The light flooding my room is momentarily blinding. I squint, disoriented by the sudden shift, and the clothes hanging loosely on my body, exposing how uncomfortably thin my limbs are. I try to orient myself, but my body is stiff, and I’m yanked from the room before I can make sense of anything. My eyes sting as I start to imagine what the day will hold, but I blink back tears, berating myself for being weak. I’ve been through this before, but knowing doesn’t make it any easier.

A hand moves through my hair, brushing out knots, and for a moment I can almost pretend it’s my mother. I can hear her humming, soft and familiar, a long-forgotten lullaby pulling me back to a different life. Then the brush pulls away. The illusion breaks, and I’m back in my reality.

Large, soft hands grip me tightly. Breathing becomes difficult, and I keep it shallow, is short controlled bursts. They don’t care if it hurts. They never do. My clothes are stripped away, and I shiver, suddenly bare and exposed. I even miss the dress I was wearing, hanging and all. The fabric of the new dress is soft and warm, which would be a comfort in any other world, but in mine the quality is a warning. It means I’ll be meeting with a man. It means I will be expected to perform.

My suspicion hardens into certainty when I’m quickly shuffled into the stiff leather seat of a convertible. The drive feels endless, but I know it can’t be longer than ten minutes. The hum of the engine is steady, and I stare quietly at the blur of shapes and colors as we move. The world flies by, and I let myself go with it.

The car pulls up to a house, and I’m guided to the door. I knock softly, and after a few seconds a young man answers. He’s handsome in a practiced way, carefully groomed and deliberately polished, but his eyes are empty. His smile looks rehearsed, his lips stiff and shiny, fixed in place like a mask.

“Hello,” I say, aiming for confidence, but my voice betrays me. It comes out thin, resigned.

“Hello,” he replies, smooth and flat. If he notices my nerves, he doesn’t show it. He’s probably used to this now.

Blessedly, it’s over quickly. I lie still and let my mind drift. His movements are mechanical, and he says nothing, except for low sounds that don’t break through the steady hum in my head. I focus on the hum, trying to make it louder and louder, loud enough to block the sound of my own breathing.. When he finishes, he glances at me. There’s a hint of something pained in his eyes, but I blink and it’s gone, like I’d dreamed it. He tosses my clothes at me and leaves with a slow click of the door.

I breathe. Once. Twice. No tears. Never tears.

On the drive back, I stare out the window and let my mind drift again. If I played my part well enough, I might be allowed some rest.

I’m not.

Instead, I’m seated in front of a mirror. In the corner of my vision, scissors glint. My heart pounds, but I hold my smile. The mirror reflects my face back at me, but it feels unfamiliar, I’m reminded of the man. Our masks are identical, now.

“You’ll be so pretty when I’m done,” a small voice says behind me. My hair is gathered, and soft strands start to fall around my face as kitchen scissors shear away large chunks, scratching my shoulders as they tumble down. The humming in my head breaks into something sharper, buzzing higher and higher until it sounds like a scream.

When it’s over, I look in the mirror. I’m still smiling.

“Katie! Put down your Barbie, it’s time for dinner!” a voice rings from outside the room.

“Coming!” the small voice calls back.

I’m grabbed and shoved back into my box. The box smells like dust and old paper. It’s quiet and dark. Against the steady tick of the bedroom clock, the tears finally come.