When I was younger, my godmother sent me a doll for my seventh birthday. I remember it being delivered to my house on a hot day, as the days are always hot in the middle of July in Southern California. It came in a large blue box that my grandfather signed for. I was so excited that I had gotten something in the mail. It is always exciting to get something in the mail when you are younger because it is never bad. I remember my sister, three years older than me, was jealous of the package that I had received. I eagerly waited for my grandpa to open the box. He shuffled into the kitchen and when he came back he had a machete in his hand. The thing you have to understand about my grandpa is that he is what modern people might call a thug. That machete, with its dull silver blade and black handle with little wounds of its own, had been my grandpa’s go-to gadget. But I suppose that is another story entirely.
He came into the living room where he had left me with the box and used his machete to open it, slowly and carefully slicing the tape from one end to the other. After he finished I jumped to see what new and wonderful thing was hiding away in the blue box. It was, as mentioned, a doll. It was no ordinary doll, though. Not one of those Raggedy Anne dolls or a typical Barbie. No, this was something entirely new to me.
I cannot recall who manufactured it, or even what I called her. What I do remember is what she looked like. The doll came to about the height of my shoulder. I had never before seen a doll that big. She had long, black, curly hair that flowed to the middle of her back. She had pale skin and a blue floral print dress that matched her swirling blue eyes. She was one of those dolls that closed its eyes when you laid her down and opened them again when she was upright. The special thing about her was that she was supposed to be like a real friend. She was designed for the owner, me, to hold her hand. With every step that I took, she would walk right alongside me as long as we were holding hands. I could not believe it. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before. I began to play with her right away. I was not allowed to play with her outside, so we took walks around the kitchen. She slept on the floor next to my bed. I never kept her in bed with me because I used to move around quite a bit when I slept and I did not want to hit her in my sleep.
The fun I had with my new doll would soon change though. Later in the year, towards Christmas, I stayed over at my cousin’s house. Everyone was telling scary stories, and I, trying to fit in with my older cousins stayed to listen despite being terrified. One of the stories was about a possessed doll that, in the nature of scary stories, killed people. It talked and moved and murdered. From then on, I discovered that my doll reminded me of the doll in the story because it could move. Also, there was something about its eyes that would stare as if plotting my demise. Unrealistic? Probably. But to a seven-year-old child, it was very real. Needless to say, the doll was soon banished from my household and donated. To this day, I am still slightly terrified of dolls.
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