Chloedoll lives in a pink palace that is populated with glitter dolls, pullips and blythes. She lives in a world of white chocolate and lace, customised beauty from second hand clothing and polka dots. She eats mangos and pineapples and sweet delicate fruits that make her glow and sparkle and in Chloedoll’s world everything is always perfect, with curved edges and white chocolate sprinkles...
‘Hey! You stupid bitch.’ The foot thuds into her back, and she falls, sprawling onto her knees, hands planted on the wet tarmac, picking up grime and particles of discarded food. Her sparkling tiara falls from her pink hair, and she snuffles slightly, afraid to look up.
‘What the fuck do you look like?’ the voice sneers. She knows it well, intimately you could say, knows the bland stupid face it belongs to, the wide cruel mouth and the small, small pig like eyes. Dead to anything other than blatant bullying and humiliation.
Chloedoll wonders what happened to make Tequila so reactionary (the name possibly? Only the dumbest of parents would saddle a child with a moniker of their favourite tipple). Her musing cut brutally short, Choledoll finds her head forced back at the point of a fairly large and non to clean trainer. Her tiara is sliding down her face. Much like the soft tears that are clinging to her eyelashes in mute testament to her helplessness. She pictures her image in her own mind, the glittery mascara running down her cheeks, the tragic heroine in distress…
But where’s that white knight? Where’s her shining Aragorn to rescue her from her desperation? Take her away from the grey concrete slabs that fill her horizons. Rather like the white trainer she is currently contemplating.
A sudden release, and slump down onto her elbows, Choledoll realises that Tequila has backed off due to the sudden proximity of authority. Welcome relief, or added insult to her humiliation, that she be witnessed scrabbling on all fours amongst the detritus of her fellow students? The latter, as an unsympathetic hand reaches to pull her onto her feet, and the glistening moustache of Miss Singleton begins showing spit and recriminations on her.
‘Really, Chloe, you bring this on yourself. Look at the state of you, pink hair and the like. What do you expect, standing out like this?’. And on and on and on the drone, until she transmutes in Chloedoll’s mind into a whirring, women headed mosquito, grotesque in her human mask.
This is Chloedoll’s daily routine. This is her reality, which she chooses to cover with a carapace of silk and seashells, clams for a girl and razor clams for the boys, with tiny effervescent periwinkles to decorate the gaps. It allows her to ignore the indignities of education and the ever present horror of hearth, where the bottles fly and the anger is always turned up to factor 10. She can step through this with indifference, provided she can remain forever Chloedoll, preserved in immortality like the Lady of Shallot, laid on her flower filled bower.
But she is not the Lady of Shallot. She is a mere girl child with ‘issues’ that she wishes to end. Preserved in perfume and patchouli oil, her beauty never fading. As the light fades, in her head at least she will always remain the pink princess of the glitter planet.