Thursday, June 22, 2017

When Vicky was murdered ... my father laughed

Fetching water from the river to bath Vicky

I had a rag doll with rubber hands, feet and head.  I don’t know where I got her, but I loved that doll with all my heart.  I would put her into pj’s at night and dress her in the mornings, leaving her on my bed when I went to school.  She was so much part of my life and my love for her was boundless.  She was my comfort in this crazy, horrific life I was living.  I must have been around 12 when I came home from school to find Vicky lying on my bed, minus a head.  It was so shocking that this goes down in the compartment of bad events in my life.  Distraught and horrified, I ran down the steps and asked my mom, our domestic servant and my siblings what had happened to Vicky and where her head was.  No one knew; but my father laughed.  He thought it was so funny that I could be so upset and hysterical over a doll with a missing head.  I looked through the rubbish, I looked everywhere for her and I think I went through my first depression on losing Vicky – someone had murdered her and I knew my father was involved.   It took me a long time to get past the trauma of having Vicky with no head.  I buried her in the garden, praying that God would find her head and put it back on.  I don’t think I will ever forget that feeling of great despair and loneliness.  It was my first grief I experienced.   
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