Clover
I’m sat on a chair. It’s probably red.
String winds tight around my wrists and ankles, suspended in the air, holding me like a child’s toy. A wooden wedge pins my back straight, posture perfect, like a porcelain doll.
I’m a puppet. I’m strung up like a puppet.
I blink away my fuzzy head and try to focus. There’s an audience and I’m on a stage. The stage is black and shiny. The walls are red.
The chairs facing me are all red. Everything is red. Like rage. Like shame. Like blood.
A light beams onto me, and I try to turn my head away, but I’m unable to move because of the wood holding me in place.
‘Males and Females. Welcome, to the dollhouse.’ That voice. I recognise that awful voice.
I feel a pull on my wrists and they begin to raise, being pulled up into the air and forced
