Present

I live a good life.

Good neighborhood.

Good friends.

Good job.

Great family.

Wonderful life.

Last week was my daughter’s thirteenth birthday.

You understand how thirteen-year-olds are: all focused on fitting in.

Her friend gave her a beautiful doll.

Emerald green eyes and porcelain skin framed by braided brown hair and a dark red gown.

It must’ve been expensive, but she was mortified.

After the party, it disappeared.

I found it in her trash can with a crack over her left eye, otherwise undamaged.

I tidied her up and stashed her in our attic, propped up on a rusty music stand.

Last night I heard a scream that could pierce the fabric of reality.

It was about 2 am and my daughter had friends over.

I peered through the attic door and saw her rocking back and forth madly.

“Ms., I don’t know what happened. She saw the doll and now she’s just... delirious,” stated a friend that noticed me.

The doll lay on the floor, calmly.

“It’s fine; she’s tired.”

And I ushered them downstairs, calming my daughter, but my mind couldn’t help its curiousity as to how the doll came to sit on the other side of the room.