The Origins of Cotton [-ENGLISH VERSION-]

The origins of Cotton [ENG]

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⚠️⚠️I want you to know that I am a native Italian speaker and I struggle to translate very long texts so if there are repetitions or grammatical inaccuracies in the translation, please let me know and I will do my best to fix the error +The credits for the drawing go to patroclo, find his links here >>  https://www.deviantart.com/patroklosfragalarts

 that said, I hope you enjoy the story ⚠️⚠️
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In the small town of Greywood, there was an old toy shop, a place that children loved and that adults observed with a mixture of nostalgia and restlessness. Among inlaid wooden shelves and dusty display cases, a collection of cotton dolls sat motionless, watching the outside world with glittering button eyes.

It was in that shop that little Oliver spent hours as a child. Unlike the others, who preferred trains or wind-up machines or even lead soldiers, Oliver was attracted to those silent dolls, their delicate expressions and their perfect appearance. The owner of the shop, an old lady with silver hair and honey-colored eyes, soon noticed the boy's obsession and told him stories about those dolls, telling him how they had been handmade by expert craftsmen, each unique. unrepeatable, with high-quality materials and so on.

Oliver, however, was not interested in stories. He only saw the ideal of beauty he wanted to achieve, something he couldn't find in real people. Human eyes, in particular, bothered him. They were full of imperfections, of defects, of life. He couldn't stand their gaze, so lively, so real. The dolls, however, had perfect eyes: sparkling, empty buttons that could not judge.

One of those cold winter days Oliver was taken back to Mrs. Agnes's little shop to get some presents for the upcoming holiday, it was almost Christmas and he had been a good boy, and was therefore allowed to choose a gift from the shop. Oliver, already knowing what she wanted, took his mother's hand and gently dragged her towards the slightly dusty shelf of rag dolls. There were many sitting still, staring at the two, but one had caught Oliver's attention. The doll was sitting in a rocking chair not far from the other cutlery items on the dark wooden shelf. It swayed slightly from a previous accidental push; her red hair was straight and shiny, the dress was sewn with care and attention to detail. Oliver took the doll in his arms while the mother looked at him a little surprised, but did not deny the gift to her only child. He then took the doll gently from his son's hands and brought it back to the shop counter. The lady, who for years now had seen thousands of children coming in and out of her shop, smiled broadly looking at the little doll that had been chosen and in a hoarse voice whispered:

«You have been chosen little Ruby. You will have a wonderful home"

Then taking a box and a red ribbon like the doll's hair, closing it inside and then giving it to the child, who held it as tight as he could to his chest, without however bending the cardboard of the box that contained his first rag doll.

That same night, without waiting for Christmas, Oliver took the doll from the package and held her close to him in bed. He looked at her face and caressed it, looking at those little black buttons that were her eyes, falling asleep shortly after with the little doll in her arms. arm.
Over the next few years, her doll collection grew. Whenever he received money for his birthday or Christmas, Oliver spent it on new dolls. Each new acquisition was a little treasure, a piece of a perfect world he was building in his mind. However, he didn't treat them like simple toys: he studied them, observed every detail, trying to understand what made them so fascinating. The eyes, the hair, the clothes. Everything had to be perfect. But the more he observed, the more he found flaws that irritated him. He began to think that he could do better, that he could create something even more perfect. He then began to take the same dolls that he had admired years before, considering them perfect, and urgently tore out their eyes, replacing them with larger buttons of two different colours. He undressed the dolls by tearing the old and dusty lace on the hems of their skirts and dresses, but despite his changes he couldn't understand what was bothering them. The clothes had been made from scratch, made with care, and yet there was something he didn't like... the bodies of those dolls were squat and surreal, imperfect and empty. Despite their beauty, they too were imperfect and he was starting to hate them too.