The Lost Doll

In an old abandoned building, a doll rests among the rubble.

Her eyes are coated with a layer of grime and her white dress is in tatters. There is a name written on the tag that sticks from her neck, but it is too faded to read. A smile is painted across her porcelain face, pink and chipped. Her nose is completely gone, leaving a gaping hole that peers into a dark, empty cranium. Her skin, once as white as the snow that fell during winter, is grey with dust and ash.

The doll is a lost remnant from the Ogre Wars.

She holds memories from nights long, long ago, when she had been whole. She remembers the girl who hugged her tight to her chest and promised to never leave her. She remembers the scary men who came storming into the house, waking everyone from their dream filled sleep. She remembers them taking her family away one at a time, never once flinching no matter how much the mother screamed or how much the father fought. She remembers the cries of the girl, the one who smelled like warmth and roses, and aches to see them once again.

It’s been years since the night her family was taken and she has lost the hope that her dear girl will come back for her.

She is alone.

She lays on her side, arms and legs folded awkwardly over one another, and listens to the sounds of life outside.

There is a squirrel chattering from the shattered window. A pair of birds zip in and out, their wings short and colorful. A river winds its way around the back of the house, rushing and gurgling and crashing loudly against the bank, nearly overflowing from the amount of rain that had fallen the night before. There is the sound of booted feet crunching against freshly fallen leaves.

The doll’s town is abandoned, but people are always coming through. They like to remember the harsh times so they feel better about the present.

Someone opens the house’s front door. It creaks like it always has, hinges rusty from disuse. Soft voices echo through the emptiness. It reminds the doll of times when the mother would create stories and tell them with exaggerated emotion to the doll and her girl.

A woman steps into the room that had once belonged to sweet, five year old Eleanor and her blue eyes sweep across the dirty room, filled with heartache and nostalgia.

Despite the ruin, it is obviously the bedroom of a young girl. The walls are a faded pastel pink and the bed, covered in cobwebs and tattered stuffed animals, is made up like a princess’. There are old photographs stuck to the wall with tacks. They depict several versions of the mother, blonde and smiling toothily; the father, straight back and stern faced, but with a glint of amusement in his eyes; and the girl, her dark hair pulled back into pigtails and a beautiful porcelain doll clutched to her chest.

It is a room the doll knows better than anything and she finds herself hoping the woman likes it despite the mess.

The woman drags her hand along the wall, leaving imprints in the dust.

Another person comes running in, their steps light.

It is a young girl.

She spins around the room, laughing. She nears her mother and grabs onto the hem of her t-shirt. They look at each other, happy and smiling, looking exactly like the family that had left the doll behind. The girl snatches at her mother’s hand and pulls her out of the room, leaving the doll alone again.    

Reviews

[matrixmark]

This was highly original and for such a short piece, you caputered the dolls emotions really well. When you talked about the scary men and the doll not flinching - that bit there was very unique and so imaginative. It had me feeling quite sad at the end - thinking about a neglected doll.

Kudos to you for this piece. Very, very unique.
Mark

[Daniel Seward]

Good storytelling with beautiful images like the porcelain doll and the river in back of the house. Very sad and lonely too. Keep writing.

[Sam]

Thank you!