I am not to be touched.

If I were to follow a young girl who was running, running along the side of the road, and she was so out of breath that no words or scream would come, I would not be sure if she needed rescued. And in following her I would see the perfect curls of her blond hair, like the dolls with which I once lined the shelves of my Kinderzimmer, the dolls I wasn't supposed to play with. And if I followed closer still, I would notice her skin looked like the porcelain of those untouched dolls. It was so smooth, pale, hard, and... and when she looked over her shoulder, a look of fear was painted, painted on her little doll-face. Her mouth was painted at an open slant, like a tilted crescent moon, her eyes were painted to be eternally heavy with flat, cold, and superficial-blue salt-water, and her brow was painted in a crumpled, horrified shape. Who would paint such a horrible face?

And when she turned her head back toward her flight, she tripped over a rock in the loose gravel. Her knees were grazed, her perfect, little white shoes scuffed beyond repair, her curls tussled beautifully in their desperate attempt to maintain their perfection, and her dress a little ripped, and with blood from her injured knees beginning to seep through the blue material. She was in pain. The painted face moved like a magic trick, and it talked between heavy, unrelenting wheezes. "Please! Please stop. Leave me alone!" And her perfect little face burst into tears. Painted heavy with flat, cold, and superficial-blue salt-water. They slid down her cheeks like a picture in motion. A one dimensional image of a deep, deep fearful emotion. One chased the next... tear, tear, tear-tear-tear.

I was so taken aback. I didn't know it was me she was running from! I just wanted to touch her. I tried to touch her beautiful curls and she slapped my hand away with hard, porcelain fingers. Her face turned from fear to one of a pure and fearful rage. "I am not to be touched."

And I put her back on my shelf.