Dolls

Chapter 1: His Creation

The elderly man worked frivolously, his figure bent over the ragged wooden table covered in scratches and streaks of multicolored paint. His nimble fingers twitched slightly, moving the tool in his hand slightly, making meager adjustments to the creation that was laid out in front of him. Little bolts and screws were scattered about the table, surrounding the small balls of wood that sat near him.

The wrinkles on the man's face were creased into a frown, his dark brown eyes staring intently at the smooth wooden pieces that were almost fully assembled through thick, square glasses.. His expression was one of deep concentration. His deep breathing was the only thing that could be heard in the room, other that the click of his tool on the metal screw. He sniffed, his nose curling up like a rabbit's for a swift moment before he shoved the nose piece of his glasses upwards, sliding the frames closer to his eyes.

"I'm almost done Annie, I swear," he mumbled to himself as he finally set the tool down and stepped away.

He grabbed a towel that had been haphazardly thrown over the seat of a rusted metal stool and wiped away the beads of sweat that lined his forehead.

"I've got to eat sometime, though. As soon as I'm done I'll come right back down," he murmured, this time glancing up at a dust covered picture hung precariously by one nail on the wall next to the stairwell.

It was covered so thickly in grey that the yellowed photograph was barely visible underneath it. A middle aged woman stared out from the photo. She was wearing a floral, collared dress and her dark hair was pulled back into a neat bun behind her head. Her slender body was cut off at mid-stomach and was met with a waterlogged, mahogany picture frame that had chips and splinters poking out from the edges.

With that the man dropped the tattered rag back onto the stool and walked passed the picture, his feet, clad in heavy work shoes, stomping up the stairs, the worn wood creaking under the weight of the man. He opened the heavy door at the top of the stairwell, turning the tarnished, bronze colored knob and pushing outwards. The door swung open, the hinges squeaking quietly in protest. He stepped out into the room upstairs, his stained, white tee shirt rustling softly as he walked.

The upstairs room was much less dark. The walls were covered in baby blue and sunshine yellow striped wallpaper. A faded white couch sat along one wall of the room, a small, chestnut table sitting beside it, covered in newspapers and old magazines. A simple lamp sat in the corner, a large, white, plush chair on the wall adjacent to the couch. An old box tv sat on a chestnut cabinet on the wall opposite of the chair, and a large, light green, wool rug lay on the floor with a gently used chestnut coffee table sitting on top of it in the middle of the room. The rest of the floor was covered in light wood.

The elderly man's boots clomped over the wooden floor as he turned down the hallway stationed next to the basement door and headed into the kitchen where his shoes were met with cream colored tile that had faded to an ugly tooth colored yellow over the years. He sighed softly, his voice grainy and filled with weariness as he strode over to a plain white refrigerator and pulled it open. A dim yellow light appeared in the refrigerator as it was opened, shining light on the metal racks and containers of leftover foods and cartons of milk and orange juice. The man reached in, his calloused fingers grabbing a smooth plastic wrapper, and pulled out a half eaten loaf of pre-sliced bread, dropping it gently on the worn, wooden counter top beside him. He grabbed an almost empty bottle of mayonnaise and a Tupperware container of pre-sliced ham and set it on the counter beside the bread. He then grabbed a bottle of mustard, pulling the yellow container before he closed the door, cutting off the cool breeze that flowed within.

The man turned to the counter where he had placed the food and pushed it back towards the wall slightly before he reached up and opened a cabinet suspended on the wall above him. It too was a wooden piece. He pulled out a chipped china plate and set it in front of the food. The man hummed softly to himself, his deep voice sounding odd in the silence of the home, as he made himself a simple ham sandwich. He then put the food away, placing it exactly like it had been before he took it out. Afterwards, he grabbed the china plate holding the sandwich and made his way back into the other room, sitting in the plush chair and placing the plate onto his lap. He ate slowly, savoring the sandwich, although, anyone could tell that his mind was somewhere else as he gazed out the window above the tv. Soft sunlight was streaming in through the window, creating yellow patches on the floor.