Porcelain Skinned

image borrowed from bing

Porcelain Skinned


No-one else sees that girl on the sofa. She's nine, maybe ten, scabby knees and a runny nose, she holds a porcelain doll...always...

Each morning as the bus travels through the tunnel, I vow not to meet her gaze. But she beckons.

I look. She has grey eyes, maybe green. It's dark in this tunnel. She's strangely beautiful.
Lately, she has taken to point her finger at me. No ! she says.

-It's in your mind, Edie- I say to myself-Guilt has you imagining dead girls with dolls on their laps-

Last night, on my way home from work, she sat upon my front step.

She sang to her doll in a sweet, clear voice.

I tried my key in the lock, it wouldn't fit.

'Don't be with that man', she said in a sing song voice.

'Men like that don't like babies'.

I saw my lover turn the corner. I tried to speak but only a bubble of breath remained.

'Men like that live in every time', the ghost girl said.

She stood up, put her hand in mine. It was warm.

'Don't tell him about the baby'.

I look in my bag, champagne and a blue line on a pregnancy test.

'He will tell you to get rid of it'.

It. it. it. it.

My lover approached. The girl held tight to my hand, a scent of old fashioned perfume clung to both of us. Like a premonition.

'I am an it', she whispered.

Then she disappeared, the girl and the doll, both of them porcelain skinned.

I turned to greet my lover.

'He's had a bad day', I thought. His smile was pasted on, a bad Photoshop fit.
The champagne slipped. It smashed on the steps.
The pregnancy test with the blue line stayed safe inside my bag.

'Anything strange?', he said.

'No, nothing at all', I said.


Brigid O'Connor

Posted over on her site Sort of Writing
Listed as #97 over on Magpie Tales 93