Baby Doll

I wish I can have the glory of announcing that this is not about Gia Welsh, nor will it ever be, but, unfortunately, this siren has played such an important role in finalising my treacherous and quite painful transformation that I cannot do myself the favor of neglecting her in speech.

I have tried many’a time to avoid this inevitable allegory, but I feel it’s time to tell myself to anyone who’d dare to listen. See — I am not a saint. I have never been one in my younger, school boy days, nor have I been trying to achieve this ranking as a young adult now. I know that doesn’t say much about my character (or, if it has, not much far off of a negative one), though I feel this plays a large role into how I’ve sunken to the farthest depths of dehumanization there is possible.

My mother was a woman of ‘fancy’. There were fancy china dishes and fancy silverware and those fancy vases from exotic resorts so piled with hypothetical money that if it had dropped and crashed there’d be thousands of dollars burned right there and then; my mother was a sorority girl — held at such a high standard that if she had told her girls to kneel and purr, they’d do so without as much as a single breath of discontempt.

So ‘fancy’ women marry ‘fancy’ men. “It’s why the world spins,” she’d told me during late evening dinners, her just returning from working real estate and knocking back a few glasses of Romanée Conti. "For every self-respecting lady is a self-respecting husband — oh — you've heard the story of your father's and my introduction, haven't you?"

And then there's the story of her highschool sweetheart, lacrosse captain Harrison Debois of Charleston and heir to Governor Dubois' and Grandfather Dubois' abundance of fortune. They met on an early afternoon, sun hot and smoldering over exuberant and melting faces — Delwin Day left the field victorious and Harrison Dubois left with a dainty, bright-eyed little Junior. They proceeded to their hometown university, head of their fraternity and sorority, then they married the summer of '82.

I had initially denied myself such a glory of a legacy, folding myself proper upon the inevitable immaturity of boyhood and childest of games that rendered me the clown of every lecture. Although under the influence of a promising 'fancy,' I was seeking to smooth out my own future, unfolding dog-eared edges and unveiling more as the year slipped away. I refused to let the dictation of society 'wrongs' and 'rights' crumble the adolescence I held onto dearly; lazy afternoons neglecting schoolwork and chasing Lucy, our infamous cockapoo, with the neighborhood boys were weighed more important than any 'fancy' virtue.

"A high school sweetheart," my mother often cried. "That's what he needs before these tender ages escape him." She never stopped her persistence until my father agreed, a broken little acceptance to her proposition.

Gia Welsh was Sunday Girl. Only on Sunday's did her devotion to God unravel and lead her in loud, bold prayers at the local church; at Delwin Day she was the Volleyball girl (and the emphasis on volley was needed to differentiate volleyball girls from any kind of ball girls, of course). Back in primary school Gia Welsh was the girl with the metal on her teeth and crooked canines and itchy dresses that made her wobbly knees red. She was in the backlight, left hidden by satin red curtains while her elder sister Josephine Welsh stood in the spotlight.

But that was then, and when high school fulfilled the hopes of a promising and blinding future, so did Gia; her torso stretched, waist tapering beneath a thin rib cage, hips sloped and continued on to firm, volleyball-built thighs with just as strong calves. Her blue irises faded into a mature, pale hue just one shade off of grey, and those red-lips filled into a permanent, soft smirk that seemed to hold secrets that you didn't know. Gia Welsh filled out not only her potential, but my mother's hopes as a high school sweetheart to motivate my pre-determined fate.

"Good morning, Mrs. Dubois. What a beautiful dress," was all Gia had to say during a jog through the neighborhood, and my mother was as good as sold. She pranced about the house and foyer in some fuzzy slippers and gray cashmere, declaring her hypotheses as if she was outlining and preparing our wedding.

"She'll be good for you," my mother told me before shutting herself up with square blocks of vodka-flavored ice from her glass. "To sort you out. Make you flat instead of . . . however you call it."

