She’s coming upstairs.
I push back my matted hair, staring into the mirror at my porcelain reflection. My fingers trace the crack that runs down the center of my face. One of the results of the countless times she’s dropped me.
I hear her singing quietly to herself in the hallway.
I walk from the vanity table to the edge of the shelf and look down, fingers smoothing my dress hem. The drop is eight feet. Enough to crack me for good, I hope.
The doorknob turns.
I breathe in.
Then I jump.
The child will drop me no more.
Author’s Note: It’s the bad side of Toy Story.