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tiptoe39Title: Broken Dolls
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tiptoe39
Rating: PG for violence
Summary: A story of Elle's childhood. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
heroes_exchange.
Broken Dolls
There was a short time in Elle Bishop's life when she was just like any other girl. This was before Mommy died, before Daddy started doing strange things. She was four or five, blonde and brilliant, and she wanted things. When she didn't get them, she cried. This was before crying stung like a bitch.
For a while the Jessie Doll was the apple of her eye. It was cute and round-faced, and every other girl had one. They brought them to kindergarten, switched their clothes and named them, going on imaginary play dates with their fellow four-year-old mothers, and Elle watched and wanted and waited until Christmas. There were a lot of crying jags in those days, for a lot of different reasons. But a good number of them had to do with the Jessie Doll. Mommy put her hand on Elle's forehead, a stern reprimand, and told her she was being selfish. "To your room," she said with a little shove, not even hard enough to make Elle stumble. Elle's tears would dry and she would return to her room, duly chastened. And Mommy eventually baked pie. That helped for a while. Elle was sure nobody else got pie. Not with warm peaches, the way Mommy made it.
And then came Christmas and she appeared, beautiful and sparkling in her package. Elle named her Trina and took very good care of her, changing her diaper and wheeling her to the park. Trina was a good girl, and Elle treasured her. At last, there she was, among the pantheon of nursery-school stars. Where she belonged.
Then one day Trina was being bad. Whatever she imagined was happening between her and her plush-and-plastic daughter was Elle's business, but the end result is, Elle put her hand on Trina's forehead. Just like Mommy did when she was bad. And she pushed.
Something bright came out and left a dark, crumbling handprint on Trina's face.
Elle screamed and cried, and crying hurt, so she screamed and cried more. Mommy ran into the room and couldn't get close to her, wouldn't save her from the awful light that was everywhere and the tears that hurt. She fled and it wasn't until Daddy got there that she calmed. Because Daddy strode right through, ignoring the blazes and burns it painted on her skin, and held her tight, laughing and crying all at once. "My little girl!" he exclaimed. "I always knew it. I knew you were a special little girl."
That was when Elle realized that broken dolls were good things.
She did the same thing to four other Jessie Dolls the next day at school, and even though there were shrieks and tears, Elle had learned not to cry. Daddy came to pick her up when the teacher phoned, and she never returned to that place again.
Author:
tiptoe39Rating: PG for violence
Summary: A story of Elle's childhood. For
heroes_exchange.Broken Dolls
There was a short time in Elle Bishop's life when she was just like any other girl. This was before Mommy died, before Daddy started doing strange things. She was four or five, blonde and brilliant, and she wanted things. When she didn't get them, she cried. This was before crying stung like a bitch.
For a while the Jessie Doll was the apple of her eye. It was cute and round-faced, and every other girl had one. They brought them to kindergarten, switched their clothes and named them, going on imaginary play dates with their fellow four-year-old mothers, and Elle watched and wanted and waited until Christmas. There were a lot of crying jags in those days, for a lot of different reasons. But a good number of them had to do with the Jessie Doll. Mommy put her hand on Elle's forehead, a stern reprimand, and told her she was being selfish. "To your room," she said with a little shove, not even hard enough to make Elle stumble. Elle's tears would dry and she would return to her room, duly chastened. And Mommy eventually baked pie. That helped for a while. Elle was sure nobody else got pie. Not with warm peaches, the way Mommy made it.
And then came Christmas and she appeared, beautiful and sparkling in her package. Elle named her Trina and took very good care of her, changing her diaper and wheeling her to the park. Trina was a good girl, and Elle treasured her. At last, there she was, among the pantheon of nursery-school stars. Where she belonged.
Then one day Trina was being bad. Whatever she imagined was happening between her and her plush-and-plastic daughter was Elle's business, but the end result is, Elle put her hand on Trina's forehead. Just like Mommy did when she was bad. And she pushed.
Something bright came out and left a dark, crumbling handprint on Trina's face.
Elle screamed and cried, and crying hurt, so she screamed and cried more. Mommy ran into the room and couldn't get close to her, wouldn't save her from the awful light that was everywhere and the tears that hurt. She fled and it wasn't until Daddy got there that she calmed. Because Daddy strode right through, ignoring the blazes and burns it painted on her skin, and held her tight, laughing and crying all at once. "My little girl!" he exclaimed. "I always knew it. I knew you were a special little girl."
That was when Elle realized that broken dolls were good things.
She did the same thing to four other Jessie Dolls the next day at school, and even though there were shrieks and tears, Elle had learned not to cry. Daddy came to pick her up when the teacher phoned, and she never returned to that place again.