another empty spaces doll (it/its)
a rainy day gives the Doll a headache. the weather is mild, and the pain has the Doll feeling sleepy. it lazes around, wrapped up in a blanket, watching the the coloured shapes move around the walls like hungry amoebae. oh well, at least it's something to do.
the doll goes back to sleep
the Doll sits, staring at a blank page, not the first time nor the last. just a cursor blinking, like a ticking clock. a heartbeat waiting to pump words like blood, to carry letters like cells. but Dolls don't have hearts. Dolls aren't made for such things.
that has to be the reason, right?
Doll who writes something to share, but can't bring itself to do so.
so it hides it away, like it used to.
maybe one day.
a Doll in pieces, at the bottom of a flight of stairs.
the air is still and the night is silent.
for a time, nothing changes. nothing dares disturb the scene until... a chuckle, a laugh building to a cackle. the Doll props itself up on a shattered arm. it laughs to itself, at itself, at the destruction around it. at its fracturing, at the havoc it had wrought upon its body. it laughed.
a Doll in pieces at the bottom of a flight of stairs. slowly pulling itself together, carefully welding its porcelain skin with gold, stitching shut the tears in its dress.
a Doll smiling at the bottom of a flight of stairs, hurting itself to feel alive
a Doll playing games with its friends! the Doll's been fairly quiet lately; with all the changes in its life, it's been a bit withdrawn, and it's no longer spending its nights talking out loud with the other Dolls. but tonight! oh, tonight! sounds of joy echo through the house. laughter and swearing, giggles and teasing. the Doll isn't as good as its friends at this game, but it doesn't mind. it just enjoys the chaos.
the Doll's golden seams shine a little brighter tonight. maybe a Witch isn't the only source of magic after all.
a Doll and a cat, curled up in bed. the Doll wanted to get up, to be productive, to get its chores done, to do something, but it's far too weak today. it sits up, swaying a little as it braces against the bedside table. the Doll finishes its water bottle and lies back down. it smiles at the cat, a ball of fur softly vibrating. a quiet comfort while stuck in bed.
the Doll sleeps.
a Doll sits on its high shelf, watching as the Witches and the Dolls and their friends dance. the Doll counts the rhythm. 1 2 3 1 2 3 1 2 3 1 2 3
it rises to its feet, holds its hands in position, draws a deep breath, and takes the first step. 1 2 3 1 2 3 1 2 3 1 2 3 spinning, twirling, back and forth, to and fro, 1 2 3 1 2 3 1 2 3 1 2 3
the Doll closes its eyes, 1 2 3 1 2 3 1 2 3 1 2 3 the music seems so distant, almost like an echoed memory of a moment interrupted, a moment shared...
“Better every time I hear your art and soul, Doll”
the Doll's eyes snap open. the Witch smiles, their lips silently counting. 1 2 3 1 2 3 1 2 3 1 2 3 the Doll smiles too, as its eyes flash with recognition. this Witch always did have a way of making it feel seen. the Doll shakes its head. this isn't its Witch, though they might have been in another life. they dance for a time.
the Witch twirls onwards to their next dance. the Doll sits, its hands conducting a silent symphony
1 2 3 1 2 3 1 2 3 1 2 3
sometimes, the Doll remembers the time before it broke. sometimes, the Doll sees flashes of another life.
it was always cracked, always bruised but it used to move without strings it was free to go outside without a witch
the Doll sighs, remembering the faces of its friends. it's been years since it had seen some of them, a decade even. another life.
It shakes its head. the past holds nothing but pain for the Doll... and the road ahead is getting more overcast every day.
a Doll and a Witch, sitting quietly on the floor. the soft fur rug enveloping the Doll's fingers. the Doll's mind, as it were, was a swirling maelstrom, and the Witch's mind hurt.
together they sat, their breathing purposeful, taking their time to slow their thoughts.
it snapped into focus, all at once. a thought, a shape, a person, a place. the Witch smiled at the Doll, encouraging it to try, to write, to bleed from the golden cracks on its skin.
and so it did. it wrote. it wrote of its Witches, the gentle souls that cared for it. it wrote of its love for them. it wrote of the distance between itself and its Witches. it wrote of the painful loneliness.
and it wrote of this kind Witch. she wasn't this one's witch, but she was kind to it all the same. she nurtured it. she taught it, she gave it structure.
a kind Witch and a sad Doll, sitting quietly in the Doll's favourite place.
the moment passes.
Doll cursed with life, suffering alone.
despite everything, it clings to life, doing its best to repair itself each night. it pours gold into its cracks, it patches its dress, it snaps its joints back together. it repaints its eyes and smile as best it can.
but the magic is running out.
it needs to find a Witch. for a time, it thought it had one, but they couldn't stay even though they wanted to. the Doll understands; it knows its needs are... specific, and many.
desperately clinging to any promise of love, of life, of magic, the Doll goes through a rapid whirlwind of Witches and... nothing. it's left alone at the end of each day, to repair itself once more.
the magic is running out.
the magic is running out.