Living Doll Florence (complete)

    “I knew I would find you here,” his voice is smooth and songlike. He uses a cloth to wipe the dust away from my lashes. It has laid so heavy there for so long that my eyes had become permanently closed. 

    “Such a lovely thing should not be locked away in such a tomb,” the man says.

    “Where am I?” I ask.

    He takes my hand and helps me stand. The joints of my legs groan and squeak, and I can’t help but feel rather weak. My right arm is fine, but my left arm feels unbearably heavy, and I cannot even move the fingers.

    “Such marvelous craftsmanship,” the man says. He then sneezes and waves his hand in front of his face.

    I realize the man isn’t a man at all, but something else. He looks more goat than man. His hair is wild and curly, having a sort of blue hue to it. His bottom half is thick legs that bend backward with hooves at the end.

    “Who are you?” I ask. “Are you my groom?” I ask with hopeful exuberance. “I have been waiting on you!”

    The goatman laughs. “No, no, sweet thing.” He pats the top of my head, grimacing at the cloud of dust that floats from there. “I am merely a collector of sorts.” He then snickers and shrugs. “I am in competition with my brother to complete the set.”

    “The set?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.

    The goatman nods. “Now, what is your name, dear? Which one are you?”

    “Which one?” I am confused. “I don’t understand. You say I am part of a set?” I blink up at him, my eyelids clicking.

    The goatman sighs. “You don’t remember?”

    “I’m not sure what it is I am supposed to remember,” I frown. “I was told my groom would come, so I waited. I waited till my lashes grew so heavy with dust, I couldn’t open my eyes. I fell asleep, dreaming of when my groom would arrive! But so far, all I have is you and dusty memories that are gray and fuzzy.”

    “Ah,” he sighs. “So that’s it. You were asleep for too long. Happens to the best of us. My half brother, Rip, had something similar happen to him,” he snickers.

    I scowl at him. “I don’t find this very funny at all. Why are you laughing?”

    “Oh, for a lot of reasons,” he takes my hand and leads me out of the room and into the sunlight. I gasp, staring up at the sky for the first time in so long. 

    “Let’s get you cleaned up, and I’ll set you with the rest of the collection,” the goatman says as he leads me to a door standing in the middle of nothing.

    The goatman takes me to the door, which opens into a room lined with shelves. A woman with white hair is bent over a table, looking at a pocket watch. She sits up as we walk in and she has glasses upon glasses on her face, something that hangs out on arms above her head too.

    “Iaso,” the goatman says as he sets me down in a chair before her. “I found another one.”

    “I’m still working on the last one!” Iaso scoffs as she stands up, looking barely five feet tall. “You need to give me some time, you bloated hairball!”

    The goatman sighs dreamily and lays his hand on his chest. “Oh, Iaso, your words are like wine to me.” He puts his hands on my shoulders. “Please, this lovely lady needs your assistance.” He pinches my chin. “Those rosy cheeks, those violet eyes, look at her! She’s the top of the line. The best of the best. She needs the best of the best care.”

    Iaso arches a brow then lashes out, slapping the goatman’s hand with a ruler. 

    “Ow!” The goatman wrenches his gloved hand back.

    “You’re on thin ice, Midas,” she growls as she comes towards me. “Now, get out of here. The ladies need to talk.”

    The goatman, named Midas apparently, bows low and goes out the door he came. As the door closes, it vanishes, revealing only more shelves.

    Iaso looks me over, touching my hands and examining each individual joint. “You are a lovely one,” she murmurs. “The picture-perfect bride.”

    I smile softly at the compliment. “Thank you.”

    “Doesn’t mean you are,” she says.

    I gasp and look at her with hurt. “Excuse me?”

    Iaso sniffs, lowering down some of the glasses that jut out on arms. “Lovely paint doesn’t make a lovely soul.” She takes a step back. “First of all, we need to get the dress off.”

