the doll.
One night, my mother saw me holding my doll in one hand, and a knife in another.
"What are you doing with that knife?" She gasped. "Give it to me, this instant!"
I just looked at her. I put my doll on the floor.
"You're too young to be holding that knife," she said. She held out her trembling hand. "It's dangerous! And what're you doing with the doll?"
"Ma," I muttered. "Earlier, my doll just suddenly opened and closed her eyes, even without me holding her." A pause. "I think my doll's alive."
"Maybe that's just your imagination," she said, shaking her head, still not letting down her hand. "It's late. You must be exhausted today, love."
"No, she really did. She was standing on the floor when she did it, all alone. She was staring at me."
"Nonsense. It's just a doll..."
I then took the knife and stabbed both of the doll's eyes. The doll mewled from her rosebud mouth and blood trickled from her pretty eyes.
∘ ₊˚𖦹 ⋆
