I sat alone in my little house out in the moors, rocking my child in my arms. We moved while I was pregnant, In the city, the people drove me absolutely insane with all of their ‘helpful’ inquiries and advice into my personal business. It was unacceptable. Before we moved, a particularly nosy old woman gave me a going away gift; a very realistic baby doll. She said it would help me get a bit of experience before taking care of my firstborn. She claimed that she made it special for me. It cried, slept, and ate like real children. Its skin was soft to the touch. Until Fojan had come, I spent most of my days alone with the doll as my husband traveled for work.
A shrill cry snapped me away from my thoughts. My little Fojan was hungry again. He was a very good baby who cried only when he really needed something, and even had the perfect sleeping schedule. From noon to two and nine to eight he would sleep without making a fuss. He looked so peaceful when he slept. I, however, could find no peace. Ever since Fojan had been born, that doll would scream constantly, throughout all hours of the day and night. It was inconsolable, no matter how I tried to comfort it. It never stopped, and it frightened my poor child. I was sure it was cursed! My sanity was steadily slipping away with every ear-piercing shriek. I knew what must be done.
I laid Fojan down to sleep and entered the dolls room. Even before I got to the door, the screaming could be heard and I could barely contain my rage. My head pounding, I grabbed the evil little thing by its carefully crafted ankles and swung. Before the damned thing ever made contact with the dresser, I heard a sickening crack as it’s faux bones were separated by the force. Although its crying has ceased immediately after the first blow, the anger boiling in me forced me to continue. To my surprise, with the next blow a dark red liquid splattered all over the room and myself. That wicked old woman had really outdone herself making the doll realistic. Relief washed over me as the artificial blood had, and I dropped the doll and walked out.
I picked up my little Fojan and held him close as I sat back down and began rocking again. The fake blood covered him, too, but it didn’t matter. He looked up and smiled for the first time, although it appeared more of a malicious grin than an innocent smile. I had no worries, however, and I laid his head down on my shoulder. My husband came home short after, and in a panic, went to check on ‘our baby’ after seeing all the blood. He dropped to his knees and screamed and sobbed. I tried to explain to him that it was only a doll, but he was in hysterics and wouldn’t listen. The silence I needed for do long was already gone. Is this why the old woman gave me the wicked thing? Did she know it would drive my husband mentally unstable?