She was such a little doll, that’s what they all said. Her skin so white and smooth, her face so structurally perfect, her eyes so wide and blue. Just a little doll.
So they laughed when as a child she would blame her toys for any mischief. As such a little doll herself it seemed to them that she betrayed her own kind by pointing her pretty little finger that way.
“Dolly did it,” she would say, and her mother or father would chuckle and reply:
“Yes, but you are the little doll my love.”
Her face was so sweet you could never tell if that rankled. But often her parents would find one doll or another beheaded or their clothes torn or limbs mangled after such exchanges.
Still, if that was disturbing in any way just one look in her sweet young eyes would allay concerns. She was such a little doll.
So they never saw her coming. It would never have occurred. After years of settling into family habits and rituals, the little girl grew and wanted more. And she was unaccustomed to being denied. So when her parents said she couldn’t have the clothes and latest cool gadgets, she decided something needed to be done about it.
To remember what happened to her poor, fallen dolls might have been instructive.
In the garage her father kept some garden tools. Amongst them was an axe. She tested her strength and was well pleased, able to brandish it with sureness and speed.
It was vexing that the blood from her parents stained her pretty clothes. See, she thought, none of that would have happened if they’d just given me the clothes I asked for. And now these are spoiled, so I shall have to get new outfits.
When the police came they asked her what had happened, because even though her bloodied state seemed to tell the whole story, it was almost inconceivable that this little doll could have done such damage.
And she answered as she always had before.
“Dolly did it.”
And, of course, that was true.
(c) Helen M Valentina 2016