

Men didn’t see her.

They saw a vessel.

A curated fantasy.

A “vagina warmer,” she whispered once, disgusted by the phrase and how true it felt.

She didn’t feel like she owned her body.

She felt like it had been co-signed by strangers.

Inherited by men who thought her skin was theirs by birthright.

So she fantasized about destruction.

Shaving her hair.

Gaining weight.

Scratching layers from her face until the doll cracked.

But why did she have to break herself to be free?

Why did peace require disfigurement?

Why did love demand camouflage?

She cried.

Not the delicate kind.

The kind that floods the floor.

The kind that makes her tremble.

The kind that summons her inner child from the depths, screaming:

“Don’t you remember me?”

She did.

She remembered the ache.

The confusion.

The way she smiled for cameras while her soul curled inward.

She looked in the mirror.

Saw a smile.

But it wasn’t hers.

It was choreography.

She looked at the camera.

Saw a woman.

But didn’t know her name.

Was this who she’d always been?

Or who they taught her to be?

She didn’t know.

But she knew this:

She was tired of performing.

Tired of being the fantasy.

Tired of being punished for the body she didn’t choose.

What does love look like after rupture?

She wished she knew.

Her skin was burnt a thousand times over from trying to find out.

The burns couldn’t be seen by the naked eye, but the soul felt them.

The mind replayed them.

And the body began to recoil for safety.

She wanted to be seen.

Not consumed.

She wanted to be held.

Not handled.

And maybe the mirror wasn’t broken.

Maybe it was just honest.

Maybe the reflection wasn’t her enemy.

Maybe it was her witness.

And maybe, just maybe,

She didn’t need to destroy her beauty.

She needed to redefine it.

Not as bait.

Not as currency.

But as survival.

Because she was not the doll.

She was the architect.

And this time,

She wasn’t going to obey.

Because obedience had never protected her.

It had only polished the cage.

And this time,

She was

done being the echo.

She was the voice.

And this time, it was hers.

Entirely.

Unapologetically.

Irrevocably.

Her voice was hers.

Not borrowed.

Not broken.

Hers.

And it spoke in scars, not silence.