The Doll Maker's Pride

Pictures and memories flooded the little girl’s mind, playing over and over again as if they were on a projector in front of her glass eyes. She longed to reach out and touch her favorite teddy bear, or run into her father’s arms once more; ached to feel rain dance on her skin again as she splashed in the puddles. Her yearning grew as the weeks crawled slowly by, festering like an ugly blister she couldn’t pick away. The old man would come in every day at the same time (her best guess was around three in the afternoon), looking into her eyes and poking and prodding her in awkward places. He would then stick a needle in her side repeatedly, but she couldn’t protest. If tears could fall, she would have let them.

The cat was her only source of joy. It may have taken her within its teeth and try to rip her to shreds every time it got to her, sometimes knocking out an eyeball before being shooed away by the old man, but it was the only chance she had to look around the room, taking in her surroundings, sometimes seeing new additions that she desperately wished she could say hello to. The cat would parade her around the room as if showing off his prey before sitting down and gnawing on her as if she were his next meal. Some days differed, however, and the old animal would treat her like one she was his kitten who he had to protect, cleaning her and purring as he rested his head on her body, fast asleep. These moments were fleeting, and so she relished in them while they lasted, knowing that the old man would come in soon and kick the cat out of the room and put the girl back on the shelf. 

The memories got worse, more vivid, as the weeks turned into months that moved at the speed of stone erosion. Her father would be within an arm’s reach. He would offer her some of her favorite candies and hold out his hand for her to take, waiting for her to join him on a quest to the ice cream shop they both loved, but she couldn’t take it, couldn’t move her arm to put her hand in his, couldn’t tell him that she was trying. Her mother would offer her dinner, one of her older brothers grabbing the roll of the plate before she had the chance to move the plate away. Repeatedly, without fail, the old man would come into the room and instantly the pictures in her mind would vanish, and she would brace herself for more poking and the stabbing from the angry needle.

Her big brothers constantly ran around her mind, racing to be first place, her mother laughing and helping them up as they each tripped over themselves. Her father sat in his chair, her on his lap as he read his favorite newspaper. She would try to read the big words out loud, and he would chuckle and help her sound them out. The day before she was taken they had been reading the newspaper, her dad helping her figure out the word “abduction,” eyes filled with worry as he skimmed over the paper. She had been confused as to why he had suddenly scooped her into his arms and hurried inside, telling her not to go outside this room, that she must stay there and wait for her brothers, to remain calm and be patient.

The little girl heard a loud noise that resembled something crashing to the ground and instantly braced herself for the old man to come in and stick a needle in her once more. The thought that it was too early for him to come in briefly passed through her mind, but she ignored it and focused on calming herself down and preparing for the uncomfortable fingers grabbing and inspecting her. Anxiety trickled through her mind as she watched for the door to open, but it subsided when no one walked through. She wondered what the sound had been, but with no way to check what it was, she had to remain buried in her curiosity. 

When she had first been taken, the old man had pretended to be one of her father’s friends. It had been easily believable; her father worked at an old firm and was constantly talking about all the old people he had to put up with. Maybe this man was one of them. She had taken his hand without a second thought, following him outside of the door and into a big gray van that was parked in her driveway. She clambered inside, excited for the adventure they were about to start. When asked about where her family was, the old man shushed her and locked the doors, but the little girl just smiled and looked out the window as he pulled out into the road. It was probably like the surprise parties she had read about in books - it was her birthday tomorrow, after all. 

The first few days were the worst. She had been chained up in a large, dark room that only had one tiny window. She had bled more than the seven-year-old thought was ever possible, and cried herself dry until she couldn’t shed another tear. The day he killed her was the day she had been looking forward to. She didn’t know what death was, didn’t know that she would never move again, but she did know that she wanted the stabs to end, the screaming to end, the hair-pulling to end, the slicing to end. 

In her new body, she couldn’t cry anymore, couldn’t scream. She lost the ability to move. The ache for her family grew stronger as the year progressed. She had sung herself Happy Birthday in her mind when her eighth birthday came, and the old man had made a little tea party with another little girl her age on that day. All the others were sat around the table, unable to move as well, their eyes gaged forward and staring into each other, secretly begging to be let free. 

Her mind was brought back to the present when the door slammed open, hitting the wall hard enough to leave a dent. The wish to scream had never been so overwhelmingly strong as it was at that moment. She watched as her father and mother entered the room, accompanied by some police officers and the old man in handcuffs. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but her father looked more upset than she had ever seen him, even more upset than the day her older brother had skipped school to do drugs with his girlfriend. He stormed around the room, and from what she could see she guessed that he was screaming at the old man, a policeman holding him back from hitting him. He calmed down soon enough, crying softly as he looked around the room, her mother clinging onto him. The little girl prayed that he would walk over to her and pick her up, softly hold her in his arms and tell her everything was okay and that he was going to take her home. Instead, he surveyed the room slowly, taking in everything. His eyes lingered on hers, and she did everything she could to scream, to let him know that it was her, but nothing came out. His eyes passed on to the next object.

Everything in her ached. She wished so hard to move, to alert them of her presence. She could see the old man and the sick smile that rested on his face as he watched her parents walk around the room. Her father took his wife’s hand in his as they continued to look around, stomping on the floor as if looking for trapdoors, hands brushing the walls, eyes not missing an inch of the room. The little girl’s mother, who she had never once seen shed a tear, began to cry, body racked with sobs as her father wrapped himself around her, petting her hair softly. 

Seeing her mother cry was the tipping point. The little girl summoned all the strength she had left and channeled it into moving, inching toward the edge of the shelf. A wave of shock went through her as she felt herself actually move forward, tipping over the edge and falling. 

She couldn’t hear, but the policeman closest to her looked like he had let out a yelp. He bent down and picked her up, turning her over as he inspected her. He said a few words to her father, who walked over to her and took her into his hands. 

She focused on his lips as he spoke to the policeman. “It looks just like her,” he seemed to say, as a tear fell from his cheek and onto her dress. He wiped it away gingerly as he showed it to her mother, who in turn took it from him and began to cry harder. 

The little girl was able to make out the words “it really does” from her mother, who held her in her arms tightly. She didn’t mind the squeeze, as this was better than anything she had experienced from the past three months.

Now situated in her mother’s bag, she was finally headed home. The knowledge that she would not be able to hug her brothers ever again practically broke her, but she tried to focus on the fact that she was going to be home now. Their own cat would be able to play around with her, and she looked forward to seeing the house she called home again. 

The doll maker was locked away in prison for her murder and eventually was sentenced to death. His last words echoed through the minds of millions. “She was my favorite.”