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When I was 6, my grandpa gave me the most beautiful porcelain doll. It had lovely rose petal cheeks and lips parted ever so slightly, smooth white and shiny as ivory, vanilla, cotton snow skin. Tiny hands with little details. Nails, painted red. Indents where the creases in a real hand would be, knuckles. The doll had on this perfect off-white dress. Complete with lace and silk and pink ribbons, and these little soft white boots. Her hair was this shiny red color, the red I have always wanted my own hair to be. Not too red, not too brown, not too orange. Little ringlets framed her face.
The only thing I disliked about her, was the eyes. They were brown, but almost black and very deeply settled into the sockets. Very eerie. None-the-less, I knew it would be my new favorite doll. I kissed my grandpa on the cheek, and ran out of the room with her. Not even a minute later, I tripped and lost a hold of my lovely doll. She fell face-first. I heard the crack, and knew it was all over.
I sat on the floor kicking and screaming and crying, while my dad glued her face and hands back together with this brownish-yellow 80's super glue. In the end, her face was back in place, but you could see all the lines and all the areas in which she broke. She was too terrifying to look at.
As this was in the 80's, around that time there was some super model who had recently been attacked. The super model's name was Marla. A beautiful face ruined. My parents laughed and called the doll Marla, repeatedly. They wouldn't let the joke go for about a week.
We threw "Marla" in the basement, and I never saw her again.



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