Living Doll Mournine (special preview)

Iaso looks at me and she sighs. She scratched at the back of her neck then smiles. “My poor, sad, boy. If only I had your original eyes, you might have been able to see it before.” She pats my hand. “No promises, but I will see what I can find out about your watch.”

“Ah, thank you,” I gasp. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” she says as a warning. “I may not find anything at all. Only dust.”

Not long after, another doll was brought into the room with me. She was lovely, or at least what I could see of her. Most of her was covered in dust, giving her and ashen and gray appearance. When I looked at her, I had to rub my eyes to make sure it wasn’t something wrong with them. She looked like an old photograph, grainy, dark, and fuzzy.

She told me her name was Florence and suddenly we started to argue. I am not sure why, but our ideals of love were very different. So different, that it even hurt her. The cracking of her chest brought back memories for me. I fell while running, gazing at my pocket watch. I remembered the sound of my eyes rolling away and how the smothering silence lay over me.

Florence was cleaned up after she started to crack. Iaso fixed her, using the same gold technique she used on me. When Florence came back into the room, I was quite stunned. She was pale even for the porcelain she was made of. Her cheeks were like vibrant roses and her lips were painted into a coy smile. Her eyes looked familiar to me. Their soft violet color made me feel uncomfortable and excited at the same time. But why? Why did her eyes speak to me so?

Her hair was wrapped up as it dried, but soon, the wrapping fell away and a loose lock fell into her face. The color was a rich auburn. When she was covered in dust, her hair looked dark grey and grimy. Now, it was like fire in the distance, darkness with a core of light. I let it coil around my finger as a nervous look came over Florence’s face. 

She was lovely, I could admit that. Darling and dainty and the perfect vision of a bride. Too bad she never got the chance to be one. She was made to wait and in that waiting the dust had become so heavy it forced her eyes shut. She fell asleep. And much like me, her fall made her forget. It locked her into herself so she forget her past.

“Is something wrong?” Florence steps back and the curl slips from my fingers.

I look at her eyes, feeling that discomfort of unrecognizable familiarity from them again. I smile, but it is weak. “I didn’t picture you with this color hair. All the dust took the color. I’m glad to see it is back.”

Florence pulls all her hair forward on my shoulder and strokes it with her one hand. She still hasn’t been given her left hand back.