The little cowboy shot into the toystore. “Bang! Bang!” he yelled, shooting at imaginary Indians with his wooden gun, when something caught his eye and made him jerk to a stop. He adjusted his red cowboy hat and bent over to peer at a little porcelain doll with raven black curls, big painted eyes and a pouty red mouth. He took his hat off to show her respect. She made him forget all about the Indians. He had to have this pretty little doll in the ruffled white dress. He went home and emptied out his piggy bank and returned to the store with just enough for the doll. The toymaker apprehensively turned her over to him.
The little cowboy was very gentle with his new doll, kissing her softly, whispering sweet things into her little seashell ears, running his fingers through her raven locks. But as time progressed he grew restless: he started to see Indians hiding in the shadows again. He brought her with him on his adventures and eventually forgot all about her fragility. The kisses became less frequent; he said obscenities not meant for little seashell ears; he pulled at her raven locks; her once fine frilly dress became tatters. He dragged her through the mud with him hunting Indians, until one day they found themselves surrounded, outnumbered 50 to 1. He was in hand to hand combat with the Indian chief when she slipped through his grasp and fell onto the linoleum floor where he abandoned her shattered in pieces.
The little boy’s mother found the porcelain doll, collected her broken parts and lay her outside the door of the toy store. The toymaker came out and saw what was left of the doll; he shook his head and brought her inside. He glued her pieces back together as best he could, but there was a piece missing right in the middle of her chest. It was hidden under her dress, but when the wind blew it came into this hole and chilled her insides. She had never felt so hollow.
The toymaker put her back onto her shelf and turned out the lights. She sat in the dark still feeling broken and hollow. The big toy store was so lonely. She missed her little boy, despite all of his mistreatment of her. She missed his soft kisses and his sweet words. Why couldn’t he have remained gentle with her? Diamond tears ran down her porcelain skin, smearing her painted eyes. If she had been a better doll, more beautiful, if her locks had been silkier, her lips a deeper red, perhaps he would have remained sweet with her. She wondered if any other little boy would ever want her again, ever make her feel so loved. She wanted someone to hold her tight, to make her forget about the piece missing in her chest, but she didn’t know if she had the strength to be broken again. After all, she was just a little porcelain doll.
