A young girl finds herself no longer quite so young. She stumbles past the ink of the void that clings to her skin, until she realizes she suddenly has much more of it than she did before. A dress with no sleeves molds perfectly to her body, clearly made just for her. The bodice decorated in jewels with a shine she couldn’t have even fathomed before this very moment. Her hair doesn’t bother the back of her neck, pulled up, delicately.
The room she walks into is nothing but glamour. It bleeds expensive cologne, the men pour out in puddles all around her and she can’t seem to find a single other of her stead. She takes this in stride, however confused she may be, and melds herself deep into the spotlight. She blinks, and she’s standing on a stage that was, only a moment ago, on the opposite end of the room. She is calm, perhaps more than she should be. She has been given an opportunity to perform, to dazzle. She would never waste such a gift.
The lights dim, it’s her moment. She sings for perhaps the first time in her life. Yet she sounds like no such beginner. If there were any sort of magic that could be cast upon an entire room, it would be her voice in this moment. Nothing short of hypnotizing. She moves with the microphone, entrancing each man whose irises drip like hot wax onto her collarbones, searing her thighs. What a beautiful image: a doll with no knowledge of her inautonomy, set upon a stage and admired by all. A doll who wouldn’t even question being inanimate if it gave her a chance to feel as perfect as porcelain.
The doll is dropped, then, from her stage. She is placed in a chair that appears as thought it was made for a child. It wobbles unsteadily, made of plastic in a sickeningly bright shade of pink. She’s adorned in a dress full of layers and lace. She doesn’t remember cutting her hair.
The table she is sat in front of is perfectly set for a fancy tea party. A tray of small sandwiches, a 3-tiered stand holding a collection of dainty little sweets. Cups and saucers with gorgeous floral patterns, too-small utensils. The porcelain appears to be decorative. As she grabs her cup, she realizes that it isn’t even porcelain at all. It’s just more plastic. The figures that sit around her each have their own cups, as well. They look vaguely like people she thinks she knew once. But a doll has no place for storing memories.
Somehow she knows she is the host. Her cup is empty. She raises it anyways.
“Hello, friends. It is wonderful having you all here.”
Her friends do not raise their cups. This is not a toast, doll. Serve them.
She picks up a small sandwich, then reaches to place it on one of the others’ plates. As she does so, her fingertips begin to crumble. She isn’t performing correctly.
She’s back on stage. She has stopped singing in her shock. The audience is waiting. You are embarrassing yourself.
She obeys, and the crowd is engaged once more. Hundreds of eyes bore into her. Her feet begin to feel unstable. She’s crumbling. Your friends are hungry. The sandwich has fallen from her hand, not quite on the plate. Try again. She tries, she has no luck in doing it right. She stands, abruptly. Let her go. She can’t get far. She runs to the door near the table. She opens it and finds the other version of herself that is decomposing on stage. The audience is waiting. Won’t you perform for them?
Let’s reset the scene for you, doll. A young girl enters a room.
She’s sitting at a table for tea. She does not raise her cup, only begins to serve her friends the sandwiches. She pours them tea. There is something watching her.
Another young girl. Younger than the doll is now. The girl reaches into the dollhouse, grabs for the doll. She runs to the door again. She finds the same stage, the same broken body. You aren’t going to find anything new, Gaia.
The scene resets, the girl is grabbing her favorite doll. The girl’s hair is dark brown, but the kind that fades into blonde with age and exposure to sunlight. Her eyes are an oppressive blue. She’s looking at you, Gaia. She knows you are meant to show her what to do. Perform. Do not disappoint.
The doll is placed back in her chair. She completes her tasks – pours the tea, dishes out sandwiches and sweets – to the melody of her own voice. When she’s done, she seems unable to sit still. She stands again, rushes out the door, finds herself. She grabs for herself, holds her very tight. The audience isn’t pleased. The girl grabs them both as they cry onto each others’ crumbling, plastic arms. They melt completely in the girl’s hand. They do not reset.