Moolan by KT Amrine

Image by Arda Tutkun

K
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I am eight and Daddy tells me it’s time to clean my room. “You have ten minutes,” he says. “For every two minutes you go over, I’m going to cut the head off of one of your stuffed animals.” There is no way he’s serious, I think, but I still hurry to pack away my Littlest Pet Shops. Daddy has taken away my toys before, but never destroyed them. He’s threatened to, but never does. Daddy wouldn’t. And I want to do a good job cleaning. I stack my duct tape wallets in neat piles and begin stacking my paper doll clothes when Daddy walks in, eyes mean and mouth tight. He glances at the scattered paper clothing around me and then trains his eyes on my stuffed animal shelf. My heart skips. “I’m almost done!” I plead. “Everything else is done! I’m trying to put them away nicely!” The closer his hand gets to Moolan, my favorite Webkinz, the louder I yell. “I wasn’t distracted this time!” There’s snot beginning to drip from my nose. “I just had a big mess!” Daddy doesn’t hear me. While I beg, he pulls Moolan down from her shelf and holds her neck between the scissor blades. Daddy looks down at me, then at his watch. “You’ve got one minute.” I can’t tell the paper shirts from the paper pants through my tears.

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Daddy
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I know how this works: she cries, I back down, she never learns her lesson. How else will she learn that the world won’t wait for her? That everything you love can disappear? Who else will teach her that nothing is truly hers? Who else will teach her discipline, hierarchy, compassion? How else will she know to parent her kids? She will thank me later, when she can clean her room in under ten minutes. Hopefully she’ll always picture me in the doorway, scissors in hand, reaching for something she loves, the same way I can see my dad perpetually unbuckling his belt in the corner of my eye. This is how I destroy her laziness. This is how I conquer her softness. “You’ve got thirty seconds.” My hands tighten on the scissors.

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Moolan
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I wish I could stop her crying. I wish she’d grab my hoof and twirl my stray threads between her fingers like she always does. I wish she’d make me kiss that Clydesdale Webkinz named Peach again. Her fingers are busy trying not to rip the thin cardboard. They resemble real doll clothes now, floppy and wet and fragile because she won’t stop crying over them. It’s a department store’s worth sprawled out in front of her. I’m trying to stay hopeful. I wish I could stop her crying. It’s so loud, her sobbing, her pleading. I wish I could turn my beady eyes away. If I had a spine, I could look our aggressor in the eye. I could beg him to stop her crying. I could beg him not to hurt me. I could beg him not to hurt her. Please don’t hurt her. “You’ve got ten seconds,” vibrates behind me. 10 The guillotine grows closer, I can 9 feel the scissor blades tighten 8 on my neck. Please don’t. 7 She’s looking at me now, wet cardboard 6 held loose in her hands. She knows she’ll never 5 finish in time. She knows it’s all over. 4 So do I. Our eyes shimmer. We’ll meet again 3 on www.webkinz.com. I’m trying 2 to look on the bright side but 1 we both know it’s not the same. 0

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Kt Amrine is an MFA candidate at the University of Alabama, where they are the current creative nonfiction editor and hybrid forms co-editor of Black Warrior Review. She earned her BA in creative writing from Denison University in central Ohio. Their previous work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and has appeared in Sandpiper Review and fifth wheel press’s digital anthology "light ‘em up." You can find Kt on Instagram @kt_amrine, where they post pictures of their loved ones and their dog.