Sparkle Eye Barbie

I would like to note that I am not insane. At least, not completely…

“Why would you do that?" I was probably thirteen, my sister only seven, but that little brat had just put my collector's'edition Barbie in the bathtub, and I was thoroughly pissed and of course overly-dramatic and currently screaming.

She sat in the dingy water, naked and smiling at me with her layered shark teeth (that I could never remind her of enough because I was a horribly mean human being), making Barbie sing with delight at having a swim. She seemed unaffected by my tantrum, probably due to the frequency at which they occurred.

"I didnʼt wanna get mine wet," she said, "it ruins her hair."

"Well, why did you put mine in there? Why do you always ruin my stuff?" This question was asked on a regular basis, and it was never once answered to my expectation.

"I dunno. You don't'play with yours. You just left her in the box." She wasn't'taking this monumental event seriously, and my skin was starting to crawl.

"Ugh! I hate you," I growled menacingly at her and stomped through the door. Most people seem to feel these words hold a lot of weight, but we both used them on a fairly regular basis.

Honestly, I don't'even know why I was angry. I didn't'like Barbies at all. I was already smoking Marlboro Reds and knew how to roll a decent joint. But we spent a lot of time together alone, and I probably just needed a reason to feel violated. The only purpose for keeping that stupid doll was that my absent, alcoholic father bought it for me, and I thought it would be best to preserve it. 

I was fuming and ready for attack. I began sifting through the sea of toys and clothes and trash and fleas that was our bedroom floor, irately searching for her identical Barbie doll. It only took a few minutes to find it, as she played with her pretty often, so she was close to the surface. She was decked out in a pink floral sun dress and my sister had bound her plastic blonde hair into tiny little pigtails.

Now, before we go on any further, you should know my sister had tons of Barbies, most of which I had given to her due to not being the "Barbie type." I had stockpiled quite a collection regardless of the fact that I had zero interest in them whatsoever. Secondly, most of them were naked and dirty, half with hair that had been chopped to the scalp and their hands chewed off.

This Barbie, however, was well cared for by my sister, probably for the same reason mine stayed in the box.

I took that poor doll into the kitchen, my sister completely oblivious to my vengeance, and lit the gas flame on the front burner of our stove. Because I had recently become a self-proclaimed pyromaniac, this seemed to be the best course of action. I seized a knife (from an ever-mounting sink of dirty dishes) and held it over the flame until it began scorching black, then I used the hot blade to melt patterned lines into Barbieʼs dainty little legs.

From ankles to pelvis, I made sure to scar her, determined to leave her deformed and hideous.

I wasnʼt entirely satisfied with this, so I decided it would be best to remove her feet altogether. Out came the bone scissors and off with her toes. Her hair went as well, and then it occurred to me that her hands were unnecessary at this point in her life, so I stuck those in the fire to achieve disgusting little stubs.

When I was finished removing all of Barbie's'appendages, I placed her behind my back and proceeded back to the tub so I could torment her with her new and improved mutilated doll.

To my surprise, she was just sitting there staring at the wall.

"Hey." She looked remorseful. Uh-oh. 

With tears streaming down her cheeks, "I'm'sorry for putting her in the water. If you want, you can have mine and I'll keep this one since I ruined her."

My heart sunk as I realized what a complete dickhead I was. This would shred her into shrapnel, and here she was offering me repentance.

Feeling all my douchey glory, I replied like a typical teenager, "It's'okay. You can keep them both."

I backed away from the bathroom and for some unknown reason, I chose to open the door to the water-heater closet and chunk the doll inside. I couldn't'help but find a corner to cry in. Not only was I cruel, but a sadistic weirdo. I had shame wash over me profoundly, along with anxiety over the state of my mental health.

My sister was vehemently upset for a few days that she couldn't'find her Sparkle Eye Barbie. She wanted to make the pair sisters, like us, and she swore she left the doll next to her bed.

I couldn't'tell her what I'd'done, but I tried to make her feel better.  I made her Barbie clothes from pantyhose, popsicle-stick furniture, and a cute little home from cardboard boxes. We styled their hair and staged Jerry Springer shows. 

For the record, I'm'not a psychopath. We were left to our own devices way too often, and I think I had a lot of resentment bottled up towards my sister for being her caretaker at such a young age. I quickly grew out of my pyromania, pot-head stage, and I've actually turned into a fairly reasonable adult.

I did tell her about the Barbie when we were adults. She told me she really thought I didn't'want it because I just left her in her original packaging. "I was only seven! I had no idea what collector's'items were. Jeez, you're a sick bitch, aren't'you?”

And she laughed. Thank god.