Amy

hope

The doll, its porcelain face cracked and stained, lay on its side in the corner of the room, nestled amongst the dust bunnies and forgotten scraps of fabric. One eye was missing, a dark, gaping hole that seemed to stare back at me, a void mirroring the emptiness inside. She was mine, once, a gift from a man with eyes too bright and a smile too wide, a smile that never reached his cold, calculating gaze. I named her Hope, a cruel irony now, a word that tasted like ash on my tongue, a whisper of a dream lost in the cacophony of my nightmares.

I used to hold her close, pretend she was my confidante, my silent sister, someone who wouldn’t hurt me, wouldn’t betray me. I’d whisper secrets into her painted ear, stories of a life I longed for, a life where the sun wasn’t always filtered through boarded-up windows and the air didn’t reek of stale cigarettes and fear. I’d tell her of meadows filled with wildflowers, of laughter and warmth, of a mother’s gentle touch, all fantasies spun from the threads of my desperate imagination.

But even Hope couldn’t escape the insidious darkness that permeated every corner of my existence. They took her, too, like they took everything else that held a flicker of innocence. One night, the man with the bright eyes returned, his smile twisted into a grotesque parody of warmth, his hands rough and impatient. He ripped her from my grasp, his touch bruising my skin, and when he returned her, her eye was gone, a dark, gaping wound in her porcelain face.

I remember staring at that empty socket, the porcelain chipped and stained, and a coldness settled in my chest, a chilling premonition of the desolate landscape my life would become. It was the moment I understood, with a chilling clarity that belied my tender age, that Hope was a lie, a fragile illusion, easily shattered, easily stolen.

After that, I stopped talking to her. I turned her face to the wall like I turned my own face away from the horrors they inflicted upon me. She became a symbol of everything I’d lost, a constant, silent reminder of the naive child I used to be, the child who still dared to dream.

Sometimes, at night, when the shadows stretched long and menacing, and the silence pressed heavy, suffocating, I’d hear her. A faint, persistent scratching sound, like tiny fingernails scraping against the floorboards. Was it the wind, whistling through the cracks in the walls? Rats, scurrying in the darkness? Or was it Hope, trying to communicate, trying to remind me that even broken things can still whisper secrets, can still hold onto a sliver of resilience?

I’d crawl to her corner, my heart pounding in my chest, my breath catching in my throat, and pick her up. Her porcelain skin was cold, like the touch of a tombstone, and her empty eye socket stared back at me, a dark, bottomless void that mirrored the emptiness inside me. I’d trace the cracks in her face, the scars of her own brokenness, and wonder if she felt the same way I did: lost, forgotten, unwanted, a discarded remnant of a life that never was.

Then, I’d put her back, turn her face to the wall again, and crawl back to my corner, the scratching sound fading into the silence. But the feeling, the cold, hard feeling of despair, would linger, a constant reminder of the doll with broken eyes, and the little girl who lost her hope.