The Doll - Part 3

By Natalia Emery Trindade

The daughter didn't cry, for pride. The afternoon passed calmly in the quietness of her room, almost painlessly. The doll felt hungry. She relieved the emptiness of the stomach by opening the wounds on her legs and eating the scarred peels. That relieved her malnourished soul a little.

When the afternoon expired, the mother decreed the end of the punishment and opened the door of the prison to allow the doll her freedom.

"You can come out."

"But I haven't finished writing 100 times."

"Never mind. You can stop now," the mother said generously.

The mother seemed exhausted and disposed to embrace peace again. The doll felt peace setting in, she could almost touch it with her hands. In a matter of seconds they would rebuild bridges, the war would have ended. The doll had already flown the white flag. Now, great care was necessary, to step gently, without noise, in order to not interrupt the natural course of things. She feared the abyss that could separate them at any instant. One false step and it would be the end. Why did it always have to be like this? The imminent danger, the cliff at the next step. She noticed the mother staring fiercely at her legs.

"Did you open the wounds again? I don't believe in that, girl!"

The terrified doll looked up at the mother's eyes.

"I am sorry, mother. It wasn't on purpose. I promise not to do it ever again."

"You promised that the last time. I'll teach you to stop that disgusting habit."

She grabbed the doll by the hair. She carried her to the kitchen, took something from the cabinet and pushed her out to the balcony.

"Now put your leg on that wall."

The daughter obeyed. The wounds exhibited fresh openings with pus around the edges. She had been picking at the scabs for so long that the inflammation of the wounds were as ancient as the maternal womb. The girl didn't weep. She was afraid of this woman who, one day, someone had told her was her mother.

The mother looked at the extended leg on the balcony wall. She was exhausted. Those wounds, exposed for the world on those hard legs, were the impression of her own pain, of her own failure.

She opened the bottle of alcohol and poured half its contents on the leg. The daughter grimaced. She suffered less from the burning of the wounds bathed in alcohol than from the alienation and fear she felt for the mother.

Then the mother, in a gesture of resignation, foreseeing it would never stop, that those wounds would never heal, spilled the rest of the alcohol on the head and body of the doll. She picked up the matchbox beside the barbecue grill, took out a match and struck it.

The nylon hair burned like dry straw. The glass eyes of the doll looked at the mother through the flames as they melted her static and mortal face and devoured her loose skin. The flames and the wounds on the legs mixed in the redness of the exposed pain. The dog barked, afraid of the fire. A smell of burned plastic saturated the air. The doll's spirit rose as a dense and black smoke to the sky.

Paintings by the author

Translation by the author with assistance from Jim Chaffee

© Natalia Emery Trindade 2006

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