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"Oh it looks so real!" they would all exclaim, eyeing me at my post on the living room table. You people have classes on "art appreciation," but you didn't appreciate. You stared, you pretended, you used me for my "artistic value." All the poking and stroking at my face. I may not have been able to feel it, but I felt it.

"Renée, she's so beautiful. It's almost hard to believe she's made entirely out of porcelain. She looks so.. real!" What's-His-Face would cry excitedly.

Renée's nervous laughter would almost give her away. Almost, but never actually.

I wanted to cry out to all of them, "I am real. I'm not just a replication! I'm an original!" but I couldn't. Renée made sure of that.

For five years, I lived in her house, I posed in her living room, dressed as a porcelain doll. At night she would feed me. Crumbs from the dinner table, whatever she could "spare." I would sleep in the hall closet. I wasn't allowed on any of the furniture. Like a pet.

But there was one rule in particular that could never be broken: I was never to break character. My makeup, the porcelainesque mask she had fitted to my face (and refitted every time I grew), never came off. I was not allowed to speak, but that wasn't a concern. I didn't know how. How could a doll speak? I was to curtsey when given anything, as it was a blessing.

For five years I lived in her living room, as her work of art.

For five years I saw nothing but that living room. The terrible green curtains, the awful hanging chandelier, the couches that were never sat upon unless there was company, and even then, sparingly. The closet provided no relief. She never turned on the light. I was forced inside every night in the dark.

For five years, all I smelled was the faint scent of her perfume, the aftershave of her guests. And mothballs at night.

For five years, all I felt was polished wood under my feet during the day, and cold nothingness at night.

Looking back at those years, twenty years ago, what could I have done? She was my mother, after all.

When child services showed up on my fifth birthday, I didn't understand. Leave the house? Take off the mask? See the world outside? Sit on the couch?

I didn't understand.

"My doll!" Renée yelled as they led me away. "You can't take her from me! She's a perfect replication!" She tried to grab me, but the police were there, too. She was put in handcuffs and taken away. I never saw her again.

It took me until the age of ten to learn how to speak. It was against the rules. Dolls didn't speak.

I'm doing much better now. I have friends here at the hospital. They take care of me. They appreciate me, instead of staring at me. They play games with me and keep me company during the bad nights. They give me gifts, sometimes even toys.

But never dolls.

2052 6/9/08

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