Glassy gold eyes, perfect porcelain face, ruby red lips, a raven spill of tresses.
Slender white arms, lengthy legs, miniature black shoes, a golden buckle.
Knee length black ruffles, puffed sleeves, a sparkly gold sash snug around my middle.
Round teeny cheeks, a tiny gold bracelet, dainty gold studs punctuate my ears.
A little rouge gives my eyes some life.
Master smiles.
I am a doll.
He checks his pocket watch; my new family is almost here.
He poses me high on a shelf in a pitch black room, my face and limbs giving off an unnatural luminosity.
The ****** of the shop’s bell tells me they’ve arrived; they’ve come to take me home.
An impatient child squeals.
A mother reprimands.
The anxious child gives a quiet complaint.
The mother inquires.
Master answers and comes for me.
The darkness floods with light.
Master’s hands gently encircle my waist.
He whispers caution and presents me to my owner.
The excited child snatches me from his hands, jerking my head back awkwardly.
The daughter of Queen Elizabeth I’s fourth cousin, twice removed.
“The most spoiled brat in all of England,” my Master might say.
She stares into my eyes.
She greets me with joy and a flicker of fear at how lifelike I stare back.
Her mother pays and I am cuddled and cradled.
Over her shoulder I pull back my ruby lips, my sharp grin flashes privately for my Master.
We leave the shop and stroll into the night.
The sound of his laughter echoes triumphantly in our ears.
In the sitting room, the dying embers in the fireplace cast a red glow on their lifeless features.
The door in the foyer creaks, opening.
A smile lights my face.
They have paid the highest price and Master has come to collect his favorite toy.