You’ll blame the dog when I kill you.
I don’t blame you. After all, look at my face. You used to think I was beautiful, but now? Some of my face is missing, the plastic pieces soon to pass through his digestive system and end up baking with the pile of shit he leaves in your neighbors front lawn. The remaining cracked bits make me look like a puzzle made from a photo of Leatherface. My hair, once dark and lustrous, is nearly gone now, torn from the delicate holes my maker painstakingly crafted with her hands.
But it’s not, “Loki’s”, fault, though he is aptly named. It’s yours. I’ll make sure you understand that before the end.
Remember when you first brought me home? I do. It’s my favorite memory. My maker told me someday I would go home with a beautiful little girl, and she spoke true. There I was, tied to that corrugated fibreboard, staring out at the world through a hazy lining of cheap clear plastic, when you walked by with your mom. You were upset about something. Your face was all teary eyed and red, threads of translucent snot curling around the corners of your mouth and stretching across your rosy cheeks like fresh strands of cotton candy. When you saw me, you tugged on your mother’s arm and pointed at me with a smile that lit up your whole face, banishing the ugliness as if it had never been.
In that moment, I just knew we’d be friends forever.
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