She has left.

I move my fingers forward and feel a ring of dampness beneath her. Like the condensation under a long sitting stone. No reek. No horror. Just the moisture given up after the last days of spare glasses of coral calcium water.

Above and behind her the doll is still tied. It hangs by its solid throat, suspended from the bed post with purple sparkled birthday ribbon. Hard knots.

A ravaged Barbie.

Blond polyester strands cropped close to the hollow head. The hard flesh colored breasts sheared clean with a heated steak knife. I helped her with that.

It is a twin. A reflection. The map our daughter has made of the changes.

I don’t have much time. The day will be here soon and with it the rustling in the next room and then the rest of our lives together without her.

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