the 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝘿𝙎 of the 𝘾𝙇𝙊𝙒𝙉

「 three 」

Growing up, I got a huge obsession with dolls. I had a huge collection of it. My room was filled with different kind of dolls—a thousand of them! Matryoshka dolls, porcelain dolls, vinyl dolls, puppet dolls, ball-jointed dolls, Parian dolls, Rag dolls—any kind of dolls, I had them all.

I had also a big cabinet, filled with figurines, music boxes, porcelain, and other small stuff. I also got some picture frames of them hanging on the walls; appliances with doll designs; everything in my room was full of dolls. And this room was an actual dollhouse.

It must be really scary and creepy, but I didn't care. Especially during a rainy night while the thunders were rumbling outside, I would feel that there were a lot of eyes staring at me. It got me really, really scared. Their smiles were happy as if mocking me for being scared. I could never sleep those times. They were keeping me awake until dawn.

But I would still love me in the end. Why not, though? I loved being accompanied by them. I treated them like ghosts with pretty faces. Well, at the very least, my ghosts were here to guide me.

I would play them, thinking that they were the last thing to make me feel alone. I would brush their hairs, put make-up on their faces . . . and kiss them; talk to them like some kind of a lunatic. I would smile at them, they would smile back. I would always love how they smiled, because even people couldn't stay as happy as my dolls.

My addiction to these dolls took me to the point where I was already preparing a tea-party for them. I would arrange a dining table inside my room with lots of sweets and teas. Each of my favorite dolls would be there, having their own special plates, spoon, forks, and cups. Everything would be so, so cute.

I peeled a soft laugh as I picked two of my dolls. "We're having a tea-party~ We're going to have lots and lots of fun!" and I said with a squeal, both hugging them at the same time.

People around me would be really weirded about my behavior. They must be thinking that I was crazy. I would really appreciate if they would just fuck off and mind their own dramas and shits. Like I cared about them, anyway.

Thus we started eating and drinking, merrily having fun and sweet life. I looked at Sophia—the first doll I had ever have. It came from my father. He bought it for me when he had a business trip to France. Thus Sofia was a French doll from the mid-19th century.

Then averted my gaze to Yanna—the first doll I made with my own hands. She was not as refined as the other dolls, but she was very, very special to me. Yanna was actually a ragged doll. Her face was colored in messy white, red-haired, her eyes were made out of two black buttons, a taunted smile was etched on her lips, and dressed in a blue polka-dotted dress with a white apron. There was also a huge cut on her forehead, but stitched it up with red yarn.

After our tea-party, I would talk to them, treating them as my family. Although they were smiling, I would hear them crying. Like Yanna right now. She might be smiling, but tears behind that happy expression was a sad, ugly, and tearful baby girl.

"What's going on? Why are you crying?" I questioned, picking her up. "Stop crying now, huh? Mama loves you. You'd be happy, too."

I would calm her down. Tapping her thighs, cooing her, and gently rocking her like a little baby she was. Once she calmed down, I lifted her up over my head and started turning around. I ran inside my room and danced and danced and danced.

"You're not happy now, but soon you will, won't you?" I ridiculously screamed and laughed out all these insanities in me.

Hah . . . What a twisted world.

When I got tired, I laid on my bed with a loud sigh.

"Do you think I'm crazy?" I spoke to myself. Oh, I spoke to my dolls. I knew that they couldn't speak, but I kept on talking with them.