Theres a crevice in the wall where she hides her little baby girl, all plastic smiles and mechanical giggles. She cuddles it like it has a soul and speaks to it like it has a name. Its soft rubber skin has been covered with paper hearts and marker stars, and its little plastic ears have been filled with whispers of adoration and love. Its wiry blonde hair has been crossed into braids, twisted up above its head, and she has pulled a dress onto its synthetic body with the brightest little smile. She reminds it that its beautiful, even though it cant hear. She fastens it tight into the beaten pink stroller and skips behind it as it rolls across the pavement, dancing in the sun like there is no tomorrow and yesterday is only a dream.
And maybe she's only six years old, but she knows how babies are made. Not the ones you buy in the store, the ones you have to tear out of the cruel plastic covering; those are the strangest mystery. No, she knows just where the soft little babies with the tiny tulip lips and rosy cheeks come from. They are the lily of the deepest river, the star in the clearest night. They are the embrace of the warmest arms, the sweetest kisses, the strongest love. What more could be so powerful as to fuse together a new, tiny life?
And maybe shes only fifteen, but she knows what it all means. Something as wonderful as love cant be something you can mistake. His voice is like silver, silky velvet and his arms are like all that is holy. He holds the seasons in the palm of his hands, all time and all existence. And when those hands skim over her skin, she burns like shes a hopeless disaster, drowning in a cold fire. She can feel the beat of every heart, she can hear the thoughts of every mind. She can see the future and she can relive the past. But only in his eyes.
And theres a little basket where she hides you, her little baby girl, deep inside her. Its all smooth pink walls and soft red blankets, because only God knows your every need. And maybe your heart cant beat and maybe your ears cant hear and maybe your lips cant smile, but your soul twists and writhes within you; youre more alive than most, youre more real than she once believed that tiny doll was. Coiling and uncoiling, swimming in life, growing and growing. Tiny fingers, tiny toes. A tiny little perfect face with a perfect little mind and a perfect little heart that stumbles through its first beats.
And then your tiny little ears begin to hear and you can feel her every tear, every scream, every gasp of agony. Mommy, you whisper within your mind, because youll never have a voice within this safe place you call home. Oh, your voice could be just like that little doll, only more warm, more loving, more real and more beautiful.
But cool metal touches your skin and you pull back, tiny fingers pushing it away.
And then youre unraveling at the seams, being torn apart, being broken into a thousand pieces like a shattered mirror, the shards skidding across the cool tile like glittering stars across the sky. If you had a voice, you would scream because it burns like fire and it burns like hell, but youll never cry out the way she did. Your blood drips and slithers from her, spilling onto their hands, but itll all be washed away in time.
Mommy, your tiny little pink lips open and close like a fish out of water. Mommy, I just wanted to meet you.
And maybe shes eighteen now, but everythings different and everythings the same. Mistakes come and mistakes go, but some wounds will never heal and some cuts will always bleed. She still hears your voice in her dreams and she still sees your face on that little doll, stowed far away in a cardboard box with other fragments of an unwanted childhood. And then she runs her fingers over a different box, cold and silver. Foreboding. Dangerous.
There are choices in life and choices in death, and she knows she has a right to them all. No one could ever stand up and cry out to her; she has the right to give and the right to take away. It is her life. It is her being. It is her choice.
So she pulls the trigger.
And she unravels at the seams. It burns like fire and it burns like hell, and her blood drips and slithers from her wounds. But somehow her blood is still more valuable than yours will ever be.