The Dollhouse

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Sally gets a new dollhouse for her seventh and three quarters birthday.

Submitted: March 08, 2015

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Submitted: March 08, 2015

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The Dollhouse

The girl was sitting in the middle of her bedroom. With her dirty blonde hair shading her eyes and her bare feet brushing the carpet, she measured exactly 14 paces from the north and south walls and exactly 17 paces from the east and west walls to place her brand new doll house.

She had turned seven and three quarters yesterday. The doll house was a birthday gift from her seventh and three quarters birthday party.

(Attendance: 3, including her mother, father, and her best friend Amy)

(“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Sally! Happy birthday to you!” they sang, the two voices melding together like droning espresso machines.)

Sally sat in her bedroom, alone except for the ever constant presence of her best friend Amy. Sally’s favorite part about Amy is that Amy never complained about Sally’s love for playing house. Whether it was dinner time and they played with forks and knives or if it was party time and they played with various clothes, Amy was always supportive and not once raised her voice about the repetitive games they played.

Today, they were playing dress up, except Sally was the stylist. From her vantage point in the middle of her room 14 paces from the north and south walls and 17 paces from the east and west walls, Sally laid out her needle, thread, and scissors like a surgeon preparing for an operation.

(“Amy, do you think we should work on formal clothes today or casual clothes?”)

(“I agree, I think the pink dress Barbie has on right now looks like a prom dress too.”)

Sally crossed her short legs underneath her and smoothed out her faded pink sundress. Hastily brushing her dirty blonde hair out of her eyes, she scanned her tools with the experience eye of a seven and three quarters year old surgeon before selecting her favorite orange scissors and got to work.

Snipping. Trimming. Measuring. Tearing. Amy watched as Sally’s small hands trimmed Barbie’s long blonde hair and adjusted Ken’s denim shorts. Sally, being the creative seven and three quarter year old she was, made drastic changes to each and every one of her dolls in her quest to becoming the top stylist of the day.

(Of course, her only competition was Amy, but Amy never said much anyway.)

(“Sally honey, it’s time for dinner!”)

(“Five more minutes mommy, Amy and I aren’t done with Chelsea’s dress! It’s too long and covers her knees too much.”)

(Sally’s mother sighed from the kitchen below and grudgingly trudged up to Sally’s bedroom to pull the little girl out of pitch black room.)

(“Honey, what are you doing in there?” she asked on her way up.)

At the top of the stairs, Sally met her mother with bare feet and one little hand gripping the too tall cherry wood banister.

(“Oh Sally, dinner’s on the counter. Head on down, I already ate out with Aunt Dawn and your father is working late again.”)

Sally’s lips curled at the edges as she stiffly nodded agreement to her mother’s words and went downstairs to eat a lonely dinner of leftover broccoli and brown rice from her mother’s dinner with Aunt Dawn.

Sally’s mother watched the retreating dirty blonde hair and faded pink sundress before stepping into Sally’s pitch black bedroom. Flicking the light on, she sighed as she looked over the mess of dismantled doll parts and shredded Barbie clothes surrounding the brand new doll house placed 14 paces from the north and south walls and 17 paces from the east and west walls. 

(“I swear, every time we buy her a brand new doll house, she turns them into slaughter houses. Amy is the only one out of any of us who come’s out of Sally’s episodes mostly intact.”)

Sally, in the kitchen downstairs, ate her cooling leftover broccoli and brown rice with Amy in the seat next to her. Amy never ate anything Sally’s mother brought home, but Sally thinks it might be because it’s hard to eat when you’re too short to reach the edge of the table and you’re missing an eye and a left hand. 


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