Broken Doll

By , Hamilton, NJ
Her porcelain skin shattered, scattering in all different directions. Lying still on the cold floor, her doe-like eye stared desolately into the dark. The dimly lit room softly hushed a haunting breeze, grazing the side of her cracked face. Her hollow inside began to tremble slightly, whispers seeped out of her fragile figure. A black hand slithered slowly out of the body from the hole in her face. One by one by one, each finger cautiously stepped out from hiding into the weak light. Heavy, murky liquid bled, trailing behind the hand that crawled out of the hole. Finally, it was free.

1 New Message

A low grunt rumbled within my throat as I lazily reached for my cellphone, which lay beside my pillow. The screen glowed brightly through the darkness of my room, nearly blinding me. Squinting through my heavy eyelids, I opened the message. Instantly, rage shot through my body, waking me up from the drowsiness that dwelled in me before. I couldn’t break my gaze from lies and nonsense. I read it countless times.

“This fight has been going on for too long,” I whispered to the screen, “I’ll deal with her later.” Ignoring the text, I rolled back onto my pillow. I set the phone on my nightstand and glanced out the window. The late July moon hung in the night sky among the luminous stars. The chirps of crickets were nearby, and the whisper of the wind lingered in the obscurity of my room. The summer night played its lullaby, and sleep overcame me, as if all worries emptied from my head.

Dawn broke; a rose-colored rain greeted my face the next day. Leaning against the faded baby pink wall, I stared at a doll next to me as she returned the vacant expression. She was sitting lifelessly on top of my bookcase, next to the radio. Reaching for her, I gently giggle as I twirled the dolls’ fine chestnut ringlets around my finger. Her pale honey lace gown dressed her delicate figure. I stroked her porcelain skin. Her small amiable smile and deep amber eyes were emotionless. Resting the doll next to me in bed, my phone buzzed to life and all problems came gnawing at my mind again. I wanted to ignore the text and not even bother to talk to anyone that day. Cursing under my breath, I hesitantly read the text. As if my phone was contaminated with a deadly disease, I threw it across the room. It landed with a heavy thud. I slinked back under the soft covers and clutched the doll’s waist. A tear cascaded down my face, clinging to my jawline. I could feel the anger boiling up inside of me. I couldn’t believe her, considering she had a history of lying to me ever since I met her. I crept downstairs to the kitchen, around eight o’ clock. I hoped to toast a piece of bread and drag myself back to bed, even though my stomach was begging for food. My mom kissed my forehead, once I stepped into the kitchen, and asked me if I had a good night’s sleep. I responded with a long sigh and settled myself into my typical seat. She strolled into the dining room, she asked, “Is everything okay?” She scanned my face, “Were you crying?”

“Everything’s fine, Mom,” I lied, “I’m just really tired.” I forced a weak smile which seemed to satisfy my mom as she kissed my forehead again and went off to work. That was when the creation of the mask began.

Every day I wore my mask, smiling and making up excuses, lying through my teeth. The fight between my “friend” and I became intense and nearly everything began spiraling down. My mom began fussing about how I wasn’t perfect. The way I spoke angered her, even when I wasn’t using a tone. The way I dressed made her aggravated, regardless if I was wearing a plain white shirt and sweatpants. Other times she would compare me to my cousins, saying how I was never smart enough. She didn’t accept me for who I was, not only as her own daughter, but for me. Instead I was a useless piece of trash, a waste of space. At one point, I convinced myself that I was, that I’d never be good enough. I would never be perfect. Her rejection towards me awakened my urge to hurt something or someone. I treated my family like dirt. I ignored them for days, talked back, and isolated myself from all of them. Sometime during August, my younger sister was in my room which for some reason angered me. Without thinking, I grasped her head and shoved it into the wall. She held her head in her trembling hands, and she murmured, “Who are you?” With that, she fled out of my room. I stared at the wall and as if I was in a mini coma, I realized what I did. Who am I? What have I become? Blank as my mind was, I knew the answer. It whispered at my thoughts and mocked me. I was a heartless monster.

This sorrow, this monster, was building up inside of me, yet breaking me down, I could feel it taking over me; every inch of me was alive with it. The monster lurked in my thoughts, tainting my feelings. I wanted it to be gone. That’s when I saw it; the soft glisten of a razor that rested on my desk. My breath became shallow and my eyes empty. The door was locked. Without thinking, I reached for it, twirling and twisting it in my grasp. The monster’s voice lowered. It was irresistible poison, draining into my mind.
“Go ahead,” He purred in my mind. I obeyed.

“Keep going,” with gentle persuasion, so tempting. I followed.

“A little more,” it drawled on. In its mercy and grace, I didn’t bother to stop.

“I control you now.” Yet with such fear that settled into me, I smiled and agreed.

Like a porcelain doll, my skin shattered and revealed a monster underneath. Ready to devour what was left of me.

My life seemed like a masquerade. Behind my painted smile was a damaged heart and empty hopes for being wanted. My mask was created by society and myself, put into frames of normalcy and acceptability. I hid behind this mask nearly every day. I felt like I was in darkness, my demon light. I was blind with affliction.

With trembling hands, I held the mirror to my face. My dark amber eyes were lifeless. The air was ice cold, running its fingers through my black raven hair. I could feel something brushing against my back, snaking up to my neck. Fingers embrace my throat, tightening its grip every time I gasped for air. More hands crawled up my body, covering my eyes. Each hand suffocated me. I was paralyzed and on the verge of screaming. A final hand clamped itself on my gaping mouth as I dropped the mirror.

From late August to early September, I continued. Swallowing my own empty promises and swearing I would stop before school. It was hard not to. As if it was my drug, I was addicted and couldn’t stop. I felt like a raven’s wing was over my eyes. I was alone. In the early weeks of school, I wore my mask. I would hug my friends and squeal with them but what I really wanted was to be alone. They never expected anything. I began to not eat, too. I skipped lunch at school and always used the same excuse whenever someone asked why I wasn’t eating. At home, the monster was softly screaming to take over, weeping for attention, and I always gave in. I deserved it, for all I’ve done. Nothing made sense anymore. It claws inside of me, wanting to come out. I’m a slave to the vicious monster. Until that one day, my mask was broken and the beast vanished from me.

Finally, I have realized that I was blessed with people who cared, and I am forever grateful. I was so blind from my own pain that I never saw the worried glances my friends gave me when they noticed that I grew weaker and weaker. I never noticed the silent pleads. I was cared for all along, but never seemed to care or understand. After getting help from friends and counselors, I felt relief. I was struggling at the time by hate, from rejection, and pain itself. Now, I know I am blessed with friends who care and love me for who I am that I have talents to be proud of, and I can stop pretending. Those are now faded. The pain that once devoured me. The monster that once controlled me: those blood stained lies are all buried along with my mask.





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