Tired Doll

she was always made of glass fragile and cold to the touch, yet beautiful scattering light all around never able to hold it herself

a heart in full view harbours no secrets thin cracks, like spiders' webs or fissures in the desert sand tiny pieces suspended in place as though still connected the bloody fingerprints of everyone who had tried to mend it before was it ever truly whole?

she was always made of glass jagged shards waiting to form when she fell down to the floor and every time, she left a piece behind

someday all that will remain will be the spiderveined heart 'pon the bloodstained floor empty, at last, forevermore

despite its time in the mirror realm, the Doll still rarely looked in the mirror. it actively avoided doing so, in fact. every time it caught a glimpse of its reflection, it was reminded that its body was not of its own construction. the thing that lived in the mirror never looked right; it had the Doll's rich eyes, its (regularly unbrushed and tangled) gently waving hair, its gentle smile and flawed, cracked skin. still, it never looked right. it lacked the Doll's spark, its essence, its lifeforce. it was like a photograph taken on an overcast day, and aged in the sun for thirty years; the details were all there, but dulled and lacking colour.

sometimes, much like in the mirror realm, the Doll would catch the briefest glimpse of the girl who lived in the mirror. she never stayed, usually darting away in the space of the Doll's blink, but she'd come back sometimes. there were days she'd stick around a little longer, but she was always gone by the end of the day. on those days, the Doll would study the mirror, as long as the girl would stay.

things have changed, though, since the Doll met the man at the repair shop. the girl who lives in the mirror comes to visit more often. almost every time the Doll looks, there she is. it's... strange. it's almost like the Doll could reach out and touch her.

and so she reaches.

even Witches can be slain. the fingerprints she left on the Doll's arms and hands have erupted into deep, crumbling cracks. every word she ever spoke to the Doll appears etched on its 'skin'. the cheek she kissed has shattered, and the Doll's chest now sounds a hollow 'thud' when struck.

searching for something to hold onto, anything, the Doll goes to the place where they met... only to find it torn down, and the barest foundations of something new in its place. she thought she had longer, and she'd started a new project... so the Doll goes to find the Witch's other places and it finds... well, it finds what was clearly her private chambers. and on every wall, huge artworks and photographs of the Witch, radiant as ever.

and then the Doll stops dead, instantly crushed under an unbearable weight. there it is, in the background of one of the photos. the Doll and the Witch, together. even in death.

rest well, Lils.

dolls are made to be loved, but dolls aren't made to love. dolls are made to be a comfort and a friend, a companion through the hardest and scariest parts of our lives, but they always hope they'll be outgrown.

and one day you'll move on, packing the doll away. move after move, new start after new start, always carefully placed in its box.

until, time comes, when it ends up in that last box; that last box you'll “get to someday”, that box of things you never consciously miss.

that is the true home of the doll.

and as the sun rose again, summoned by the birds and their morning chorus, in spite of its death the night before, and in knowing that it would die again come evening, so too did the Doll take another step forward. it would stumble, it would fall, yet on it walked.

a Doll with a voice that is only half their own. they speak confidently, comfortably, though they often rush and slur—an artifact of their cultural upbringing, combined with a dwindling pool of energy to put into speech. they can embody eloquence and resplendency, though they'd just as soon settle for the comfort of a simple bogan lexicon, replete with colourful swearing.¹

but it used to sing! sometimes it still does, in the quiet, on its own, and it really does enjoy it, but... its voice never quite did the things it wanted to, despite training and effort and practice. it's never been sure how to produce some of the sounds it's always wanted to, though it does some things others have wanted to emulate. lately, though, it has songs deep in its... in what would pass for its soul, songs it yearns to get out, that it just cannot physically produce. whether it's the pitch range, or the timbre, or the specific techniques required, the Doll just... can't do it. as time goes on, the Doll experiences this more and more, and each time it happens it feels that disconnect between itself and its voice grow wider.

but at least it's quite happy with the way it talks, usually. that's a big accomplishment.

