The Doll with a Soul

I don’t remember the factory in which I was made, nor the first few weeks of my life. I first remember her. Those wondrous blue eyes staring back at me as tears flooded down her cheeks. I hadn't the faintest idea of why she was upset, but the sadness she felt weighed into my chest like a deep, black ocean. I wished I could’ve helped her more. Instead, I stared at her blankly while she clutched me close to her chest and sobbed.

This happened often. She’d run into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She’d grab me from my place on the dresser and hold me tight. Every time, I was plagued by that same wrenching sorrow. Her tears would fall and fall, until the wells were empty and sleep consumed her. I knew the world outside this room was the cause, but I could do nothing to help her.

Not every moment with her was sad, though. She enjoyed practicing her sewing with me. The dresses she made were beautiful, and I was always so proud when she completed one. I wish I could’ve told her that or at least smiled at her. She smiled at me occasionally, and when she did, the sun shone a million times brighter. She told me some things about her, though most of our time together was spent in a world of fantasy. Usually, I was her little sister. She’d walk me to school, help me with my homework, and let me pick the movie we watched.

Then, I met our stepfather. He walked into our room with his jaw clenched tight. I’d never seen this emotion before, but I knew by the awful tightness that crawled into my throat that it wasn’t good. She wrapped both arms tightly around me as he accused her of lying. My big sister lied? I refused to believe it. I wanted him gone, but my state of paralysis prevented me from acting. We sat there, listening and praying that it would be over soon. Eventually, he left. He warned us not to leave the room until told otherwise. I didn’t want to, not if he was out there.

Then, she started crying again. Now, I knew where the tears came from every time. She held me like she always did in these moments, telling me how she wished she could run away. I wanted that too. I wanted to leave that horrible man and never return, but she was only a little girl. The world outside these walls would be far more cruel than him, as hard as it is to believe.

The weeks melded together until almost a year had passed. She began to hold me less during the tears, sew less dresses, and let me pick less movies. I sat on her dresser and watched as she entertained the same hobbies, struggled with her studies, and stared at the ceiling as her mind wandered to things I was no longer privy to. On the last day I saw her, she hadn’t looked in my direction for weeks, and I could barely feel the sadness that crushed her more by the day.

Our mother walked into the room with a trash bag in hand. She fanned it out and handed it to the girl with the instruction to collect the items and clothing she no longer wanted, so they could be donated. I felt a faint thread of nostalgia as she slid me headfirst into the black plastic. I don’t remember much for a while after that. I was placed upon a shelf, where the blur of a million faces passed by me. Dust settled on every inch of my porcelain, and I appeared even paler than before.

Some time had passed when I noticed him. A small, timid boy roamed around the toy aisle of the thrift shop. His eyes were the thing that caught my attention. Those crystal blue eyes were dulled by boredom. As he walked near, I used every last ounce of my sentience to reach out. I fell off the shelf, not caring that if he failed to catch me, I would meet my end. He didn’t fail. He jolted, grabbing me by the waist before I could hit the ground. As he held me, he stared longingly, as if I was equal parts stunning and repulsive. His small hands swept away the layers of dust that had coated me, before he embraced me. My chest filled with that familiar, overwhelming sadness. I could not ease it, nor could I understand why he carried such awful pain.

He carried me to his mother and held me up for her to see. She appeared disgusted by the sight of me, or rather of him holding me. She waved him off, saying that she wouldn’t buy a girl’s toy for her son. My heartache grew as he carried me back to my shelf with glistening eyes. He stared at me again. The brief glimmer I’d seen before had been stamped out. The dullness crept back in, and he retreated into his own mind.

Within a few days, I’d started to wonder if I’d imagined the child. Perhaps, I had conjured a daydream of the sweet, sad boy from my longing and loneliness. Regardless, the lingering bit of soul that I felt was dimming. Only now, I didn’t want to find another child. I had no desire for attachment any longer. I had prepared to slowly fade until I felt nothing, as I was made to be, but I didn’t.

My awareness only grew, until I felt I could endure forever. I watched with detached interest as children and adults alike walked past me. I still sit here, free of disparity and hopelessness. People stare at me, uncomfortable when they feel the void that I do. Many whisper or shy away from me. They usually call me “creepy” and “haunted.” Occasionally, someone sensitive enough will pass by while I reminisce about my past. They see the girl or sometimes the boy, and their eyes fill with pity. Yet, I do not care. I am perfectly complete as I am, blissfully void of the things they feel and think. I’ve learned a new emotion over these months, one that I find humans rarely feel: contentment.