'Flat,' I knew, was the direct synonym for 'fancy,' or 'proper,' or the final strike for my immature, clownlike boyhood. Junior year was my transitioning year; Gia Welsh was made to be my partner before I could even muster a word in rival, though I know even if I had it would've been futile and just done for sport. Gia slipped buttery, slender fingers, laced themselves between mine – and despite our lack of any initial and formal introduction or previous knowledge, we were experts in webbing ourselves in such a way that it only seemed natural that we would be a unit. We evolutionized, creating a dimension where we couldn't do mundane tasks without relying on the other, just as my mother's dream came into play.

With floral dresses and a stretched, filled, and sunkissed physique, Gia was a dreamgirl, and Grey Dubois' – my complete name given to me by Grandpa Dubois himself – girl, in addition. "Are you well today?" she'd greet, question paired with a trailing, "I go by Gia: Grey's bird for [and the time period would go here, full day and month] now."



Although Gia often accompanied her name with mine, she was not a woman to submit to a patriarchal establishment; Gia built her standard foundation with firm and controlled independence, for any outside assistance was left shamed and frowned upon in her home full of overwhelming female influence. Women were also in this category, but the dismissing of men was the institutionalized, understood rule, much like how 'you' can be dropped for speed of a sentence's sake.

Gia did not share this fact at first – but tell tale hints could've been picked up if I had been searching them out. Much like the constant talk over the table during our supper of, "Well – that's men for you," or the brief, but constant mentioning, "You shouldn't get too attached to ____, or you'll lose your woman spirit," of which I didn't mind too much – I wasn't a boy to hold grudges or take great offense from trivialities that didn't directly tackle me; this, to me, was just the cementing of Gia's self-determined, driven spirit. She was much like her own mother, of whom lived without a single, ongoing male to stain her perfect womanhood image of successful independence.

No – I didn't worry myself with these matters, because Gia was still a young lady with emotional and sexual desires to men of all ages. She explored herself on complementary Sunday Girl days, dabbling in the sculpted ridges and jaunty, boyish corporeals that only Delwin Day boy athletes possessed. She played setter and spiker of her volleyball seasons while uniformed, whooping schoolboys ambled among the sidelines, and they played their rounds of lacrosse and water polo while she locked elbows with uniformed, whooping schoolgirls and followed the discord across the grass or smooth tiled swim rooms. There, in Delwin Day, any discontempt or pre-positioned notions of male negativity was long forgotten in rigid, sculpted pectorals and sharp, broad shoulders; Gia couldn't deny herself these luxuries that her bright-eyed, red-lipped beauty made readily possible.

I, myself, was not involved in the athlete school life. I couldn't even last through an entire lecture without sliding off task at least once during the block. I excelled naturally in the skill of math in advanced placement classes and could make any student – or teacher, I may have gloated about once or twice during those younger years – knock their heads back and come back up in tears from laughter. I didn't, or couldn't, do much, but I could certainly make an entire room prisoner of immature, boyish antics. My buffoonery knew no limits at the precious, peaking age of sixteen; when scolded I could still just manage to make my father chortle and give his large, square hands a big clap. If I were any more foolish I would've pursued that as a profession – luckily, I was not that foolish.

Gia, no matter how much she adored brawny, robust boys in well-fitting uniform (although I was not a small boy; more lean and slender than short and strapping), she couldn't resist giggling and bowing her head, golden brown spirals tumbling to cover her heart-shaped visage, at any jest I had to give, which occurred time and time again. I remember vividly the days we'd walk, hand in hand, along the sidewalk with all the other students, her plaid uniform skirt brushing across reddened knees and my tie just tight enough to make me stiffen in form, and I'd crack something and she'd laugh so hard her face turned a bright sheen of pink.

Grey eyes wet with gleeful tears, she'd pull her hand from mine to give my shoulder a slap and she'd cry, "Just stop with those!" Then she'd press herself to my side, bowing her head against my arm while her body still suffered from aftershocks of my joke, shaking her head at my stupidity.