¹ farkin' oath

it puts down the pen, folds the paper gently, and tapes it all together.

down by the river, carefully placed, floating; a small candle flame inluminates the vessel, delicately glowing upon the waters:

and so the Doll says farewell to the ghost that haunted it for so many years. again.

maybe this time she'll finally leave.

a Doll and a Witch, standing in a mirrored chamber, seeing nothing but their reflections, stretching out to infinity. and reflect they have, both learning to see themselves differently.

a Doll and a Witch, at the centre of the maze. one final challenge, one final choice.

the mirrors flicker and glitch, the reality of this unreality bending to the will of... her. the girl in the mirror appears before them both. at first, the Doll sees itself, but then it recognises that the girl is made of flesh and blood. the Witch, having seen her before, knows that this is the single greatest threat to her existence.

who are you? the voice fills their minds, echoing inside their heads. it comes from nowhere, it comes from everywhere.

the Doll speaks its name, something it doesn't do often. the Witch hesitates but for a moment, then speaks the same name.

who are you? the Doll repeats its name, but the Witch stays silent.

who are you? this time the Doll just looks confused. the Witch trembles slightly. “I don't know.”

the Doll squeezes her hand.

silence.

taking its time, the Doll formulates an answer. some minutes later, it pipes up: “we are doing our best.” the Witch tilts her head. that doesn't seem to answer the question of the girl in the mirror. the mirror flickers again.

what do you need? the Witch blinks. apparently that was the right answer. the Doll smiles with its painted lips. neither know how to answer, though.

what do you need? “each other!” the Witch blurts out. “... we need each other.” this time it's the Doll who doesn't understand. it hasn't seen the Witch since it came into being all those years ago. a lifetime has passed since then. the girl in the mirror nods.

the mirrors glitch out, the room shakes.

“Doll, we don't have long, and I don't know what we'll remember from this place but... I'm sorry I haven't been there for you, and I'm sorry that you've suffered in my place all this time. I need you to know that—”

the Doll squeezes the Witch tightly as it whispers, “no. no it's okay. you were scared, and it's my role to protect you.”

the mirrors shatter, shards of glass raining down around the pair, never touching them.

“we'll just keep doing our best.” “together?” “together. we've always done it together, apart.”

the mirror realm is consumed by light; all that was contained within, obliterated.

she swears she heard her heart shatter. two painted eyes, shimmering flecks of pearl white and glittering gold lie between them. it takes every ounce of her power not to just fall to the floor and break apart herself.

the broom! oh, of course, the broom! carefully, gently, she sweeps up the pieces, collecting them and laying them out in vague humanoid shape. but... wait... the furnace? it was warming a crucible filled with... yeah, with gold! she starts to levitate the crucible, bringing it over to the Doll, but...

no. it deserves better than this. all these little pieces, it'd end up more gold than Doll. no. the Witch takes a deep breath, steels herself, draws her blade and cuts open her palm, pouring out thick, wispy shadows that have long replaced her blood. umbral tendrils reach out and caress the porcelain shards, rearranging them in the air. as they come together, the pieces spark with a brilliant radiance, welded together by the light of life.

the Doll comes together, not as patchwork, not as kintsugi, but whole and unblemished. new.

as the last piece is welded into place, as the Doll takes its first breath, the light surges back along the dark tentacles. a torrent of pure essence of life forcing its way into her veins. for the first time in an eternity, she feels alive, and it burns.

with a tortured scream, she falls to the floor. the Doll blinks, immediately dropping to its knees to hold its Witch.

on the floor at the far side of the room, she finds a neatly folded set of clothes, identical to her own. a ribbon holds them together, locked with an athame just like the one she destroyed in the maze. beside them, an old broom.

the last steps sink into the floor, revealing a doorway to a room lit by a warm, natural glow. she changes her clothes, belts the new blade, then steps toward the light.

“a furnace...? with a... crucible? has someone been here? is this for me? what am I meant to—”

the sound of shattering ceramic breaks her train of thought