The doll did not remember when it had first realized that other people’s eyes were watching its eyes and that they would know what it was looking at by looking at it. This was a terrifying discovery, as if the sightline of the doll’s gaze could betray its private thoughts and intentions to those watchful subjects. Indeed, it was as if they knew the doll’s secret: that the observed could observe in turn. And without a doubt, the doll had been made to be looked at.
It was short in stature, flush at five feet, and from a distance, could pass as a live adolescent girl. Its candy-floss-pink hair and glossy lips would have made it but a cheap caricature of Japanese schoolgirl seduction were it not for a certain sharpness—the blunt angularity of its bangs, the unnatural vinyl sheen of its skin, the reflective polish of its French manicure—that subverted what might have been an otherwise benign presence, as if the sweetness of so much pink was inherently corrupting, inherently striving towards decay.
Of course, upon a more intimate inspection, it was quite obvious it was a doll. Its cheap, fruity-floral perfume could not overpower the distinct smell of latex. Its skin was completely sterile, with nary a pore, hair, or wrinkle. But the most subtle cue came not from the doll’s physical perfection but its eyes: the doll did not blink.
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