Dolls.

I

"Yes, grandma. A dozen eggs, two cartoons of milk. Got it."

I yell, exiting the bakery with a hurry to provide the woman who has raised me with whatever she needs. And it doesn't take me long. I've grown accustomed to the street markets, my mind now holds all the information on each stand's position and products. Once secured the ingredients... I indulge in what I deem one of my favourite activities. Staring at the endless expositions of clothes beyond those damned glass barriers, which a normal human would refer to as windows. But to me... they're the remembrance of the cruel position I find myself in. Locked away from my deepest calling, as if nature itself is being denied of unraveling. I reach to my backpack, slung over my shoulder, filled with whatever I just bought. I rummage, and deep down, squished, sits my favourite doll. A creation of mine. With his fluffy red hair, his penetrating eyes, his astonishing looks, and the clothes he's wearing... made by the one and only, myself. I let myself dwell on the burning feeling stirring the insides of my heart, now routine. How can I pass a day, without blaming the ugly path fate has taken, that'll eventually lead to my demise? How can I not! Why shouldn't I?! In my mind, I'm stomping and throwing a tantrum, like little Areum would. Fuck this shit, fuck fate, fuck capit-

who the hell is that?

From the corner of my eyes, a boy catches my attention: fluffy red hair, penetrating eyes, astonishing looks, and the clothes he's wearing... are the same as my doll's. My eyes poke out of their according sockets (figuratively, duh) as I hold the doll before me, playing "spot the differences" between it and its human version.

"What're you staring at?"