My Mother’s Doll

Lissie cowered. That is, as much as a porcelain doll is capable of cowering. She focused on being small and invisible. Rage whirled around her in a fury of heat, screeching, and items being flung and left, broken where they fell. She felt the hot breath of rage turn its attention to her. It was what she dreaded. The world spun, in a loud and wild upset of aching cracks. As she lay on the hardwood floor, where she had been cast, glistening ringlets tumbling across her face, the world around her changed. She felt, but couldn't see, as she was lifted, more gently this time, and the broken pieces of porcelain were glued back into place. Good as new, with the exception of a few missing shards. 

Eventually, Lissie learned to be a girl, then a woman. But she never learned how to stop being a doll. She learned to glue herself back together, but each time, there were missing shards, and more fragile cracks. She saw the pattern, but not another option. The glue only held things together, it did not offer additional strength. Rage continued to take hold of her world, sometimes with the same, familiar voice of her girlhood, as well as deeper, stronger, more terrifying voices. With each new voice, it seemed as though the idea of breaking the pattern was increasingly impossible. 

After the porcelain turns to dust between the webs of glue, what will remain? Lissie wondered if she was the product or producer of her porcelain cage.