    I lay my hands over the bodice and gasp. “But-”

    “It’s filthy and moth-eaten,” Iaso scoffs. “I need to fix it! I have clothes you can wear until it is.”

    She helps me remove my wedding gown and sets me in a robe. As I stand there, naked, she examines my lower back. Her fingers brush there, and she sighs.

    “Florence,” she says.

    I turn and look at her. “I beg your pardon?”

    “Florence,” she replies. “That’s what’s written here. Sound familiar?”

    I shrug. “I’m not sure.”

    Iaso lowers down some more glasses and walks away from me. “Well, for now,” she says, “that’s you.”

She then takes my left arm off to inspect it and repair it. I’m set in a room and told to wait. I sigh and try to hold back my sadness. Without my dress or my left hand, I will never find my groom. What if he is looking for me now and he goes to the place where I was? He’ll find me gone and he’ll think I didn’t want him.

    “My my,” a dark voice chuckles.

    I gasp and look up, seeing a man standing at the back of the room near a shelf full of books. He is made of porcelain like me and is dressed all in black. He turns, and I see he is wearing a mourning veil.

    “Who are you?” I gasp, clutching at the collar of the robe with my one arm.

    He sets a book down and sighs. “Same as you,” he says. “Broken and in need of repair,” he walks forward, but one of his legs seems stiff, so he walks with a swayed limply. He sits down on the sofa across from me and folds his hand in his lap.

    “And who might you be?” He asks.

    “Florence,” I murmur. 

    The man sighs. “Mournine,” he replies. “A doll, same as you.”

    “Why do you wear that veil?” I ask. 

    Mournine touches the veil and chuckles. “I am in mourning, can’t you tell?” he waves his hand down his all black clothes. The only thing that isn’t black is the wine color gem on his lapel. 

    I tilt my head. “Who are you mourning?” 

“My bride,” his voice chokes off, and he places his hand under the veil. “Or at least, I think that’s who she is.”

I press my lips into a tight line. “You don’t know who you’re mourning?” 

“I only know that I have lost someone,” Mournine replies. “Someone so dear and important to me, I carry her picture with me wherever I go!”

I frown. “Then where is her picture?”

Mournine motions to the door that Iaso had gone through. “It is in my pocket watch. Iaso is so gracious to fix it for me.”

    I smile then and tilt my chin up. “She is fixing my arm and my wedding gown now.”

    Mournine gasps softly. “She promised me-” his voice chokes. “Wedding dress?” He then points to me. “You are a bride?”

    I smile and nod. “Yes. I am waiting on my groom to arrive and give me my ring.”

    “You have not received a ring?” Mournine asks. “And yet you mock my not knowing who it is I have lost?”

    I gasp. “I did not mock! I simply find it curious.”

    “Do you know who your groom is?” Mournine scoffs.

    I frown at him. “No, but-”

    Mournine lets out a loud laugh. “We are in the same boat, and yet you question my reasons for mourning?”

    “I had fallen asleep!” I try to argue.

    “We have all fallen one way or another, Florence,” he hisses. He reaches up, pushing aside the mourning veil to show me his face. “I fell, too.”

    His face is cracked and placed back together with gold in the cracks. His eyes are different colors, one brown and one green. His eyes look watery and red as if he has been crying and just has never stopped. Certainly, he looks the part of a grieving and broken man.

    I look away, and Mournine drops his veil again. “Same boat, Florence, same boat,” he sniffles and stands up, going back to the bookcase where he had been standing before.

    I look down at my one hand and then up, seeing there is a window. I stand up, going to the window and looking out. Below, there are statues in the yard. Or, well, places where statues had once stood. There is one lone statue there, covered in morning glory and ivy.

    I am so curious to know where I am and what is going on, but the only person I can even talk to is Mournine. I’m afraid that we will not like one another. We have already gotten off to such a horrible start, I feel we will not recover from it.

    That evening, Iaso comes into the room again. I look up expectantly, but she goes over to Mournine.

