Unbroken China Doll

She's curled up among mountains of cushions and blankets. It's as if she's made of china, and she's in a pillowed box, safe from everything outside that can crack her delicate frame. Her eyes are half-closed, her white fingers holding a book made of cloth. Her face, framed by a silky wave of soft brown hair, is peaceful and detached. She doesn't smile.

And yet, for all this beauty, for all this protection, she is nothing more than any other girl on the planet. She connects to the outside world, and it bothers no one except those who view her as that precious china doll.

Tonight, it's raining, and the light from the street lamps outside her window shine a ghastly pattern on her face. Her eyes reflect a light that is not purely from the glow outside; street lamps cannot give that radiance of longing. How many times must she be told that the world is cruel? How many times must the door be shut when she wants to go stand with her face uplifted to those falling droplets? How many times must the dangers be pointed out?

To be fair, they had never told her the rain was dangerous. She had never asked to go stand in the rain — the skill of asking questions had been gently suppressed until it no longer bubbled to the surface on that indescribable volcano of curiosity. 

Perhaps tonight, she is thinking of a question. Perhaps, whatever she is reading has brought some of that childish curiosity into the shadows again. If there are shadows, there is light as well. 

But maybe not. The light that burned briefly in her eyes flickers and is gone. The ghosts around her sigh an imperceptible sigh. Resignation seems to weigh heavily upon her shoulders, those shoulders that have never borne the gravity of decisions.

It is unfortunate that this said resignation does not appear as a choice before those innocently void brown eyes.

The apparitions stir as this thought floats through the minds of disuse. What are her eyes lacking? they whisper, wondering silently. It is not her eyes that lack, indeed no — it is what her mind has not been opened to. A china doll sees nothing but a hard, sharp world that poses the prospect of suffering and death at every turn. For a china doll, yes, this earth is nothing more than a furnace to stand in and hope for a prolonged life. For a china doll, the world is luck, and the only precautions available are to stand back and pray.

She looks up now, and it is disheartening to see how beautiful she is. Unscarred and unmarked by the world of nothing but hatred toward china dolls. She is so perfect, so flawless, she looks almost brittle. Maybe if she smiles, her face will shatter and all we will see is an empty skull, bloodless and cold.

Yet she does smile, stretching out her slender, white arms to the ghosts huddling around her. It is sickening to see how she welcomes them. Are solid, blood-filled, breathing bodies too dangerous for a china doll? But yes. They are. 

And yet, this girl is not a china doll — being treated as one does not make her so. If you keep her in a cage her entire life, she will not shatter like glass when you drop her. No, for she is not made of china. 

Her ghosts are surrounding her, frantically trying to alert her to her predicament. There is more to life than being safe, they whisper desperately. If you are always safe, how do you ever learn what to avoid? It is just as your immune system; if it is never used, it will not protect you when a disease infiltrates your body.

She moves delicately over to the window. Throwing them open, she leans out over the sill, and the cold, biting water blows in. Her eyes are on fire. The phantoms that have so long been her companions retreat in terror. 

A strange, deadened silence presses down, muffling the sound of alarmed footsteps rushing up the stairs. China doll, china doll, their cries echo off locked doors and carpeted walls. The girl seems not to hear them. She places her foot on the ledge, and suddenly leers back at the door.

It bursts open, and all those who view her and care for her as a china doll come in. They are disturbed, they are afraid she shall be scratched by the glass, by the rough wood.

China doll, china doll...

The ghosts have calmed. They know she is no china doll. 

The girl smiles, and unbidden comes an image of a fleshless, bloodless, empty skull.

She throws herself from the window, and those who keep the china doll scream.

The ghosts smile. She is not a china doll. The drop was not lengthy. She has discovered her true self.

The others rush to the window, staring over the edge. There, on the stones below the window, lie the shattered remains of the china doll who was once a girl.