When I was a little girl, like most, I played with dolls. Rag or fine porcelain I loved to brush their hair and have majestic tea parties with the prince of a made up land. All of my dolls were dear to me and not one of them didn’t know my secrets. But, like most things, I did have a favorite that never left my side. Ragan was her name. She got special privileges like sleeping in my bed instead of the make shift beds that my father had made them. I didn’t think it was all that bad. Ragan was special, my first doll, so it was only natural that I treat her different right? That’s what I thought as a child, but a child’s innocence can be forgiven. Now, I’m a doll in a twisted child’s imagination and the one thing you don’t want, is to be the favorite.
