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That's Not How You Treat the People You Love! Published in The Blotter She's lying on the side of the road covered in blood. It's around her mouth, on her forehead, running down her arms and legs. Her clothes are dirty and her hair disheveled. I can hear her crying; the cars keep rushing by as she begs for someone to pick her up and help her. So I lift her out of the dirt and I wipe her face off on my dress. I tell her, "That’ll have to do for now, sweetie," putting her into the basket on my bicycle. I peddle home, pumping my legs as fast as I can go—we need to get to the E.R., stat! Okay, I'm not stupid. It's just a doll and that's not blood, it's paint. And judging by the work with the paint, I'm guessing it was an older brother this time. He took his little sister's doll, added the blood, and then she cried as she threw it away, disgusted. The dolls always blame the boys, but I never can. I understand them too well. They feel hurt or emotionally abused and they want to cry, but they can't. But then there’s the doll. And they can take that and rip it apart or paint it red and then maybe their sister will cry for them. I can understand the boys' need for emotional catharsis; that makes sense. It's the girls that get me. How could they care about the doll and then get rid of it just because it stops perfectly fitting their happy fantasy world? That's not how you treat the people you love! You need to stick with them through the hard stuff! How are these girls ever going to have a healthy relationship? But maybe I'm just projecting or something because it's the girls who torment me more at school. Back at home, I throw a piece of paper over my desk for an operating table and carefully lay her down. Her shorts slide right off, her shirt's got two buckles in the back. This is supposed to be a strictly professional relationship, but I can't help but think she'd look cute. I mean, when all the blood's off. I grab my doctor's bag and pull the stethoscope around my neck. I lay out the other instruments on my desk. And then I sit down on my bed, pull her into my lap, and start scratching off the paint. I wonder if Mom's got anything that will get this off quicker, but I really don't feel like explaining any of this right now. No Mom, I didn't do this to her, I found her like this. Yes Mom, I have enough dolls already, but this one needs my help. No Mom, I don't have delusions that dolls are actually real. Yes Mom, I clearly am having social problems and no, I don't want to talk about it. 
Once all the blood's off, she is sort of cute. And then I recognize her. It's Sarah's doll. Ruth. I drop her on my desk. I feel like I should be angry at the doll for ever being friends with such a bitch. And then I pick her up again, realizing I finally have an ally, someone who understands what Sarah's really like. But the thing is, this time I just can't bring myself to care about her. I never blame the boys for mutilatating their sister’s dolls, but this time he’s the only one I can think about. Maybe it's because there's a face to the evil this time. I was wrong about the age. It must have been her twin brother, David. But face to the evil? That doesn't make any sense. David's pretty nice. Or at least he's quiet. If I empathize with the boys, what's different about this one? And in the case of David, this definitely reveals some deep-seated emotional problems at the root. There must be something weird going on in my sub-conscious. The next day I fake sick. While he's at school and mom's at work, I walk across the neighborhood to his house. I don't know what I would have done if it was just locked, but things work out. His room is on the first floor, and his window is open. I slip in and leave the doll on his desk with the note in her hand. "DAVID, if you don't do as I say, I will kill you. Bring me to the swings at the park and confess. Confess everything David, or I will kill you." I wish this felt surreal, but it doesn't. I'm too aware of what I'm doing. It just feels normal. I mean, it’s not normal for me to act like this, but it feels as if it’s natural and right. I try to convince myself that I'm just trying to give him full emotional catharsis, but I just don't buy that. Freaking him out is giving me a sick sadistic pleasure. I'm worried. Then I head to the park. I hide behind the wood fence in the toddler playground and watch the swings. School should be out by now. Mom will be home soon, and she'll be upset if I'm not at home. She’ll be angry, but she'll also be worried about my safety, and she’ll use that to support her anger, to guilt me. I think I might be able to use the generally being a good kid card to make this slip-up slip by, but I’m still worried. And then David shows up and I just don’t care. I forget about mom and watch him. He sits down on the swing with the doll. He's holding her gently. He's talking. I strain my ears. I can see his lips moving, but I can't tell what he's saying. Perhaps if I can put more distance between myself and the laughing toddlers, less between David and me. I try to creep closer. Moving forward, but around behind him, slowly closer. I need to know. Another step. I need to know his secrets but I still can't hear him. I could begin to speculate, but I want to hear them from him, I want to know for sure. And I can't stay hidden if I go any farther. But then he glances over his shoulder and sees me anyway. He stares at me. He's confused, or angry, or upset. I can’t tell anymore. He sits there and looks at me blankly and I stand there looking back, now only a few feet away. I notice he's dropped the doll to the ground. And I know it's completely inappropriate, but I just can’t help myself from blurting it out: "David, I really like you." 
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