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One would say that I am a serious collector of dolls. Collecting dolls has been a passion of mine since college and since then I have collected hundreds of dolls from every corner of the world. I have sunk more money into my doll collection than it could ever make me back, but it has come to be my one true joy in life. However, calling it a 'collection' may be a bit misleading. I do collect dolls, but mostly because I enjoy taking them apart and piecing together new dolls of my own creation. I scan my collection to match the best parts of certain dolls and stitch them all together. I guess I should call it the outcome of an artist and their work rather than an actual collection. A passion driven pit of blood, sweat, and tears.
Because I do dismantle them, my works of art have less real monetary value and more sentimental value. Even if I were to find a buyer, there would be no way I would ever sell them. Ever since I really found my stride in collecting and creating my dolls, it has become so much more than a hobby to me. They are more to me than my works of art; they are my family.
One day, I was working in my crafting shop, which also served as my basement. I was stitching together a new doll when I noticed something sitting among my doll collection. I recognized it as a doll of sorts, but one unlike the kind of which I had ever seen before. I was sure that I had never owned this particular doll a day in my life, nor had I constructed it from other parts, but there it sat, staring in my direction. The sheer eeriness made me stop working on my project and demanded I give it my full attention. I knew not of how it came to be inside my workshop, my personal space of being, but there it was, sitting upright among my other dolls. I walked toward it slowly, unsure of the reasoning behind the visit.
The first, and most dominant, thing I noticed about the doll was how much smaller it was than any other doll I had ever seen before. It had all the parts that a doll should have: arms, legs, a body, and a head, but its diminutive size was extraordinary. Upon closer examination, I noticed other differences. Its arms and legs were made of some sort of soft fabric. It wore a blue and white dress, that of a southern belle; very Scarlett O'Hara. The most abnormal feature about its makeup was its head. Its head appeared to be made out of unscathed, bleached porcelain. The pristine condition of its pale face was unnerving and unlike anything I had ever seen before on a doll. Its hair was straw-like to the touch, and was as yellow as the clear morning sun. Its face was cold and distant. Its eyelids seemed to open and close at will, exposing and hiding two marble eyes which stared into the room without expression. Its cheeks were rose tinted and as smooth as ice. It had two tiny, pink lips curved up in a naive smirk. I had never seen a head so exemplary, so perfectly symmetrical, on a doll before.
I noticed it had a small string coming out of its back with a little plastic hoop attached. I had never seen a doll with such a strange, yet seemingly normal, anatomy. I grabbed the string and pulled. I felt a slight rattling from inside the doll and released. It let out a noise that was unlike anything I have ever heard out of a doll before. It sounded grainy and distorted beyond recognition. It seemed to let out a soft, low growl; something much different than what you would think a doll of that condition would make. After many pulls of the string, I began to hear the doll emit different noises until what I only knew as noise, I began to recognize as speech. It seemed to speak something, but no matter how many times I pulled that string, I could never make out what it said. The speech started to get quieter until it was only a faint whisper. I leaned in close to the doll; my ear pressed against its cold, smooth face, in hopes of finally understanding what it was saying, but to no avail.
That face still lingered with me though. It was the only part of the doll I truly appreciated. I hated the thought of dismembering such a near perfect doll, but I knew that I needed that head for future projects. I brought the small, feminine doll over to my cutting table and laid it down flat on its back. Its eyes stared back up at me as I reached for my nearest blade. Its expression was hauntingly placid; I would even dare to say that it was jovial in a way. I did my best to avert my eyes away from its antagonizing stare. As I glided the blade against its soft neck, how it responded would continue to terrify me for years to come. It didn't do anything. It remained still and unfeeling through the whole incision. It didn't react at all. It just laid there, staring back up at me and smiling its little grin as if it welcomed the pain. It didn't scream. It didn't fight back. It didn't even bleed. I knew instantly that it was not at all like any of the dolls I had ever worked on before. That thing was unnatural and I had to get rid of it. I tied the thing in a plastic bag and threw it into the East River. I don't know what it was, where it came from, or even how it got there, but whatever it was that found its way into my workshop that day, it had no place in my doll collection.
Written by TheDivineAuthor