Broken Dolls

A Division of
Whampa, LLC
P.O. Box 2160
Reston, VA 20195
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© 2015
Tyrolin Puxty
http://www.tyrolinpuxty.com

Cover by Eugene Teplitsky
http://eugeneteplitsky.deviantart.com

Stock by Larissa Kulik
http://annmei.deviantart.com

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ISBN 978-1-62007-929-4 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-62007-930-0 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-62007-931-7 (hardcover)

1. Start Reading
   
2. A Taste of
   Scattered Girls
   , by
   Tyrolin Puxty
   
3. About the Author
   
4. More Books from
   Curiosity Quills Press
   
5. Full Table of Contents
   

don’t remember being human. Probably because I don’t want to. The professor tells me how cumbersome the body is and how aches and pains are a way of life. He says this way, I’ll never feel any pain and can dance for as long as I like, never growing old, never damaging my joints.

He calls me his little broken doll.

I rest my hands on the professor’s thumb. I’m about the size of his foot, but my arms are disproportionally small. I struggle performing mounts because I can’t grip my ankles, but the professor promised he’d fix it soon.

He’s holding another doll in his hands, frowning as he adds intricate details to her face. He’s serious most of the time, and I have to really concentrate to hear him speak.

“You’re making a new friend for me?”

“I am.” I’m sure he means no offense, but his tone sounds like he isn’t paying any attention to our conversation.

I lift my hands from his thumb and smooth the crinkles in my tutu. I’m wearing an orange leotard today, a color I’m not fond of. I’ll be stuck with this outfit for a week until the professor sews a new one for me, but I’m not too concerned. I’ll have a friend to play with, so I can overlook pretty much everything else.

Her features are coming to life. She looks a lot like me. The professor has given us both large eyes – larger than our upsettingly small hands. They’re sky blue, with a white sparkle in the corner. My nose isn’t as petite as hers, but it doesn’t bother me. We’re each pretty in our own way. Her lips are pale, and she has a dimple in her right cheek. I press my fingers into my own cheeks, the plastic unyielding. I’ve always wanted dimples. Maybe I can ask the professor.

Her hair remains ruffled, hanging limply by her waist. It compliments her black corset, black skirt, and black boots. Wow. She sure does go for a lot of black.

“Will you paint her lips red like mine?”

“No.” He dabs his paintbrush into the ink. He’s enhancing her eyelashes now. “You’re a ballerina. She’s a goth. Your makeup will be brighter than hers.”

“Oh. Of course!” I smile, but I feel stupid. I need to learn to keep quiet when he’s working.

I practice my jetés. It’s freeing to leap, but not all of my joints are as flexible as they could be. I have a natural point, but my hips don’t allow my leg to extend as far as the humans’ on TV. They squeak every time I try. Ballerinas shouldn’t squeak.

The professor leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. He beams at the goth doll staring vacantly into his eyes. “There. She’s done! What do you think, Ella?”

I can’t stop my chest from puffing out with excitement. I suck on my lips to contain the goofy smile spreading across my face and walk towards my new friend. I stroke her hand, waiting for a response. When nothing happens, I take a step back.

The professor grins, his glasses falling to the tip of his nose. “Don’t worry, my dear, I haven’t activated her yet. Should I make any other changes before I do?”

I tilt my head to the side, examining my new friend. “No, I like her. She’s different than me, though. Why is she broken?”

The professor scratches his pointed chin and runs a finger through her hair. “She used to harm herself…” His tone is soft, as always, but there’s a hitch in his voice. He gently taps her wrist, his nostrils flaring. “I didn’t paint the scars. She doesn’t need a reminder.”

I glance at my knees where the hinges poke through my stockings. Should I voice the question that blares in my mind? “Wh… what did you keep me from remembering?”

He tears his gaze from the goth doll and looks at me, expressionless. I struggle reading the professor. His voice is often monotone, and he has an impressive poker face. “Why would I tell you what I’m keeping from you, if I’m keeping it from you?” he smirks and cups his hands together, indicating for me to step on. I step into his hands, his flesh bouncy. He travels slowly because he knows fast motions make me queasy. He lowers me into the treasure chest, beautifully decorated to look like my old bedroom, apparently. He leans in and gives me a kiss on the head, avoiding my carefully pinned bun. “So long as you can dance, Ella, you needn’t worry about the past.”

I pace in the chest. It’s fairly big – probably a few human feet wide and long, but I can’t be sure. Its exterior looks decrepit and rotting, but the inside is lined with plush carpet and pink wallpaper. The professor placed a mirror in the corner for me to fix my hair and built a big bed that matches the wallpaper. He worried it wasn’t very comfortable, but I said I didn’t care. It’s not like I can feel how uncomfortable something is.

There’s a ladder in the center of the chest for me to climb out. The chest lives in the attic, so the professor wired up an old-style TV that takes a while to formulate the picture. He knows how much I like to watch the dancers in the old movies.

There’s a new addition to my chest today, a bed on the other side of the room, adorned with black cushions and matching duvet. The professor has inscribed wording on the wooden headboard, but I’ve never been great at reading. It doesn’t help that the font is in swirly writing.

The professor surprises me when his shadow encompasses the chest. He’s so quiet–I never hear his footsteps.

He gently lowers the goth doll onto her bed and strokes her hair.