Tired Doll

the Witch clutches her Doll, its head cradled in her arms. this small, fragile thing has worked so hard but it simply isn't a person. an object, glass and cloth and paint, fine hairs and glue. no matter how much she wills it breathe again, the Doll lies inert. person-shaped, but not a person.

the Doll had built itself from scraps, taking its shape from the hole left in the lives of those around it. it wasn't sure who or what had been here before, but clearly it was something important, something treasured. the Doll had wanted to be treasured.

and for a time, it was! they celebrated the Doll, they lavished it with praise. they played with the Doll every day, and they lay with the Doll every night. they would talk long into the night, as everything else around them faded into the dark. the Doll was loved, the Doll was treasured.

by the time she found it again, though, the Doll lay motionless on the ground. a layer of dust, dirt and grime covered its cold body, and its clothes had soaked through, the wind beginning to fray the edges of the wet fabric.

this small, fragile thing had worked so hard but it simply wasn't a person.