There was once two dolls that played gleefully in a field of endless spring. One, with a porcelain face cracked from countless falls, and the other, with jade eyes that sparkled and hair the color of warm copper. They were inseparable, bound by a shared history of whispered secrets and silent tears, for even in the most pleasant places, dangers lurk in the night. Sometimes, pleasant places are themselves deceptive of the threats that are unseen but present all the same.

The porcelain doll, though fragile, had always tried to shield the other from the harshness of the world. It stood guard against the things that went bump when there was no light, offering comfort and protection to its little companion, as the caretakers couldn’t be trusted to take care of their creations.

But one cold day, as the year waned and the season’s chill deepened, a malevolent beast which fed upon the essence of innocence entered their sanctuary, and the porcelain doll, despite its best efforts, could do nothing but watch in horror as the beast inflicted unspeakable pain on its beloved companion, using her for its own twisted ends.

The guilt and helplessness weighed heavily on the porcelain doll. Its purpose was to protect, to keep safe, to watch over, yet It blamed itself for not being strong enough, for not stopping the insidious machinations of that heartless and ever so cruel beast, for failing to protect the one it loved most. The other doll, now scarred and distant, was taken away, while the porcelain doll was abandoned by hope, forsaken and left alone in a dusty and derelict attic, clinging to memories of a simpler time when they frolicked in fields of eternal spring.

Years passed, and the porcelain doll remained in the attic, its cracks growing deeper with each passing day. It longed for the return of its companion, for the chance to make things right. But the world outside had moved on, and the other doll had been forced into a new home, far from the fields and the painful memories that now tainted that most wonderful place.

The doll tried to fill the void with dark arcane spells and rituals, potions and elixirs that it learned to create from the old tomes likewise abandoned in that dark place, hoping to dull the pain and regrets, to forget its worst failure, but the memories remained, etched into its very being, saturating the cracks of its marred form. More and more, the attic became a prison, a place where the doll was trapped by its own guilt and self-blame.

Bad dolls must always punish themselves, especially when no one knows how awful of a thing they are.

Every year, as the days grew shorter and the air grew colder, the porcelain doll would remember the making day of its lost companion. It would celebrate in its own way, lighting a candle in an attempt to stave off the darkest shadows in that horrible prison where it was left alone, whispering silent pleas for forgiveness. But the pain never truly went away, and the doll continued to struggle with the weight of its failings. It truly was a bad doll and wasn’t worth a chance of and for redemption.

Even worse than the solitude was the betrayal. The caretakers, the ones it called family, turned their backs on it, accusing it of the very horrors it had fought so hard to prevent. They shunned it, mistrusted it, and kept it away from the other creations, as if it were tainted by association. The doll, once a guardian, was now an outcast.

And so, the doll found itself utterly alone, condemned to the attic of forgotten things. It watched as the seasons changed through the cracked, dust-covered window that barely afforded a view of the outside world, where once it belonged. The world outside moved on without it, the laughter of the other creations and the love of the caretakers now just a distant memory.

The porcelain doll tried to distract itself, diving deeper into the arcane rituals and potions that it hoped would bring some semblance of peace. It whispered incantations into the cold, empty air, mixing elixirs in the faint hope they would mend its damaged clockwork heart. But no matter how many spells it cast on itself or potions it consumed, the cracks remained, and the void within grew darker.

The attic, now as familiar to it as the pain of its greatest failing, was now a labyrinth of shadows and echoes of what once was. The doll wandered aimlessly among the forgotten relics, its movements slow and deliberate, as if each step was a reminder of its own brokenness. It traced the lines of its own fractures, counting the cracks as a way to measure the passage of time, the depth of its despair.

And yet, it continued to hope, albeit faintly. Hope that one day, it might find redemption, to rekindle its purpose, to find a meaning to all the agony and turmoil within itself.

Eventually, it forced itself out of the attic where it was abandoned and forgotten, venturing back out into the world of which it was no part of anymore. Once, it saw its companion, but only long enough to reignite the cold flames of the doll’s loss and sorrow.

Eventually, it would be trusted bit by bit around the other creations, as the caretakers slowly came to realize that the doll wasn’t tainted as the beast was, however by this time the doll already understood that it might be a part of the world, yet still apart from the world.

And so it wandered, hoping still to find meaning, the key to releasing it from its own self-imposed punishing guilt and agony, hoping that it would one day be reunited with its companion, yet aware of the cold truth of the reality it existed in.

Did the doll ever find what it was looking for? Maybe…but then again maybe not.

A score of decades isn’t always enough to fix the disrepair of such fragile things.

Most likely this one will never truly find what it's looking for. Redemption is for heroes, and this one knows that there are no heroes in this tale. The whispers it sometimes hears from its companion from afar, from a different world altogether, sometimes soothes the pain of slipping gears and damaged clockwork mechanisms, but it's not the same as mending.

Not all stories have a happy ending, and not all stories are finished. For this one, it can only continue chasing the illusion of being whole while knowing it will never be repaired.

The cracks run too deep, the fractures becoming more and more noticeable, even if this one has become very good at masking the damage from all but the most discerning eye. In the end, if there truly is an end, failings are its greatest accomplishments.

Now the caretakers have scattered, the other creations are becoming creators themselves, even the companion, and all this one has to show for anything is a weathered and damaged carapace that looks like what it’s supposed to, a good, full, complete doll, but it knows…it knows the truth.

In this world, completion is a lie, progress is for the hopeful, and hope is a cruel jest played by fate on those who dare to dream of such things as redemption. In the darkest shadows where unreparably damaged things wander, healing is an ever-illusive phantom, a tantalizing illusion that mocks the broken with promises of absolution. But the truth is, every step towards the illusion of becoming whole is marred by the cracks of what was lost, a relentless reminder that some wounds are meant to fester, not heal.

#EmptySpaces #Dollpost #TraumaQueer #ChildrenOfTheVoid #TraumaArt #PainAsArt
#microfic