    “I did all I could,” she holds up the pocket watch to him.

    Mournine gasps and takes the treasure back, clutching it in both palms. “Thank you! I was so missing this.”

    “You pick funny things to miss,” Iaso says as she puts her hands on her waist. She then turns to me, and I look up expectantly at her. 

    “I’ll get to you later,” she says and leaves the room again.

    I glare after her, and Mournine clicks open his pocket watch. He sighs, and his breath sounds broken. It chokes up in his throat, and his hands start to shake.

    “Is that her?” I ask cautiously.

    He looks over at me then back at the lid of the watch. “It is,” he whispers.

    “May I?” I stand up and hold out my hand. “I’d like to see her.”

    Mournine is hesitant, and I don’t blame him, either. He sighs and shakes his head, then he places the pocket watch in my hands. 

    The pocket watch is surprisingly thick, and I doubt it would fit into any normal pocket. It is lovely though, bright gold and carved with a rose pattern. I look at the picture in the lid, seeing only a lock of hair.

    “Oh,” I gasp. “I thought it was a photo,” I say as I look up at him.

    Mournine stands beside me, taking the watch back into his grasp. “This is all I have,” he replies. “A photo of sorts,” he chuckles. “Just the color remains.”

    I look up at him. I know I am tall, but Mournine is a giant.

    Mournine moves the veil from his face, tucking it under the hat so he can look longingly at the lock of hair. 

    “I wonder why we both can’t remember,” I say softly. “It seems so strange.”

    Mournine closes the watch and puts it away. “For a long time, we were forgotten. At least, that is what Iaso told me,” his voice is low and soft. “There was a religion that made us. The individual members would try to create a doll to go forward in the ranks. But, like all religions, not everyone liked it.”

    “I wish I could remember,” I sigh.

    “It is a defect of our nature,” Mournine replies with a shrug. “Bad memory.”

    I look at the cracks on his face and how they are mended with gold. It’s beautiful in a way. His features are sharp, where mine are soft. His dark hair has glittering strands of silver and white weaved through it, as if the grief painted on his face has aged him. 

    “And what of your groom?” Mournine then asks. “Is there anything you remember of him other than that you were promised he would come?”

    I tilt my head down in shame that I could not remember.

    “Not even the ring,” he shakes his head. “Such a shame.”

    I frown a bit, feeling as if he’s mocking me. “Just because I waited and waited, it does not make me a fool.”

    “I never said fool,” he scoffs. 

    “But that’s what you mean, isn’t it?” I snap. “I would rather wait for someone to come for me than to mourn forever!”

    Mournine grimaces at me. “Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,” he growls.

    I glare up at him. “What is the point of love if you lose it?”

    Mournine’s eyes become stony and distant on me. The way he stares makes me feel nervous and cold inside. “How would you even know about either?”

    My mouth opens, and I feel a pain in my chest. I cry out, grasping my palm over it. The pain is sharp and stabbing, and I feel a dent under the robe.

    “What’s wrong?” Mournine gasps.

    I slap him away. “Leave me alone!” I scream.

    The door opens, and Iaso comes in. “What’s all the yelling for?”

    Mournine steps away from me. “Something is wrong with her.”

    Iaso scoffs and walks over to me. “Let me see, let me see.” She moves my hand and opens my robe. On my chest, between my breasts, cracks are forming.

    “Oh dear,” Iaso clicks her tongue. “What were you two arguing about?”

    Mournine turns his head away and drops his veil back over his face.

    “Never mind,” Iaso snarls under her breath. “Come this way, dear.” She leads me back outside and has me lay down on a table. The table lowers, and Iaso leans over top of me. 

    “He started it,” I sniffle.

    “I don’t care,” Iaso sniffs. “I was planning on fixing you up tomorrow, but now it seems I have no choice in the matter.” She takes my hair down. “I’ll have to start now.”

    “Start what?” I whimper.

    “Cleaning you,” Iaso says.

