The Lost Girl

I picked up our photograph again, the black and white snapshot in the lives of two little girls. I was wore a smug smile, my thick black hair bound in clumps. She, blonde and freckled, presented a gap-toothed smile to the camera. The doll hung from her hand, lopsided head and also looking absently into the lens.

I stroked it, a combination of hope and horror swilling in the pits of my stomach.


I dropped the tray of processed, ready-cooked food onto his lap. He winced with pain, and looked up at me with a flash of anger.

“Do you mind not dropping it on me like that?”


I opened the curtains in a rush, and unwelcome light sprayed into the room. The morning after my epiphany, I decided that I should interrogate my Uncle about the subject which had irritated him so much the previous day.  I sat down on the sofa opposite his armchair, and our eyes inevitably drifted towards the doll.

About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)