Dolls on the Walls

There's a reason that sick little girls always get dolls as presents. Sometimes it's because the dolls have pretty clothing. Sometimes it's because parents want their child to know that they are as precious as porcelain. Sometimes it's because they look like the dolls.

None of these reasons were why my grandfather gave me dolls.

My parents were long dead. My mother had died of some spreading virus disease, and my father had followed her because of his grief. I think that even if they were alive they still wouldn't have been able to care for me . According to the people who knew them...they were so in love with each other that they couldn't possibly love anyone else anyways. Perhaps...it's a good thing that they're dead.

My grandfather got what he wanted in the end. I think he wanted me more than my parents did. He got the perfect granddaughter. The perfect heir for his company. Well, if I was truly perfect I wouldn't have such a defunct immune system or been born without the ability to speak. Well, I could speak, but not correctly. My throat was deformed. That meant that my voice had a high, muffled sound to it. Even if I made myself understood to someone else, I stuttered. I also had a transverse aortic heart valve which meant I got less blood circulating through my system and was rather weak. Because of these genetic anomalies I got sick a lot. My grandfather had taken the chance to employ an in-house doctor for me.

Still, none of this information was the reason that my grandfather gave me dolls.

My grandfather's company of course marketed to children. It was a toy company that made bizarre objects. My grandfather gave me the dolls because I was the perfect test subject. He also modeled many of them after me. That was all it was. It wasn't because of a genuine interest in my activities (like I had any). It wasn't to worship the memory of my parents (he hated my father). It was to make his company look good. My grandfather knew it was natural to give dolls to sick little girls. He knew that it was a tragic newspaper peace to get people to buy his products.

Sick little girl's like me didn't get a choice in the matter.

Then again...I knew that 21 year-old, sick, little Wendy Meyer would never have a choice in anything.

I was puzzled by the fact that my grandfather had put me on a private plane leaving from our isolated mansion in Minnesota. The plane was going to his luxurious private island. The island was essentially in the middle of nowhere. There were a few other people on the plane who seemed to think that they had won some kind of contest. I ignored the man who stared at me. He was probably wondering why I was there.

Get in line, buddy.

I smirked as I sipped at my 3rd glass of red wine.