..and just like that she could see everything through fresh eyes. Crystal blue eyes. The ones you stare into as though mesmerised. You see beauty, or you see deception. My crystal eyes never blink. Never move. Neither does the rest of me. I gather dust on a shelf, scaring the life out children, my limbs growing stiff. They say I’m scary. The children. The adults say I’m just a doll. That I won’t hurt you. But how would they know? They’ll never know what it’s like to be the girl in the window. The girl that saw everything. Every day I would sit, watching as little girls ran along the pavement trying to soak their boots in puddles. I would watch. I would wait. I would see. But it was always the same. The little boys would stare at me, putting their fingers in their mouths to pull faces. The girls would either scream or watch in fascination as my eyes stayed still. Unblinking. They would smile. It warmed me. Made me feel as though someone understood. But then they would leave. Run. Run away and never return. They always do. Lola was the one child who didn’t run. She would enter the shop, eyes aglow and she would talk. Not to her mum, not the shop keeper. To me. She would ask me questions, where I came from, what my name was, whether I liked to dance. Seeing her walk down the lane filled me with hope. Once the man on the counter allowed her to play with me behind the desk. Her hands were so warm, like the feeling you get when hot chocolate goes down your throat. Lola would always be careful with me, picking up my curls, toying with the frills of my dress or holding my hand. She never tired of my blank replies to her questions. She would nod quietly. She was the best thing that ever happened to me. But all good things come and go. One day she walked through the door, her freckled nose bright red. Her coughs we’re chilling. She would cough and cough when she came in. Her mother whispered something to the man on the counter and he sighed sadly and put me in a little box. But Lola yelled out. She said I didn’t deserve to be imprisoned in the crate.She held me close but her hands were cold. That day I was taken home. To a new house. For a new life. Lola settled me in her bed in the day and rocked me in her arms at night. But it was sad. When she came home she would collapse, coughing hard, crying. Eventually she would not leave. She stayed in bed, me in her clutch, coughing as though she could never stop. One night it all changed. Lola no longer choked on air, but on blood. It coated her nightgown and my petticoat. Her mother rushed in and fed her some medicine but it didn’t help. Lola coughed so hard that she choked. Her noises sent shiver down my spine. If I had one. She cried out for me, went to hug me close. But she didn’t make it. Her hand fell down onto the pillow. Cold. She didn’t choke, she didn’t cough, she didn’t move. Neither did I. Because I couldn’t. I couldn’t reach out and save her and I couldn’t yell for help. But I saw it all. I watched as her eyes closed and I watched as she choked on nothingness. I watched and I watched and I watched. I saw it all through crystal blue eyes. The ones you stare into. Mesmerised.