Work Text:
My life hasn't been easy. I know what you're thinking: you're a doll. Dolls are cuddled and petted, and they don't have to worry about a thing. And you're half-right.
The first two years of my life had been glorious. I was content.
I had been sitting on a shelf for barely two days, together with my numerous look-alikes, and, on the third day, two young ladies appeared before me. One picked up my brother and the other, the blond one, scowled at me. She did not look pleased. I confess, I've been miserable when she picked me up and smiled at the other lady, saying, "Why, yes of course. Every child should have one of these."
The moment I heard her speak, I knew she wasn't sincere. I fully expected to be taken away and thrown into a bin. The most terrible place for a doll, I've heard. I wished I could be my brother. The other lady seemed very pleased with him. She smiled at him fondly.
My blond lady scowled at me again. But then she smiled suddenly, though not at me. She lowered me and a pair of small hands grabbed and squeezed me tightly. A little blond boy beamed at me.
"I love it, Mother. Thank you," he said.
I preened just a little. Perhaps I wouldn't end up in a bin after all.
I was half-right. The moment we reached the large, gloomy house, the blond lady scowled at me again and said, "Throw that thing away, dear."
"Yes, Mother," the boy said and I shut my eyes tightly. I hoped the bin was not a dark, unhappy place. Perhaps there were other dolls there and I wouldn't be alone.
I was afraid. If I weren't a doll, I'd be shaking.
The little boy squeezed me tightly and whispered in my ear. "Don't worry. I'll keep you safe."
I didn't dare believe him. But later that night, I found myself in a soft bed, pressed close to a warm, sleeping body and wrapped in a tight hug. I had never slept so well.
Months went by quickly. I spent my nights in the little boy's embrace, listening to all his hopes and dreams, and, during daytime, I was stuffed into a small, dark place. I didn't like that part, but all the other dolls were so terribly jealous of my sleeping arrangements, I had been pleased nonetheless.
My troubles began after two years had passed.
One day, the boy picked me up and told me he had to go away for a while. "I can't take you with me," he told me and kissed my forehead. "Be good."
Sad though I was, I obeyed. I was stuffed into that dark drawer once again and waited patiently for the boy to return. It took awhile, but back he was, and when he took me out of the drawer, I was ready to jump out of my skin. I was so very happy he had kept his promise.
He did not look pleased to see me, however. He scowled at me, the way the blond lady used to scowl. Then he ripped out my arm — which was fortunately not painful but terribly embarrassing — and stuffed me back into the drawer.
I never found out what went wrong. All I knew was that my blond boy didn't like me anymore. I heard it could happen. Kids grow up and throw away their dolls. At least he didn't throw me into a bin.
I was lonely for the next few years. And awfully bored. Sometimes I'd see my blond boy. He'd open the drawer, took out something — never me — scowl and lock me again.
I could only hope I hadn't done something wrong. I thought about it a lot. I didn't think I had. Maybe the other dolls put him up to it. They had never liked me much.
I made peace with my situation eventually. At least you're not in a bin, I'd tell myself. This is still better.
Years later, the boy gave me a terrible fright. He had opened the drawer, as he did several times in the past, but he did not scowl at me. He just stared. And then — if I had a heart, it would have stopped beating — he picked me up and took me out.
He sat on his bed, held me in his hands and stared. He looked so different. Older, not a child anymore. Thin and pale. And frightened. Terribly frightened. If I could have talked, I'd hug him and tell him stories. That had used to comfort me. Perhaps it would help him, too.
He must have read my mind because he whispered, "You can't help me, can you?"
He sounded so sad. I wanted to tell him I could, even though that was probably a lie.
"I should throw you away. I really should," the boy added. "Look at you. All broken."
Please don't, I thought at him. Not the bin. Just not the bin.
He heard me again, I'm sure. He took pity. That night, I slept with him again. Embarrassingly, I still only had one arm, but he didn't seem to mind. It was like old times. He hugged me the whole night. I forgave him everything.
The next day, I was back in the drawer. He pointed a stick at me and locked me up.
He did not come back to see me again for a long time. When he finally opened the drawer again, he didn't even look at me. Didn't even scowl. Strangely, I missed his scowls.
Time passed and I knew I was forgotten.
Perhaps this was the bin. The boy could no longer see me; perhaps he never would again. If I could have cried, I would have. My life was over. I knew it, then.
I was utterly wrong.
I lost all concept of time, so I couldn't tell you when it happened, but something remarkable did happen one day.
It was dark and quiet as always and then the drawer opened. But it wasn't my blond boy I saw. It was a different boy, with black hair and glasses.
"It's not here, Draco," the boy said.
Yes, yes I am! I tried to scream.
"You're so incompetent," my blond boy said. I recognized his voice. "Of course it's there."
I beamed. He hadn't forgotten me. He knew where I was. I'm alive after all.
The boy with black hair frowned. "Oh!" He smiled. "Got it."
He took out something else, not me. I felt like crying again. I must be old if not dead. Old and ugly and weepy. The boy with black hair was looking for a shiny vial, not an old doll.
"Er, wait," the boy said, smiling again. "You have something here." He pointed a long stick at me and mumbled something incomprehensible. His eyes widened. He was staring straight at me. His eyes were very green.
"What?" my blond boy asked and then he was there, too, staring at me in surprise. "Er..." he said. His cheeks were pink.
"What a lovely doll," the boy with black hair said. I decided I like him.
"It's not mine!" my blond boy said. That hurt. Of course I was his.
"If you say so." The other boy reached inside, as though to grab me. "His arm is missing. Interesting."
The blond boy snapped the drawer shut. He must have been as embarrassed as I was. An old armless doll. I probably wasn't a pleasant sight.
That night, I wished for the bin. It would have been a mercy.
I was lucky not to get my wish, though.
The next day, my blond boy opened the drawer and picked me up. He was smiling at me.
"Hey there," he said and stroked my hair. "Sorry. It must have been lonely inside."
It was, I wanted to scream at him. I didn't want to forgive him. What was the point? He would just stuff me back in there and forget all about me again.
But instead, the boy touched my shoulder with his wooden stick and, just like that, I had a bran new arm.
Too late, I felt like saying.
He gave me new clothes, too. A black cloak and a red scarf. He messed with my hair and stuck something on my nose. Then he carried me to a mirror and I saw myself the first time after many years.
I looked different. My clothes were different, my hair was the right colour but messier. I never used to have glasses. But the scar was the same: shaped like a lightning bolt.
"Back then, they didn't know what you look like," the boy said. It made little sense. "It was close enough," he concluded. "But this... This is perfect." He smiled at me again and kissed my forehead. I must have been a very vain doll because I forgave him everything instantly. "Thank you," he said and I knew he truly could read my mind.
This happened years ago. I spent some time on a lovely polished shelf, but nowadays I have a new boy. One with strange multi-coloured hair, who never leaves my side and always sleeps with his arms wrapped tightly around me.
All the other dolls envy me again.
I must say, I'm quite pleased. I see my blond boy often, too. He always smiles at me and asks whether I'm happy. I always tell him that I am.
I do miss him sometimes. I wish he didn't give me away, but I know he still loves me. I've put two and two together, you know. I studied his black-haired boy with green eyes. He has a scar just like mine. My blond boy loves him, sleeps with him, too.
He had chosen to be with someone who looks just like his old doll.
He must remind my blond boy of me.