Six-year-old Stacey McCormick crouched behind his bed, hoping his mother would come home. Fearing his mother would come home. Hoping, fearing. She might not come for days, he knew. That would mean hunger, cold. If she came, which mother would it be? Would it be the one who kissed him and tucked him in? Would it be the one who screamed at him and slapped him? Would it be the one who ignored him while watching TV? Would it be the one who passed out on the floor after smelling something funny and strong?
Stacey was playing with his favorite toy, a six-inch doll he found in a forgotten corner of the closet. He enjoyed acting out scenes with his doll. His doll was the only friend he had. His mother did not let him go outside. He pretended the doll was his mother. She would take care of him, feed him, never hit him. He and the doll would travel to exotic, wonderful places far from the shabby neighborhood that was all Stacey knew.
"What are you doing now, you little pervert?!" Stacey's mother roared. "Playing with dolls? What kind of a freak are you?" She snatched the doll out of his hand and threw it in the garbage. She yanked off Stacey's pants and whipped his behind with the nearest weapon, a coat hanger. "You should be ashamed! A boy playing with dolls!" Then Stacey's mother poured scalding water on Stacey's part that he should be ashamed of. "Now go play with yourself!" she screamed and locked him in the blackness of the closet.
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Thirty years later, Stacey was still six years old in his mind. In body, he was six-foot one and two hundred and fifty pounds. Now his dolls were naked. Now he made them feel ashamed. They were hanging from the ceiling, some upside down. All were bloody. Some were screaming. Some had ceased screaming.
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