Beta- The Doll Maker

The Language of Music

I never brought up the girl in the room. I wasn't even sure the Professor was aware of her existence either, he could have been in my room for any reason that time I'd caught him. The house was so big, perhaps he'd forgotten about her. I'd taken further precautions to keep her a secret and locked my bedroom door, even when I went to the bathroom down stairs.

Business simply went on as usual. The Professor would be sat at the head of the large rectangular table, fixing a toy he'd made rather than eating breakfast and I'd watch him. The man was highly regarded as a genius at my university, back in his prime. I wouldn't say I wasn't afraid of his sudden personality split each time I'd ask a question. But I learned to just look and learn.

I'd decided for now it wouldn't be a good idea to try and cut CupCake free. It could cause all kinds of trouble. If she'd been in that tiny room for so long, the shock of being in wide open spaces in natural sunlight could frighten her.

There was little point in asking her questions about how she survives and where she came from. She'd shake her head and continue painting or reading. She seemed to have great joy in painting faces. They all looked like her, but with a slight variation in hair colour and face shapes. I guessed that's why she had a vanity mirror on the desk next to the paints.

I looked forward to seeing her each night after uni and when the Professor said goodnight. He slept on the ground floor, conveniently, meaning I could push the bookcase without him hearing it. He told me it was in case a fire broke out in the night he could escape quickly. Such a genius.

We hardly said a word to each other, but communicated through music in a duet between her cello and the violin I had found on display in the living room. I'd asked permission before taking it and the Professor was more than happy for me to play. I'd been learning since I was six and competed.

We were equally matched when it came to fast-paced, complex pieces and we'd stare into each other daringly, playing on a loop until one of us had sore fingers. She'd win every time but I was confident I'd win one day.

It was also my turn to do her portrait. I did a full body scale of CupCake with a genuine smile dancing freely into the unseen distance. Her long hair flowing behind her, cello bow in one hand, paint brush in the other.

"Do you have dreams, Cupcake?" I asked on a whim. I thought a more personal question would be easier rather than, how are you alive?

For the first time, I'd permitted myself to sit on the bed next to her as I read one of her favourite novels. I felt by now we could be a little bit comfortable with each other. But I grew tired and I found myself lying next to her beneath the quilt. It had been quiet for a few comfortable minutes, save for the mysterious ticking between us.

"Dreams?" She repeated as though it was an unfamiliar word. "Of course," she started again after thinking for a while, "I wish to be free. But I also wish I wasn't alone."

"You're not alone," I insisted and pulled her in closer to me, "you have me now."

"No, I am alone."

Her deep sensation of loneliness made me sad, she was still lonely in-spite of having someone pull her in for a platonic embrace.

"But you still feel safe?" I asked.

She turned her head so her eyes looked into mine. "Safe."

I heard the cackling sound of the chain as she moved her foot slightly. It was an ugly rusty colour and didn't deserve to be on her ankle.

"Happy birthday, Cupcake!" I announced as I pulled a pair of wire cutters from behind me as I squeezed through the door.

Cupcake was sat upright in her desk chair, a red leather bound book in both palms. She looked towards me in bemusement.