"Don't pretend," I'd say. "You love it."

To this, we'd continue with our enamored banter and carry on like two, primary-school fools, Gia's giggling ringing in my ears and ossifying me with such flawless, rounded edges. I don't like to say much too positive about Gia now, but one thing she sure was, amongst all the bad, beautiful. Not just in manifestation, but in spirit. Her temperament was developed, conformed, until she was so impeccable that I fear she even pulled one over herself. This faultless state of being seemed to apply directly to somewhat of narcissism; if others believed Gia could do no wrong, then Gia could do no wrong. It was Delwin's fact, Delwin's absolute.

Gia could not fail, and if she did, there had to be someone to blame.



Gia and my relationship continued to flesh out throughout our heightened Junior year. The first six months held no alarming signs of foreboding devastation; we stacked layers onto his hypothetical cake until we were able to go from giggling like children to lying on our bedroom flooring and discussing the achievable dreams for our adulthood. The emotional attachment came first. We had to have something to fall back on if, and only if, everything else about our companionship failed us.

"Maybe we'll grow old together," she offered after a series of kisses along my jaw and bottom lip. Her fingers clawed through the fibre of my trousers. "Maybe we can move to Chicago and get a house with a pond. I want a house with a pond – or a fountain. Anything like that."

"I'll give you anything," I told her, and I meant it. "I'll give you the world, maybe."

"Stupid," she laughed. But she placed a kiss right on my lips and told me with her easy breath that she'd readily take the world if I was the one to offer it. We seemed nearly in love, thinking on it now. There was a simple existence amongst us; like we could tackle the continents and oceans and – the hardest of all – ourselves, as long as we could do it hand in hand, arm to arm.

We were armed for a war, prepared with psychological, emotional, and physical dependence that seemed like a bond that couldn't be broken, or ruffled, for that matter. Gia delivered the gumption while I dealt with being the safety line, making sure everything teetered on balance when it came to our sensitivity, state of mind.

Then, I relied more on my clownlike attributes than anything else to get me along the school full of sharks and hungry wolves. I couldn't deal with death or anger or any extreme, negative emotion well at all, so my resortment to jest kept me somehow striving. Scoldings made me weak in the knees and wet in the eyes, as did tears from another and self-inflicted criticism. I needed the reassurance that, even if things had gone to shit, we could at least pretend like they hadn't so I wouldn't have to face them. That was something I severely lacked and something Gia had in abundance. She was a neutralizer, of sorts.

She already established this advantage so soon into our relationship. "You cry when I cry," she observed over private supper. Smiling red-lipped, she raised her eyes to peer over the rim of her cup at me. "Huh."

I offered no objections to that. I was apparent.



Gia led any sexual relations between us. It was her who first squeezed her way into my trousers and took myself in her buttery, slender hand. "Wow," she'd gasp. "Hard already." And then she'd work her way over me, preferring to be on top where she could see me and gauge every reaction I had to give. The days she remained on the bottom, beneath myself, were very few days that only increased with the passing of another half a year. Gia, I realized, needed control in every aspect of her constant life. I was another pawn in this experiment to kneel when told to do so.

It wasn't obvious initially. Gia told me to retrieve her something or complete favors for her because she was comfortable with me; I retrieved said objects and completed said favors because I felt very strongly towards this girl – love, even, by that time when she and I were we. I loved it. I enjoyed the fact that I could accomplish tasks that benefited her and made her give me that soft, bright-eyed look with the batting golden brown lashes and up curled lips.

"Thanks," she'd breathe, kissing me hotly. "Love you."

"Love you," said I in return, quick and undisturbed.

My mother often took photos of the two of us doing mundane tasks in one another's company, of which included cooking, reading, watching the television, or tilting in and out of slumber on the living room couch. By month eleven there were two albums full of just Gia and I, labeled G&G in perfect, slanted scrawl. The first picture was of the two of us standing in my foyer, wrapped so tightly in one another's embrace it was as if I or she were going on an extended trip ripped from love. My mother found great joy in that one.

