Janey shoved her newest doll into the small case provided to her at the residence. She owned so many that the ruffle-lined limbs hung over the shelves, giving the appearance of drunk whores balanced precariously on somebody’s balcony.
She hated dolls. Always had. Couldn’t decide if her mother thought she loved them, or presented them as some sick sort of joke–a reminder to her disfigured daughter of the beauty she could never attain.
But they were gifts from her mother, nonetheless.
Janey kept them displayed near her tiny shower–the dust mingling with the smell of mildew and lavender.
[WORD COUNT: 100]
PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Not my first time with the Friday Fictioneers, but my first time with this blog. Thank you, Rochelle, for the prompt, and the fun opportunity to tell a story in 100 words!