Doll

The sunlight bleeds through slits in the marble walls. A ceramic mug stands on a white saucer, taking its place on the carefully dyed wood table. A perfectly made, soft pink plush bed is wedged into the corner, marshmallow covers flowing over the edge of the soft mattress.

She sits on a couch, immersed in a book. Outside, a war is raging. Gunshots ring over town, echoing over alleyways and exploding over a dark night sky. But her house is perfectly silent. The windows are darkened against the brutal scene outside, walls completely soundproof.

Every meal is a feast, piled high with luxuries. Roasted beef, sauteed vegetables, and coconut pudding. Yet, her eyes are hollow, her cheekbones flat.

She should be grateful. She should be glad that she has been offered a permanent sanctuary from this war, a safe haven to avoid its dangers.

Instead, she feels nothing. This numbness is not isolation or detachment – it is merely another bit of daily life. She does not whine about the loneliness, nor does she exclaim in joy.

She simply forgets the war’s existence. She ignores it just as it ignores her.

Everyone killed in the war cannot be killed again. And in this silent room, she is one of them.

They all say girls should be emotional. But has anyone ever considered the price of having them?

She lifts the teapot in one graceful motion and pours tea into the ceramic teacup.

The lid falls off into the cup, breaking off a jagged piece of ceramic.

She picks up the piece. She stares at it.

Then, she drives it deep into her own palm, hungry to know she can feel, to know that she is not the machine she was raised to be but instead a human being with blood and bones and a heart that beats too loud in the silence of a world built on beautiful, manufactured lies.