Gia earned herself a second home in both my parents' hearts and in their home. She received a key from my father on month thirteen, and she came in and out of the house ever since then. She was comfortable. We were comfortable. For once, I felt like more than just the boy who clowned around and excelled in mathematical studies. I was someone to myself, and to my constantly fretting mother.

I was someone with Gia.



This, I'm afraid, is a difficult part of my allegory. And the most difficult slice of my life. The summer after our Junior year we shifted, wedging ourselves in the cracks of something deeper, darker than who we once were. The image of Gia Welsh crashed and ricocheted, leaving choppy, permanent pieces lying every which direction, waiting for me to take the wrong step and snag it deep into my flesh.

I failed every time. For, there was this thing about constants; for everything to continue as it should and not unravel was my biggest dream, my biggest hope. I was never one to cut things short — to completely give up when situations weren’t looking better. I let things persist in all its horrible nature, because even if it wasn’t right, it was constant.

Gia, I discovered a year, two months, and five days since the beginning of our relationship, was not a woman that favored consistence. She changed while the seasons passed, in dress, hair, makeup, and sometimes even attitude; she remained as Gia Welsh, but she was different Gias every few months. Sunday Girl dresses to Trouble Maker combat boots, Gia often flipped her focus to appease her hunger for different.

"I can't wear this anymore," she'd say to her wardrobe, and off they went, in the back of a truck to forever escape the comforts of civilization.

Winter of our Senior year and Gia struck me. Her tears were boiling, fighting for their freedom; her breathing was clenched, pinched tight, tighter than it'd ever been. Grey eyes a nightmare, face come over with a scorching red, she curled her buttery, slender fingers in on themselves, pulled her arm back by the elbow with such perfect precision that I would've admired it if I hadn't been paralyzed in fear, and watched as she snapped forward and struck the cheekbone of my right face.

There were bright, shimmering stars pressed to my vision, blinding me while I stumbled backwards, lost control of my twisting feet, and swung downwards onto the hard, wood flooring. I don't think the stars will ever leave my vision. I don't think I'll ever fully recognize what had happened just then – I don't think I'll like to.

"Stop ignoring my calls."

I whimpered then, glassy eyes screwed shut with a terribly shaken hand reaching up to inspect the damage. I pressed trembling fingertips to the flesh, winced and whimpered again as the throbbing rippled throughout my entire cheekbone, and rested the side of my head onto the freezing ground. My fringe danced into my eyelashes. I let it this time.

"Grey," she said from somewhere distant, above my shivering body and too far away to proper absorb. "Get up. Don't play with me – get up."

My eyes peeled open just barely, gauging the accuracy of my vision. There were still stars. I could barely make out her bright red toenails, toes curled tightly and close together. "I –" I heard myself saying, though it was foreign, as if some other entity had said it with my borrowed lips. "– what?"

In a fit, Gia left me lying there. She knew I'd chase her across the entire world if it meant she was in danger of escaping this companionship. She knew I'd let it slide, whisper to a worried mother that I just slammed myself onto the kitchen counters while we enjoyed flirtatious afternoon banter, patch it up like if I held it from the world for long enough it'd just disappear and never resurface again, smile like the photo of our bodies pressed so close to one another and faces bright, carefree, was still our reality.

I got myself stitched back together late that night, when the night slipped to a deep, drowning obsidian and the only light on in the home was my bathroom bulb. I can recall the moment I stood there, staring at myself like I could only see jagged, unrecognizable pieces that didn't make sense placed together like a collage. The skin of impact was a swelling, wince-inducing discoloration of deep purple, grey, and an offish red. Her knuckles were like hammers, I thought bitterly, actually containing the audacity to smile at myself.

The moment I called her and asked for her undeserving forgiveness I had abandoned my right to be human.

