Devotion

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. Other than that, I was free to do what I wanted. He was kind to me and would bring me gifts when I was good: porcelain dolls, ladies’ magazines. The magazines were old, the pages stuck together or missing. I would flip through the unstuck pages with the dolls. It was helpful in teaching them how to act, how to be, like he had taught me.

The dolls were often worn, damaged, used, like the magazines. If she was missing some hair, I’d keep her close, lay my hair over her bald spot, until she was beautiful again. They weren’t just my play things, they were my only friends, except for him. I had been good and punishments were becoming scarce, but so were his visits. The dolls were great company, but I craved his. While I taught the dolls their lessons, I hoped to hear him outside the door. A muffled footstep was enough to steal my breath and churn my stomach with anticipation. When violent sounds would seep underneath the door, I would jump up and cover the dolls’ ears. I was used to the sounds, but they were young. They might become upset by the noises, like I used to.

Eventually, he stopped coming.

I spent weeks waiting for him, cups of coffee grew cold, moldy. If I’m bad, he’ll have to come and punish me. I tore up the magazines. I made the dolls ugly. I made myself ugly.

The halls grew silent.

I walked over to the door and laid my hand on the cold, brass knob. He’s testing me. To think I almost threw away all my hard work. I let go of the handle, returned to my vanity, and made myself pretty again.