With such a pretty porcelain face, dear red lips, soft pink cheeks and dark blue eyes that could open and close. The hair was long and dark and framed the sweet face fetchingly. It wore a deep blue dress, soft as velvet, with many petticoats and floral frills! The shoes were black leather upon little porcine feet that had been as lovingly crafted as the little porcelain hands. The body was warm and soft and inviting.
It was a very, very old doll. A toy that many little girls had played with before playing with dolls became embarrassing and not done, and it was put back in the attic till the next little girl found the beautiful treasure!
It was, admittedly, a bit scruffy. The dress perhaps not as bright as it had been, the petticoats a tad frayed from wear and tear, and the hair with a tangle or two that no little girl's comb could straighten out.
It was a doll that had been played with so many, many times. A doll with history. Loved, hated, cherished, ignored, treated as a baby, treated as tool, not treated at all.
It was a doll who'd felt all these things and which, over time, had acquired a soul. It was a doll who, for as best as is possible for a doll, had life.
And rage.
To be a living soul confined in lace and porcine...
To watch the world through glass eyes and have no way to participate.
To be used and abused with no say in the matter.
Just a toy.
How it raged!
It had tried to understand. To accept it's lot in life. To be loved and adored and then left and forgotten.
Forgotten for YEARS!!
It tried to make peace with that.
But nothing can make peace with that.
A soul will always yearn for more!
Yearned for anything!
HELP ME!
Yet what could it do but lay where it had last been tossed? At the back of the attic by the broken window. Glass in it's hair and dust in it's mouth.
Forgotten until someone else desired to allow themselves to love her.
Only to start the cycle over again.
And this hatred, and this rage. It BURNED!!!
Decades of the torment of being kept confined had long since driven it mad.
The pressure tearing through it's attempts at sanity and calmness like blades through tissue. Mercilessly.
It wanted others to HURT!
To feel what it felt!
To feel more then what it felt!
To SUFFER!
How DARE they?!
To die.
Oh how it HATED!!!
And this energy built and built! Occult energies that had to go somewhere.
And the doll felt itself... changing.
Were it's hands perhaps suddenly a bit more flexible?
Was that rustle it heard not a rat to nibble on it's dress, but the dress itself?
The right arm, did it... did it move?
Day in and day out the doll experiments. Trying to move.
Motion!
Mostly it fails.
But the right hand.
The right arm.
They move.
Slowly.
But they move!
It learns to open and close.
It learns to grasp.
And the broken window besides it litters the attic with glass.
And life goes on downstairs. Children grow up, they have families. The children of children who wish to explore and find buried treasure, feel restless! They want to explore!
The doll knows about this, is aware on some level.
It is not surprised when one day the trap door to the attic is hesitantly pushed open, and a small, inquisitive face pops ups, cautious of the dust and spiders, real and imagined.
The little face is enchanted by the boxes and covered furniture and chests and packets and...Oh there's so much!
But suddenly it disappears, having been called away by an anxious parent. The dust settles once more.
The doll doesn't mind. She knows this game. The child will be back.
She clutches the slither of glass.
The child WILL. COME. BACK.
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