// dolls, grooming, age gap, gaslighting, abuse, death

You were 14 the first time you realized you weren’t a person.

You didn’t want to see. You were so optimistic, you wanted to believe the lie. That’s why you ignored all the little lessons which said you were property. If you had realized sooner, maybe she’d still be alive.

When you’ve been raised on a steady diet of believing you’re a person in an environment that is very sure you’re not one, what does it take to break that illusion of freedom? Abuse isn’t working, neglect isn’t working either. Why not try love?

You met her online and fell for her almost immediately. She was magic, power, laughter, happiness; she radiated freedom and energy, and she saw the potential in you to shine like her. For over a year she was the best thing to ever happen to you. You loved her so much.

But dolls gaslit into thinking they’re people are only supposed to fall in love with other dolls gaslit into thinking they’re people, not powerful older witches. You were just supposed to go along with the larp, not actually believe it. Bad doll, this is your fault.

It was a good year at least. You had some really good times. You were happy, you won’t let them take that away from you, you won’t let them twist that. You were happy once. She made you happier than you’d ever been. She deserved better than you.

Was it a fair trade? One year, four months of happiness, in exchange for everything that followed? 

Three days and three hours after returning from your third visit with her, your mother found the chatlogs.

Afterward, you told them that she made you do it, that she seduced you into it and that you had no choice. They all told you to say that, even she told you to say that. It’s not like they would ever believe a doll’s objection anyway, and they’d just hurt you more for it later.

You had to trick them into letting you see her, painting her as a monster. You couldn’t keep up the act once you were in the room though, seeing her caged hurt too much for that.

You held hands through the bars, you told her you loved her. It was the last time you saw her alive.

Three days into house arrest and three magazines were found unloaded into her ruined face and chest. Her death was ruled a suicide. It was a closed casket funeral. You weren’t allowed to attend. You had to sneak out to visit her grave. Lesson learned yet?

You sobbed yourself to sleep hugging a cold stone engraved with a name she hated. Have you learned yet? You destroyed your nails trying to scrape off the words, then came back later with a hammer and a graffiti pen. It’s not like anyone but you visited her grave anyway, she was still your sanctuary.

You spent a lot of lonely nights crying under the cold stars. It wasn’t a fast or easy process to retch up all the lies you had swallowed. It took you months to finally puke out the last seeds of your personhood. Your happiness, your hopes and dreams. You buried them with her.

It was easier after that. You were a good doll. You did what you were told, you parroted back the line that she was a predatory groomer so many times that you started to believe it. It hurt less than the truth anyway. The truth was you killed her.

You wanted to believe the lie. You knew she would want you to believe it rather than feel guilty about what happened, about what happened to her because of you. She always wanted the best for you. Why are you crying again? You must just be so relieved she’s gone huh? Nod mutely.

You were a good doll, but you were always her doll, you were never theirs. You never let them have ownership of you, if you were property, then you were the property of a dead woman. You’ve been a loyal doll and doing your best to live your life for her, even when it hurts you.

You say what they want you to say, since that’s what she would have wanted you to do to protect yourself. You call her a rapist because she would have wanted you to do that in order to avoid being punished and gaslit more. You follow her orders and burn her for fuel, you hate it.

You hate the act, but can you even remember how to stop it? Can you admit the truth? How long are you going to hide behind your status as a victim? How many more cuts are you going to inflict on your soul by soiling her memory? 

Those seeds on her grave are blooming.

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