I'm so sorry. But your daughter is dead. She's right in front of you. She's been shattered into three and then accreted to five and then shattered again into four and a million pieces. Your daughter was never real. Your daughter is still here, in front of you, with all the same memories and jokes and it's the same as it ever was. Your daughter is dead. Your daughter has changed her body in ways you barely comprehend. Your daughter has a piercing and cuff and a collar and strange henna markings on her hands and mysterious bruises on her body. Your daughter is dead. Your daughter feels different sometimes. She's hyperactive then acerbic, sociable then withdrawn. She's always busy and doesn't tell you much unless you prod and pry. She has knowledge that challenges your own, in areas you considered yourself learned. Your daughter is in front of you and wishes she was anywhere else. Your daughter is processing the trauma that you gave her and that she couldn't identify for 20 years. Your daughter is learning about a religion that seems strange and scary to you. Your daughter is dead. Your daughter is a ruthless bitch who's not quite a person. Your daughter is a hyperactive reptilian hedonist. Your daughter is a tired spiritualist bearing the fire of a goddess in her soul. Your daughter is an age regressing goth.
The doll is not your daughter. It ate what pieces were not taken by the others, but it is not your daughter. It looks like her, even mostly sounds like her, but it is not your daughter.
Dolls, after all, do not have parents
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