When I was around five or six, my sister poked the eyes out of one of my dolls and arranged for me to find her at bedtime. My once beloved friend, Sarah, sat at the foot of my bed, marred, empty eyes somehow staring, holding in their inky blackness terrors that my childish mind could barely speculate.
What evil impulse prompted my sister's actions I don't know, but she must have considered my fright tremendously entertaining for, though I was too guilt ridden to throw 'Sarah-That-Was' away, I hid her numerous times, yet every night for weeks I found her there, facing me with dark accusation. Eventually, I took her to school with me and, still fearing that somehow she would find her way back to the foot of my bed, I left her there.
I never saw her again, but some thirty plus years later, I still have a phobia of glass-eyed dolls. The hint of knowledge in their painted depths stills my breath and skitters icy rivulets of dread upon my skin as I quickly glance away. It's as if the cavernous black beyond those unnatural orbs was a repository of all my childhood fears, and if I looked too deeply, all those fears would be recognized; I would somehow be laid open for everyone to see, and I would be left, like Sarah --- unloved and abandoned.
