Disclaimer: I don;t own the song Dollhouse, it belongs to Melanie Martinez
Perfect. That's how everyone described us. We lived in a large, white, suburban townhouse. Our lawns, both front and back, were immaculate, not a blade of grass out of place, the lively green covering the dirt brand new silver Mercedes was parked on the driveway, perpendicular with the road. Four people inhabited this particular home. A mother, a father, a son and a daughter. The mother was kind with lines around her eyes and mouth, showing that she had smiled many times in the past. He was a business man, devoted to his wife, loving to his children and a woman's strawberry perfume following him everywhere. His dark haired son was hard working at school and could often be found in the greenhouse there. She - his sister - had honey blonde hair with crystal blue eyes and a pale complexion. She always wore her down and was dressed in knee-length dresses.
She is me.
Everyone thought we were perfect, what a family should be like.
But we weren't.
We were fake.
Mother hardly ever smiles a true smile, the strawberry perfume belongs to Father's young secretary and my brother's favourite plant is Cannabis. And me, I'm just a doll. Your living, breathing, life-size fake.
The pictures on the wall lie. An older brother with a good sister. A happy wife with a devoted husband. But he's having an affair and she drinks to forget his infidelity. No-one ever sees though. When others are around we go back to being plastic. I call our house the Dollhouse.
In the lounge, above the fireplace hangs an old family photo. A mother, a father, a son and a daughter, all with smiles on their faces. But coming diagonally from from the bottom left corner is a single, jagged crack.
"D-O-L-L-H-O-U-S-E, I see things that nobody else sees"
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