The Witness

Julie was a gift for my ninth birthday. She sat on a bookshelf in my bedroom as a silent witness to my life. .

After a wonderful dinner to celebrate my twenty-fourth birthday, my date's scanned my room coming to rest on Julie.

“She's pretty,” he said, lifting her carefully.

Julie's been watching my room for years,” I said.

“Ah-ha,” he said, touching her hair.

“What happened here?” he asked, touching the scuff mark above her brow.

“I’m not sure,” I said.

I remembered very well throwing her across the room one night and then holding her as I sat on the edge of my bed crying.

He put Julie back on the shelf almost reverently.

On my 24th birthday, Julie watched as I made love to the man who had held her so carefully. If he treated my doll with such care, maybe he'd be careful with me as well.