Doll Face

The fair maiden never ceased to fascinate him each time he was seated in his private booth, overlooking the wood stage she danced upon, always mesmerized by her delicate, fluid movements. He leaned, watching the ballerina's back gracefully bend, long dark lashes fluttering as she spread her slender arms. Willowy, curved in all the right places, Diana Ferrell spun an immaculate dance, flowing like water and bleeding beauty, swift feet guiding her through the motions. Fluffed tutu, colored a sweetheart pink blurred as she pirouetted.

He held his crystal glass brimmed with red wine in his right hand, fingers mindlessly tapping the beat of the song violins stringed with his left. Daring, not allowing his eyes to stray, he watched her elegantly twirl, wondering how strands of her black hair didn't loosen from being wrapped in a tight bun. Slipper feet flitted across the stage like mini butterflies, her display following a series of well-practiced twists. Several minutes into her performance, his hands already begged to applaud. Heart pounding against his chest, it threatened to spill out from his waistcoat. When she ended, stooping low into her signature curtsy, he was the first to spring forward, hands aching as he clapped.

He could only imagine her enticing perfume masking her sweat, smelling powdered make up coating her cheeks, tasting her ruby red lipstick lips. He dreamed all those things, wishing for more than silent observation. That was until his lovely bird suddenly collapsed, weak heart fainting, and died on her stage.

Her life ended, starting the new arrival of his doll.

Overcome with violent grief, he consumed alcoholic drinks daily. Reddened eyes squeezed dry of tears, he pursued a destructive lifestyle mired in misery after the ballerina died. Canvases of golden country landscapes barely paid taxes on his home. Blessed, gifted the artistic man, he tried acquiring a name for himself as a painter. Specially hand picked people purchased his paintings, enabling him to build a stable mansion far from prying eyes. He had no friends, and his family was dead. Here, in the comfort of his home, he isolated himself. Ivan Klunc, he was the man scrawling his name on his paintings, using big looping letters.

Why don't you make something for me? Something pretty and elegant, something I would like. She first appeared to him during a particularly arduous night, watching him nurse a bottle of white wine. Dressed entirely in her sweetheart pink outfit, tutu puffed up, she flickered in and out sight, never moving from her spot in the opposite corner. Her ruby red lips lifted, dazzling him with a tender smile.

"I can't, you are dead." He replied sullenly, looking forlorn at his empty glass bottle, drained of its contents.

You always said I had skin like porcelain. The ballerina commented, her smile growing larger, but never showing teeth. Tendrils of shadows coiled around the waist he always imagined he would someday hold.

"I did, you did," he murmured, scratching his head of matted light brown hair with bright streaks of silver. Ivan Klunc was currently thirty-six; his birthday greeted and left just three days prior. Already, he looked beyond his years.

Why don't you make me a doll, didn't you always say I looked like one? The ballerina offered one of her kindest, gentlest voice. Shadows morphed her round face, the right side looking half-eaten by animals.

Ivan Klunc sniffled, his hand groping the air for a tissue. "I can only paint, I'm a useless man." He mumbled as he scrambled to his drunken feet, wavering on the spot, then he settled on a sudden grand idea. "I'm going to create a doll," murmuring thoughtfully, he forgot about the vanishing ballerina in her secluded corner. Yes, he would create a magnificent figure that matched Diana Ferrell with porcelain skin and glass eyes. Only then could he properly honor his dead ballerina, a woman he loved.