The light flooding my room is momentarily blinding. I squint, disoriented by the sudden shift, and try to gather my bearings, but my limbs are stiff and I’m dragged out of my room before I can make sense of anything. My eyes begin to sting as I imagine the day ahead, and I blink back tears, silently berating myself for being weak. I’ve been through this before, and I’ve learned that knowing doesn’t make it any easier.

I feel sudden pressure as a hand moves through my hair, pulling slow and steady in a repeated rhythm that’s almost hypnotic. For a moment, I can pretend it’s my mother. I can hear her humming, soft and familiar, a low‑frequency lullaby pulling me back to a different time with each drag.
Down stroke, pause, up. Down stroke, pause, up. A steadying comfort. Then the brush pulls away.

Large, soft hands grip my waist tightly. Breathing becomes difficult, and I keep it shallow, in quick, controlled bursts. My clothes are stripped away, and I shiver, suddenly bare and exposed. The fabric of the new dress shoved over my head is soft and warm, which would be a comfort in any other scenario. Here, the quality is a warning. It has come to mean one thing.
Today is a play day.

My suspicion hardens into certainty when I’m quickly shuffled into the stiff leather seat of a convertible. The drive feels endless, but realistically, 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 colours as we move. The world flies by, and I let myself go with it.

After a while, the car pulls up to a house, and I’m guided to the door. I knock softly. A few seconds later, a young man answers. He’s classically handsome, carefully groomed and deliberately polished, with skin so porcelain smooth it’s almost reflective. But his eyes are empty. He smiles at me and his lips are stiff and shiny, wrapped around straight white teeth fixed in place like a mask.

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

“Hello,” he replies, his voice oddly low and flat. If he notices my nerves, he doesn’t show it. I can’t decide if I’m grateful.

It’s over quickly. Once I’m on the bed, I lie still and let my mind drift as he moves me into place. His movements are mechanical, jolting, as though he’s not sure where to touch. The rushed, punishing rhythm is almost overwhelming, and one hand grabs me, pulling my leg out until it locks, and the pain cuts like a blade. His voice rises higher than before, a thin stream of praise — You’re so pretty, the prettiest, prettiest girl, his absolute bestest, most favourite girl ever. The words pass through, faltering against the humming in my head. I focus on it, trying to make it louder and louder, loud enough to drown out the sound of my own breathing.

When he’s done, he looks over at me, perfectly motionless on the mattress. There’s a hint of something in his eyes, but I blink and it’s gone, like I imagined it. He gathers his clothes and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.

I breathe.
Once.
Twice.

On the drive back, I stare out the window and let my mind drift again. After play comes the clean‑up. If I’m lucky, it’ll be quick and harmless.

I’m not.

Instead, I’m seated in front of a mirror. In the corner of my vision, scissors glint. My heart starts to pound, but I hold my smile. The mirror reflects my face back at me, but it feels unfamiliar, slightly off. 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, lilting and eager.

My hair is gathered, and the strands begin to fall around my face as kitchen scissors shear away large chunks, scratching my shoulders as they tumble down. The humming in my head fractures 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 your Barbie away, it’s time for dinner!” a voice calls from outside the room.

“Coming!” the small voice answers.

I’m quickly grabbed and shoved back into my room. The box smells like dust and old paper, quiet and dark, stuffed with crinkled tissue.

Now, the tears fall freely.