I hate clowns and dolls. If I actually encountered those clown ‘pranks’ that were all the rage last year, I would break down in a mess and cry — or alternatively turn on my fight response and attempt to beat the shit out of the clown, all 55kg of me.
When Wattpad’s Short Story account held a contest on a Halloween-themed story, I knew I had to write this: the endeavour of my dear father working a few weeks in Beijing and then bringing back an ‘expensive, beautiful’ clown doll. Basically, the embodiment of my worst nightmare. He knew I hated dolls and clowns. And yet he still did it.
And when I broke it in every way I could to get him to throw it away, including gouging out an eye, scribbling on its cheeks, snapping its limbs, all he did was lament at my destruction and inability to appreciate pretty things, fix it, and leave it in my room. Again. And again.
My dad also felt that dolls were sentient. He had a doll called Luciana of which he was very fond. It stood at about three feet and had a perpetual creepy doll smile. He’s had it for over twenty years. Why he thought it was a good idea to buy an allegedly-sentient, creepy-ass clown doll that embodies everything that terrifies your daughter still confuses me to this day.
And so this story, ‘The Clown Doll from Beijing‘ was born. The sentient dolls that my father believed in, coupled with my own terrors.
No, I still haven’t forgiven my dad for doing this shit to me.