What's Your Name?

Prologue

"Let the spirits guide you, but never let them take you."  

― E.J. Stevens, Spirit Storm

Prologue

A little girl slumped down exhausted beside a bin, puffing raggedly and rubbing her arms, shivering in the unbearable cold. She licked her dry lips, and extended her filthy, mud-caked hands before her eyes. She frowned, disgusted by the sight of her dirty skin. She pinched one of the gaping wounds on her left palm, wincing as blood and pus came oozing out. She grabbed a handkerchief she found laying on the dirt, covered her two middle fingers with it, and very carefully, she dabbed the raw wound a couple of times with it, trying to clean off the mess.

"Poor girl. Alone on the sidewalk in Christmas night," an old peddler sighed, concern plastered on his wasted face. He shook his bald head as he continued, "How old are you, my dear?"

She jumped a little, startled by the fact that someone even wanted to speak to her. She looked down timidly as she answered. "Seven," her voice cracked a little.

"Seven," the old man echoed, with a hint of sympathy in his voice. He offered his hand. "Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

The girl hesitated, wondering if he wanted to shake her hand or to pull her up. She lifted her chin high enough to look into his warm gray irises, frowning as a sudden pang of shame hit her so violently she couldn't stop herself for letting the fountain of tears flow uncontrollably from her eyes.

The peddler knelt down beside her, feeling sorry. An instinctive urge to calm the little girl flooded through him, and he pulled her into a warm, tight embrace. "There, there," he closed his eyes and cooed, patting her back so gently as if he was scared she would somehow disintegrate in his arms. The girl leaned her head down on his shoulder, burrowing against the welcoming warmth.

Remembering something, the old peddler pulled back from the hug to pick up a new rag doll from his cart, examining it, looking for flaws before handing it to her.

She held the doll with both of her hands, staring at him broodingly as the unreasonable grief began to ebb. A smile played on her lips. Behind the frozen, purple lips was a full complement of pure innocence and contentment.

"Well, a good girl deserves a decent Christmas present, don't you think?" he encouraged, ruffling her matted brown hair. He smoothed the doll's yellow summer dress as he pretended to give it an order, "Dolly, you will take good care of my little girl here, understand?"

Grinning happily, the girl pushed the doll's head down twice, making it look as if it was nodding. She giggled, and hugged the old man once more. "Thank you," she whispered into his ear.

"My pleasure, milady," the old man chuckled. He stood up and performed a graceful bow. "Till then," he waved goodbye, smiling at her. Turning away, he paced awkwardly on the lonely street, his kind, lovely side aching badly to help her, to keep her -- but he simply couldn't -- he was too poor to feed himself, let alone another person.

The little girl stared at the doll, adoration painted on her pale face. It was made of expensive fabric, perfectly woven with delicate features. The locks of its curled blond hair fluttered rhythmically with the icy blades of wind as the girl ran her fingers through them. She set it down beside her, and kissed both of its pink-tinted cheeks before she lay down to sleep.

"Goodnight, Dolly. We're gonna be best friends till the end of our lives -- crossed my heart," she yawned, and squeezed both of her eyes shut.

Hidden from the gleams of the moon, a corner of the doll's bloodred lips twitched up slightly, revealing an evil smirk as it snuggled soundlessly into the arms of the unconscious girl.

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