I became a collage of nonsensical shards, thin, pink lips smiling wryly at an image of what used to be.



Life carried on. I kept my ongoings, my constants. I cheered on the volleyball girls, persisted in immature, boyish jest during lectures, held Gia's hand in mine as we walked, side by side, home with light chatter to pass the time. I knew things were completely different, and completely wrong – I wanted to be foolish and act as if it wasn't. It wasn't.

I didn't know then, but I know now, that I was afraid of Gia. I feared not particularly her, but instead her capabilities. Gia Welsh had the entire world tucked into the itchy sweater pockets of her uniform, and she'd pull it out and tilt it however she wanted when the moments came and passed. She could do whatever whenever, and she knew this. That was the scariest part about her.

The second blow didn't come until Homecoming night. Her mother was stressed about it, which made her stress about it, which made me stress about it, which came full circle when she got pissed off about something, anything. It could've been the color of the tie I was sporting, and she'd carry on aggressively about it, clenching her jaw and swearing that she'd make sure I couldn't see proper if I continued in the 'inappropriate manner' that I had been behaving in.

"Relax some, Gi," I told her in the dressing room, loosening the smart tie and tugging until it came completely loose. She was sitting on the plush, circular chair behind me, having just snuck in to make sure everything was how she liked it. "The color really isn't that important."

I watched her full on glare in the mirror. She crossed one bare leg tightly over the other, running a frustrated hand through her golden brown spirals. "Of course you'd think that – look, Grey, just shut the fuck up and do as you're told, okay? You're really making me mad."

She was stressing me, unnerving me. It made me annoyed, on edge. Testing my courage, I told her, "No – I don't want to shop for this stupid fucking dance anymore. We've been out all fucking day and I'm going home, alright?" I turned to look at her reddening face. "D'you want a ride home or is your mom picking you up?"

"Grey," she warned, voice hitting on that deep, threatening frequency that was all too familiar from a few short months ago. "Don't start right now. You're not going anywhere."

"Yes, I am." I tossed the tie down to the glossed floor in an outburst of childish disobedience, turning to not face her so I could unbutton my blazer in privacy. "I'm going home; let's not do this Homecoming thing. Really. I'm tired and dances at Delwin are shit."

I really wasn't paying attention to her – I didn't think she'd do what she did, honestly, which was quite foolish of me, thinking of it now – when suddenly there was a claw gripping on the hair on the back of my head, locking its terrifying grip so that I could not shimmy myself free; in a quick instant I was yanked harshly backwards by my dark brown locks, sending me backwards and in an extremely painful, very sudden collision with the chair and the ground. The back of my neck slammed into the sharp jut of the circular seat; my spine grated the floor, as did my shoulderblades.

With a startled, hissing yelp, I instantly rolled onto my side, reaching touch the back of my neck and inspect the damage. I didn't know then, but soon it'd grow into another horrifying bruise, some peppered onto my back in mocking addition. "Oh God," I groaned from my position by her feet; my voice was desperate, quivering, like I was near tears.

And I did cry then. My face started with the hot, itchy feeling, cheeks burning a deep red, and then there were bitter tears threatening to fall, some managing to sleep free and travel downwards.

"Get up, you stupid ass," Gia said in an exasperated tone from up, up above. "I know that it didn't hurt that bad, you pussy. Get up."

The stars were back. But I allowed myself a moment longer of rest before I obeyed and staggered back onto my feet, one hand still groping the back of my bruising neck. I bowed my head to prevent looking at her. Though she squeezed in an extra, quick slap, right across my face, before she told me, "We're not leaving until we're done," in this hushed way, like she was telling me an urgent secret.

Gia left the dressing room before me.



I was struck for anything after that. Not only physically, but surely in words. I was a variety of things, most ranging from worthless, pathetic, retarded to unwanted, shit of the earth, and many more. I couldn't be Grey Dubois anymore, because Gia Welsh denied me this privilege. I didn't know who I was anymore, actually.

