[Since last month's post was about writing, and this story was referenced, I thought I'd post it here. This was written for my first major course in Writing. I wa 18, so keep that in mind.]
Her name
was Holly. She was born on Christmas Eve, and although she had ruined her
parents' plans for that evening, they managed to forgive her for that. Then
they named her in the true spirit of Christmas.
She was now six, that novel age when
she was "Mommy's big girl" while still remaining "Daddy's little
angel". She was a vibrant child. Everything about her seemed radiant,
including her long, brown hair that glistened red in the sun.
She wore green well and almost
exclusively; that was her mother's way of keeping Christmas around her all year
long. Many of Holly's dolls wore pretty dresses of red or blue, but none
dressed like Holly except one: her Christy-Anna doll. Christy was not only
Holly's favorite doll, but she was also her best friend. Christy listened like
none of the other dolls when Holly spoke – so Holly told everyone – and always
had something nice to say. But Holly only reluctantly admitted that she had to
pull a string to make Christy talk.
Holly lived a very happy life with
her dolls when she wasn't too busy entertaining her invisible friends at
imaginary parties. She was happy with
her parents, too – when they weren't too busy entertaining their real friends
at real parties. Like her mother, Holly often told her doll that if she were
good, she'd get a piece of cake; then Holly would rush upstairs and try very
hard to go to sleep.
The
The day after a party, however, was
usually a bad one for Christy.
"Can't you ever do what I
ask?" Holly would demand in sleepless irritability. "You always have to make noise, don't you? You always want the spotlight. Well, you're
nothing but a brat. You'll learn that the parties I give are mine. You'll learn – you'll spend the
day in your room." Then Holly would slap the doll's face.
"Mama," the doll cried
automatically.
"Don't think crying will get
you anywhere," Holly answered.
"You're a bad girl. You're no good at all."
"I love you, Mama," the
doll responded, and the worn record made it sound like the doll was crying.
"I don't love you
anymore," Holly said, then began beating the doll with anger unusual for a
child her age.
Poor Christy-Anna! When she was
good, she was Holly's most beloved doll, but when she displeased Holly, she
bore the brunt of the child's rage. Yet, for all the beatings the doll
received, it still said, "I love you, Mama."
Of late, the doll had stopped
talking much. The string didn't always work. This annoyed Holly. She couldn't
tolerate Christy being like the other mute dolls she had.
"If you're not going to say
anything, then go away," Holly said. But the doll remained in its place.
Holly went about her work, ignoring Christy completely. Finally, Holly turned
to the doll.
"I'm going to have another
party. This time, you're not going to ruin it for me."
Actually, the doll never did
anything to ruin Holly's parties. She
was very good, but some of Holly's friends became quite loud, disturbing the
doll's sleep. An accidental cry of "Mama!" would send Holly into a
rage, even though accidents of this sort often happen to talking dolls.
Holly could be quite charming to her
friends at a party, but coming back to the realities of life the next day had
devastating effects on her. Days like that made Holly hate the doll. But then
Holly would realize that her troubles were not entirely the doll's fault, and she
would try to make things up to her.
"Let's see my big girl
smile," Holly said, hugging her doll.
Together the girl and the doll would
take imaginary shopping trips, and as far as Holly was concerned, things were
all right again.
Holly had another party, but this
time things were worse than usual. One of Holly's imaginary friends got out of
hand, and Christy, unfortunately, was not well. Holly was quite embarrassed,
and the party ended early.
The following morning found Holly
out of sorts, a pounding headache adding to her tiredness. Poor Christy-Anna,
who had, until then, looked like a normal worn doll, took such a beating that
Holly's hands were sore.
"You're not sick, you bad
thing!" Holly shouted. "You've ruined everything. I hate you,
Christy-Anna, I hate you! I wish I never had you."
Holly beat the doll unmercifully.
When she finished the doll looked frightful. The tangled brown hair fell over
its face, the wrinkled green dress was torn, and the arms and legs flailed
about with every blow.
Finally exhausted, Holly threw the
doll on the floor. As it hit the floor, it cried, "Mama," perhaps
for the last time. That infernal squeaking voice!
"Shut up!" Holly said,
shaking the doll, and banging it against the floor. The doll was silent, and
the blue eyes closed. Satisfied, Holly
left the doll lying on the floor, and went off to do her work.
"Hi, hon," Tom Anderson
said. "You look beat."
"Oh, I've been cleaning up
after that party," his wife answered. "Brad Quinton will never be
invited here again after the mess he caused last night."
"I agree. Where's Holly?"
"Upstairs. Do you know that
fake wasn't sick last night after all? She just wanted attention. And to make
matters worse, this morning she broke that stupid doll,"
He stood looking at her oddly for
the comment. Why was she talking about a child's doll? It made no sense, and
didn't explain the anger he'd heard in her voice – the sudden realization of
the reality beyond the words pushed through the years of denial.
"My God!" he said,
horrified, as he dashed upstairs.
When he reached the room, he found
Holly on the floor where her mother had left her, still squeaking
"Mama." He scooped her up, and laid her on the bed as he looked
pityingly at her battered body. He pushed her hair from her doll face.
His wife watched, unmoved, from the
doorway. "I told you you never should have given her that doll," she
said.
END
1973
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