I was carrying Clarabelle’s sandwich up the stairs, imagining I was the bird-girl, when the front door rattled. I froze on the stairs feeling guilty even though I could not put my finger on what I’d done wrong. I ought to get out of there, away from the doorway where sunlight would be pouring in any second, but my feet were stuck to the carpeted stairs, my neck craned round painfully, my eyes following the movements of bags as they were flung in through the door, which was open about a forearm’s width. I pressed myself flat against the cold wall, my eyes trained on the door, which swung open a few more inches every time Mother threw another bag inside. So many bags were piling up in the doorway that the door opened wider, allowing me a glimpse of light so blinding that I gasped and shielded my eyes. It felt like someone had just held a lit match a hair’s width away from my eyes and yet I peeled my eyelids open under the protective shield of my hand and stared at the wonderful array of colours outside. I caught a glimpse of shocking blue – the sky – and green so vivid it stung – grass – and a rich, lush, bunch of dark green – bushes, I guessed. I saw slices of wood poking up out of the grass and I saw golden pebbles on the ground. I drank it all in, lapped it up, cared little that at any moment Mother would step inside and see me bathed in sunlight. I suddenly felt so high that I wanted to throw myself down the stairs, jump over the shopping bags and run outside.

But then reality reared its hideous black skull and pain exploded in my brain. Mother was right. I was allergic to the outside, to the sun, to the lovely, deadly light, and I was going to die soon, sooner than I had to, because I had just sped up the process by allowing the light to touch me.

Dolls live short lives. This is the end. Mother’s right. Dolls live short lives. Mother’s always said it. My allergy to light means that I won’t live as long as a normal girl. That is, I think, why Mother calls me a doll. Because I’m not a normal girl. I’m not going to live to be old and wrinkly like other human beings. My light allergy is killing me. It’s been killing me from the moment I was born. I can’t believe it’s happening so soon. I can’t believe I’m going to die today.