The Dollmaker (B.W.)

Warning: This story includes content on OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) and self-deprecating thoughts that may trigger some readers. Please avoid reading this story if you have experienced any or both of the above.

Achebe.

Your face crinkles, like the paper balls you would throw at her behind Rox's back. Your tears attempt to cling to your eyelashes but fail and slide off, falling onto the hair you haven't washed in days.

With trembling eyes, you look up, around the dusty room, where ripped pages and empty snack wrappers flutter around like butterflies. Where dust motes glint in the afternoon light peeking through your window, where teary tissues rest, crumpled, tossed around, where day-old food sits at the bottom of your door, slid under by your worrying parents.

I killed her yesterday.

Yes, you did. You've known that for a while.

How?

You pushed her off a cliff. You know these things.

Why?

You were angry. Capricious. Hateful. Envious. Bitter. You were embarrassed. 

Wasn't it angering when Rox decided to spend time with her instead of you?

Wasn't it embarrassing when Achebe was Rox's partner in school projects, and you weren't?

Yes. It was disgusting, strange, appalling. How could that girl take up my friend's attention? 

Haven't you ever thought that it could be Rox's fault?

How?

She made a different friend. She spent time with her without you. She dared to leave you out.

How could they imagine doing such things to me?

The human mind is a fragile, dangerous thing. Tread too heavily, and it turns against you. It's a vulnerable bird; treat it gently, and it trusts you, or rush it, and it pecks and flees.

You were possessive, jealous, and clumsy with your words, letting them slip out of your reach and shatter on the ground. You have always been the evil person in this situation. You deserve to go to jail. You don't deserve to have your family, to be living in this house, to get anything. 

I know. I don't deserve any of it. I don't deserve anything, because it's all my fault.

Good to know that you're understanding. Don't talk to anyone anymore. You're evil. Do you want to hurt those people as well?

No.

Do you want to annoy them with your presence, your thoughts, your issues?

No. I don't want to annoy my family. I don't want to hurt my friends.

Good. Keep it that way. Stay in this room and this room only so that you don't hurt or annoy anyone. 

The only person you should talk to is Roxanne. Beg her for forgiveness, or else she won't want to be your friend anymore. Or else she'll tell your family, and they won't want to be related to you anymore.

Okay. 

Don't stop texting her and apologizing until she says she forgives you.

Okay.

Do you want that no one will love you anymore?

No.

Are you sure?

Yes.

Then be perfect.

Bury this in the past and plant flowers on its grave; grow, become beautiful, inside and out. Become a child your parents will be proud of, become a friend Roxanne will care about, become a student your teachers admire, become a person that everyone likes. 

How?

Don't cry. Don't show any negative emotions. Only show smiles, gentle words, elegant gestures, like a doll. 

Become a doll. Perfect, smiling, beautiful, flawless. No one cares if you're hollow on the inside, as long as you have everything on the outside.

Okay. A doll. I will become a doll. I will neither show my emotions nor my flaws and imperfections.

Good. Start by cleaning your room. No one likes messy people. Don't allow even a speck of dust to intrude upon the floors. If you do, no one will love you. No one will care about you anymore. 

You're not clean enough. Go shower again. What if everyone thinks you're dirty? What if you go back to your dirty old ways and become evil and hurt-or kill-someone all over again?

Pick a white dress. Bright colors are not appropriate for you. They make you seem like you're an attention-seeker. That was the reason why Achebe died, because you wanted all of Rox's attention. If you don't wear white, your brother dies.

Put the dress on again. Do you want to look messy?

Again. You look like a witch.

Again. You look like you just ran ten miles.

Are your arms sore from putting on a dress three times? You're lazy, then. No one likes lazy people, tired people, aching people. As practice, put on the dress and take it off again and again until you reach fifty times. It has to be fifty. 

Smile. Why are you frowning? Are you going to kill someone again?

Why can't you? You're a doll. Remember that. Smile no matter what. You don't have a choice. No smile means you're evil. Do you want to hurt Roxanne?

You're listening now. You listen to everything that the voice says because you don't want to become evil. 

You sit at your computer, a smile so wide and fake it's plastic, as perfectionism falls into your arms, leads you to the dance floor, moves with your every step. 

Irony steals you from your dance partner, taking you by the hand, twirling you round and round, as you remember Achebe. Achebe, the African beauty. Achebe, African for protected by the Goddess.

It seems her protection just wasn't strong enough.

Roxanne hasn't texted you back, and Achebe won't return to life, but if you're perfect, if you're a doll, maybe it'll happen. After all, dolls bring magic to the lives of children, and you might have magic as well if you're good enough.

Jealousy is a one-way road; many will enter, but no one will leave.

Possessiveness is a trap; spikes of steel trapping your ankle, hindering your motions, hindering your common sense, hindering your empathy, your realism.

Anger is a glass of water; too many drops, and it will overflow.

Insanity is a casket; only those who are dead will enter and stay.