A year, five months, and thirteen days into our relationship and I was raped. It began with manipulation and ended with force, her pinning me down and insisting that this was what I wanted, because of course it's what I want. I let her because I wanted everything to stop. I thought I'd be numb to it all, maybe just fall into the motions if it made me feel enough to actually consent.

I didn't feel. Gia hollowed me out. I was dead.



The jesting stopped. The excel in advanced placement mathematics stopped. I sat at volleyball games that I spent tugging down my sleeves to cover any stray bruises instead of shouting and cheering for my team. Car rides carrying her back home were full of nothing but silence and fear of she's going to hit me, she hates me, maybe she'll pull a knife out of her gym bag and stab me.

"Stop looking at me like that," she'd say during film nights (that were deemed mandatory tradition due to my mother's exuberance to it all), and she'd lean on my chest and cry her heart out, choking on, "I'm not a monster, Grey. You know I'm not a monster, so stop looking at me like that."

Days were spent gambling on when she'd smash a fist into my face next. Would it be before lecture, after volleyball practice, maybe before I take her back to her home? It was always unpredictable and always left me with stars and hollowed out organs and numbed feelings.

The worst blow was when rumor had it that I was going to break our relationship for good. Collin misinterpreted my ranting and raving and passed it along until it arrived to Gia's perked ears. She was quick to confront me in the empty parking lot of our school building, so livid that she could barely get a word out.

She used her body instead.

Gia swung punches and shoved and screamed and even kicked. I was reduced to a crumbling, sobbing mess, begging her to stop, that I was sorry, that I didn't mean it, that I'd never leave her. I'd never leave my Gia, I'll even carve my heart out and give it to her, even if it meant that I'd have nothing left to call my own. She'd already taken everything else.

My right eye closed up, swelled and surrounded by broken blood vessels. The corner of my mouth was a deep purplish-grey. My ribs felt like they had been broken, or fractured, at the least. My legs had dishplate bruises. My arm was bleeding from wild, stray nails, jagged and permanent in my skin. My mouth was full of blood. I couldn't bare the thought of continuing to live after it all.



I took some pills to sedate the sad. I shielded my body from wandering eyes and promised myself that I wasn't pathetic, or the low of the low. I was fine, just fine; I never hit Gia back, I never called her worthless, or unloved, or unbeautiful; I never stooped to the level she resided. I am a good person, I told myself over and over during late night cries. I'm the best person there is.

Being with Gia made me deceitful. Everyone else was blamed, Gia was always protected, no matter what. I was desperately, painfully, stupidly in love with Gia Welsh. She was still Sunday Girl, she was still volleyball girl, she was still Gia Welsh. I was desperately, painfully, stupidly in love.

I was ready to die already.



I took too many painkillers. I passed out. I found myself quickly in the hospital, getting my stomach pumped and hollowness perfected. They saw the hidden bruises, the scars, my greatest nightmare come to life.

They pumped Gia out of me, after. It didn't come easy, but I had protected Gia Welsh until I couldn't protect Gia Welsh anymore.

To put it simply, Gia Welsh was hauled off, ripped from her Sunday Girl days and volleyball days and matriarchal home days, into a car with red and blue lights flashing and with residents watching. My family, shrouded in great disappointment, moved.

I never saw Gia Welsh again.

I hate myself for missing her, I do, though even six long years after her disappearance, I still find myself wishing to persist in a world where 'fancy' was made possible – only if I kept the secrets shrugged into the abyss of purplish bruises and manipulative taunts.

I never became what my mother truly wished for in a son. I won't. I know this.

But I don't blame Gia Welsh for what happened to me. No – there's something on constance that makes you mad in the head after years of perfecting devastating silence.

I turned on the world, so the world, in turn, turned on me.



I'm sorry that I could not achieve the glory of announcing that this is not about Gia Welsh.