    She pulls the table into a room where hoses and faucets are hanging off the wall. She places the table in the center of the room, then leaves. A moment later, the room fills with steam. It juts out, hitting my face and body. After a few moments of that, Iaso comes back in. She takes sponges to me, rubbing me down. She washes my hair and face, then rinses me off. She leaves, and I am steamed again.

    When she returns, she dries me off, then places a table beside my head with tools on it.

    “What are those for?” I squeak nervously.

    “To repair these cracks,” she says. She turns on a flame and then pours melted gold over the cracks. I cry out at the pain, but she holds me down.

    “This is for the best,” Iaso says with a coaxing tone. “What is broken heals stronger.”

    After all that, I am placed back into the robe and ushered into the room with Mournine again. He doesn’t move from his spot at the bookcase. He doesn’t even acknowledge I am there.

    I feel strange without my wedding dress or arm. But now I somehow feel worse, even though I am clean and repaired. My hair is down and a mess. My face is bare except for the rosy paint on my cheeks. Then there is my chest, marred by the gold cracks.

    I sit down, feeling heavy and incomplete. I feel ugly. I look over at Mournine, understanding why he wears the veil. I wish I had one.

    “I am sorry,” Mournine’s voice cuts through the silence of the hours.

    I turn, looking back at him. “What do you mean?”

    He stands up and tucks the veil back under his hat. “We both got angry,” he says. “I apologize for mine.”

    I look at my hand. “I don’t know why,” I whisper. “I don’t know why-” I place my hand over my eyes.

    “No, don’t think it.” Mournine comes up beside me. “No more cracking,” he looks up from kneeling beside me. “Come now. You have much better things to think about than some ignorant lout who never showed.”

    I look down at him and smile softly. “Was it because of me?”

    “Certainly not!” Mournine scoffs. 

    “How can you know?” I ask. “You don’t even know me.”

    Mournine sighs. “But I know men’s hearts,” he replies. “I have seen them in motion as well as felt my own.” He shakes his head slowly. “Some men only marry so that someone will take care of them. Others for status alone. And those who do marry out of love.”

    “Which were you?” I murmur.

    He sighs. “I wish I could remember,” he huffs. “I hope it was for love,” he smiles. “Because I feel the absence of it every day without my bride with me. You are missing the promise and hope of what love had in store.” He motions to my chest. “That is why you started to crack.”

    I touch his face. “Is that what happened to you?” I tilt my head. “Did you lose face value?”

    Mournine chuckles and shakes his head. “I fell,” he says. “I was running and looking at my watch,” he murmurs. “I tripped and then-” he looks down at the ground and grows silent.

    I can see more silver in his hair as his head bows down. “What were you late for?”

    He looks back up and smiles. “What makes you think I was late?”

    I chuckle. “You were running,” I reply. “And you were looking at your watch.”

    He shrugs. “I don’t know.” He then stands up. “I remember the fall itself, but nothing before or after aside from my grief.” He takes out the pocket watch and flips it open again. He stares at the lock of hair and sighs heavily.

    “I know Iaso is repairing us,” I murmur. “But why? And for who? The goatman?”

    Mournine chuckles and rubs his chin. “I have been here not much longer than you. The facts I know are that Midas, the goatman, wants us for a collection.” He shakes his head. “And, apparently, keep his brother from having the whole set.”

    I furrow my brow. “A whole set of dolls?”

    Mournine looks back at me. “Of anything,” he smirks.

    “Is that why there is only one statue outside?” I ask.

    Mournine shrugs. “What statue?”

    “The one in the yard, the one covered by morning glory vines.” I move to the window, but when I look out, I don’t see the statue like I did before. “It was there!”

    Mournine tilts his head, looking into my eyes. “Perhaps it was dust.”

    I look back at him, and the wrap around my head starts to fall out as my hair dries. A lock of my hair slips out, and Mournine stares.

    He takes the loose lock between his fingers. “So much dust,” he whispers.