The Little Girl

My Doll

She watched me sleep every night. Never blinking, and never moving. Of course that is to be expected of a doll. Her glassy eyes were filled with despair. At least, that’s what I saw. She forever sits in the same place my mother, my late mother, had put her. The same chair that she had rocked me to sleep in when I was a child. Every night I would hear my mother’s voice humming. It was coming from the doll. I was losing it. A couple nights later and the doll started moving. I’m going crazy. It started blinking at me. I’m mad. Finally, one night I had heard giggling from the doll. I had had it. I went to the basement and grabbed a hammer. When I reached my room the doll was gone from where it had moved last, the dresser. It was on my bed laying right where I had been laying minutes before. More giggling came from it. I took a deep breath as I raised the hammer above my head, and I screamed as I threw the hammer down on the doll. After I had cleaned up the mess, I laid down on my bed. It was funny. The doll suffered the same fate as her owner. I smiled and drifted to sleep at the memory.