The Artist and the Doll

By: Cerberus of Meropide

“Ah, you’re interested in this doll, right?” The artist looks at you as if they were right beside you. You had no idea why, but you were drawn into this old little art classroom, which is a mistake because now you have this weirdo smiling at you. But you only nodded your head in response.

You asked what the frilled, life-sized doll represented as a means to be polite. Your first instinct was to run, but you felt as if something was gluing you to the floor. As if fate permitted it.

“To others, she was a meek little doll. She could be playful at times, but it’s not like she would hurt a fly. She always does her job and often does so with a smile. And even with a few crass jokes, she’ll just be another quirky person that you’ll meet in life. To others, she was an irresponsible creature. A creature that did not like to work well with others, and they should be careful because she’s a childish little thing that would scream with every single challenge that came at them. At those times, I often sighed as it merely meant more plaster and paint to waste.”

‘Please, let me break free,’ You heard an airy voice whisper. You looked around, but you still haven’t found who made the doll. The artist just closed their brown leather tool kit.

“For me, she’s just another piece of art to work on. Another face to paint over again just to work on the perfect doll. The sweet, meek, and kind girl. The creature was merely the crack that I covered with plaster. Everything must hinge on the fact that the creature must not break loose. It will otherwise ruin the pretty good future that I have set for her.”

“You may ask yourself ‘’Who are you to her?’’ You wonder if they were referring to you asking, yet they smiled. “I’m simply just the amateur who created her, of course! I may not be good at my craft, but this porcelain doll was a way for me to express the smart friend. The caring sister. The perfect daughter. I can make it so she can be anybody you want her to be.”

“Of course, cracks were all over, but those things could easily be covered with plaster and paint. After all, art isn’t without a few cracks and erasures. Even the most sublime and exquisite pieces of art had to be made with a few mistakes at some point. Which is why I must work on her, again and again. With no stopping.” The artist smiled, chilling your spine.

“But again you may ask; who am I?” You didn’t ask, yet they continued to drone on. “Well, I’m simply an artist with a dream. A dream to make a doll that will finally be worth something to someone. For the day the doll can finally be in the arms of someone who will care for her. For her to finally have some worth. And that will be my magnum opus.”

‘I don’t care. Let me go free. I’ve been stuck here for twenty years, and they still won’t let me go.’ You are now absolutely sure she was screaming, yet you reasoned with yourself that maybe it’s just delirium from the days without sleep as a means to pass your classes.

You then asked what medium the doll is made of as a way to continue on the creepy conversation. If anything, you should leave now, but you remain enamored by the doll.

“Hm? What she’s made out of? Why, that’s an artist’s secret. I can’t have you plagiarizing my work now. All you need to know is that she is a life-sized doll, and her exterior is a special plaster. How she moves is something of my artist’s trade.”

Screaming can be heard from the doll, yet the Artist merely hums. You somewhat wondered about their sanity, but they didn’t seem to mind the attention they ensnared from you.

“For now, I must paint her face. I think I saw a streak on her cheeks. Sometimes, she ends up leaking, but that happens. There’s nothing that a little paint can’t fix.” The artist hummed as they took the doll into their arms and whisked them away, leaving you in the empty classroom.

“Wait,” you thought aloud. “how did I get here? I was only trying to find my ballpen.” The only answer to your question was the sun receding from the horizon.