The Doll's Girl

CW: Child abuse, suicide, murder

The doll had seen many things in her time. She had been purchased for rich children and ridden on pampered ponies with sleek, braided hair while the children laughed wildly in her ear. She had been purchased by old collectors, who set her on a shelf and forgot her, until the collector died, and she was auctioned off, or sold with the estate. She had even once been stolen, brought to a poor man’s twin daughters for a memorable few months before the man had been caught and hanged for his thievery and the doll was given back to the woman he had stolen from, an avid collector named Mrs. Theodora Higgs.

It was Mrs. Theodora Higgs who had been her most recent guardian before the worst one: Mr. Lambert Jean, a man so foul that the doll imagined she could smell him, although she didn’t quite know what smelling would be like. Mr. Jean had purchased the doll three months back when, to the doll's sadness, Mrs. Theodora Higgs passed away. When she first saw Mr. Jean's home, the doll believed that she was destined for the shelves yet again. From the rich mahogany wood floors to the columns that lined the walls, carved with intricate, leafy, ornamentation to the massive crystal chandeliers, the house spoke of the astounding wealth only a collector had.

Mr. Jean had carried the doll into what appeared to be a living space when she saw her. She was an angel of a child, her short, wispy black hair framing a soft, round face and clear blue eyes. The girl had on a dress of expensive blue silk, lined with graying lace. The doll fell in love with her immediately. The doll was set before the child, but as the girl reached out to touch her, the doll felt herself being snapped back. Her left foot dragged on the ground for a moment, surely chipping her delicate porcelain exterior.

“No, Gracie. Not ‘round here. You’d best behave yourself if you want the dolly.” Gracie began to cry, and the doll had only watched as tears streamed down the child’s face silently, creating tiny rivulets that marred her clear skin. The doll had felt like she would shatter into tiny pieces if she ever saw the sight again.

She never did shatter, although she did see Gracie cry again. Many times. She had been set on a high shelf, overlooking the sitting room, which seemed to be the only place Gracie was allowed to roam during the day. Mr. Jean was often out of town, and Gracie never had company that the doll saw. The girl’s meals were delivered in the hall outside the sitting room, and the doll was placed facing the opposite wall. She appeared to live a mostly quiet life, if not happy then at least not disturbed.

But when Mr. Jean came home, it changed. Every time the man walked into the doll’s line of sight, the doll saw the trembling hope on Gracie’s face. The way she wrung her hands, the light in her eyes. The doll also saw the light disappear, every time Mr. Jean hit Gracie, or called her ugly, or stupid, or worthless, or a million other things. The doll saw every time the man offered Gracie a sweet or a toy, and would take it away at the last second, eating it or placing it on the doll’s shelf.

The doll hated Mr. Jean.

She didn’t know she could feel an emotion so strongly as the utter loathing she had for the man. Every time she saw him, she wished he would disappear and leave Gracie alone, for solitude would be far better than the nightmare that was Gracie’s life. Or she wished Gracie would defend herself—bite or claw or kick or scream—but the doll’s wishes never came true, and she suffered the agony of being stuck there on that shelf, watching day after day as such ugly atrocities were done to such a beautiful child.

The doll was sickened by herself, if she was honest. Why didn’t she have the willpower to just move, to get off that shelf, to defend Gracie? She knew that the act simply wasn’t possible. But she was still fully and irrevocably disgusted with herself and with the world. Never had she wished it would all just end before, but in the time that she was with the Jeans, it was all she could think about.

The doll didn’t believe the world could get any worse. What more did she, did Gracie, have to lose? But then, it did. It got so much worse.

It happened on a rainy afternoon. The doll knew it was raining because the curtains across from her were open, and there were flashes of lighting every so often. Gracie was sitting at the window, watching the rain streak down and drawing pictures in the condensation on the glass.

The doll heard the door slam, and, apparently, Gracie did too, because she turned around, her eyes wide and fearful. She began gnawing at her lower lip as she looked frantically at the entrance to the room. Please, thought the doll. Run. Escape. Do something, don't just stand there. Of course, Gracie didn't move, just stood there, trembling, terrified.

After a few more moments, Mr. Jean thundered into the room, carrying a large pink box. It looked too festive for the rainy day and the foul man holding it as a jaunty turquoise bow sprung from the top. Upon seeing the box, Gracie gasped, her eyes filling with pure hope for the thousandth time. The doll wished she didn’t have to watch yet again as Mr. Jean killed the child’s joy. But she never could look away. Even when she knew, as soon as she saw the snake rear its head out of the box, that this time she wouldn't have to want to look away anymore; she would never see Gracie, not ever again.