My Precious Doll Series

My Precious Doll: Prologue

Dove was the product of a very old and rotten man. An old puppet Master with the sick illusion that his puppets were very real. He went by many names that varied in language and darkness. The man knew he was dying and as such, wanted to create his best, last, final and long remembered “child”. He wanted everyone to remember him for years long after his death so he got to work.

He spend late nights at his work bench, drawing out the little darling’s design, each night he failed to make the body structure to his liking and nearly lost all hope. Until… he aside his works on this masterpiece and set out on horse back into town. He set aside his horse and set off into the richer part of town where the aristocrats sat on their polished thrones. He would kidnap a young prince.

Finding the manor of the most wealthy and well respected family he stole away to the side of the home. A party was happening inside which on his part, was blessed. He could climb the manor wall to the boy’s window. And he did, after a couple of tries he found himself at the boy’s window, standing at the balcony.

The old man grinned; the boy had the face of an angel indeed. Young, beautiful and flawless… Perfect doll. Opening the window with an assortment of tools from his pocket, the puppet master crept into the boy’s room, soundless like the black dead that he was… The old man’s eyes, one blind, looked down wickedly at the sleeping prince before he silently pounced onto the little thing and quickly drew out his knife. The boy screamed and thrashed out, uttering threats and prayers which fell on to the ears of deaf Angels. The soundless voice, a sorrowful tune. The man silenced the young prince with a cloth drenched in medicine. It wasted no time in putting the little darling under a deep sleep, leaving the old man to do the rest. He used the knife, aiming it for the boy’s newly exposed chest, the flesh so tender, soft and perfectly right for decorating in that beautiful shade of scarlet.

The man marveled at the sight of the young boy and thought for a moment. The boy’s body was… perfect. Just what he’s been so desperate to draw! So desperate to create! His face~! Oh god, that face… It was one to make Angels weep. Enough to make the Gods themselves bow down to him in respect. Oh this little one was his! Not cutting yet… Not here.

He clothed the boy again, placing the knife into his coat and taking the boy’s light and limp body down the wall with him. Thankfully, the party was still at it’s highest and no sound was heard… He stole away to his horse again and took the young beauty with him, returning to his old and rotting mansion; a place he often compared himself to.

He took the boy and laid him out on the table. A silver, blood stained cart was wheeled in to him by other, older and decaying dolls he had made from dark magic. He chuckled dryly, taking a few black books from the shelves and placing them on the stand by the table. He looked through it skillfully, for he had memorized all their pages. Finding the spell he began chanting it, over and over until a storm rolled in… heavy, thick with dark clouds and tainted with purple lightning… Just what he wanted.

The older man got to work. He cut the boy’s body open and replaced most of the innards with new gears and strings, keeping the heart intact. As he worked well into the night… the boy’s skin began to harden… turning into porcelain. The old man admired his work as it “came to life” with each passing second. He opened the boy’s eyes… those beautiful pools and watched as they glazed, turning glassy and still…

Hours went by and the man was still knee deep in human remains, doll parts, puppet strings and clothing. Oh god how he loved this beautiful work! The boy was nearly finished. Sewn back up, there was a spell that worked over the stitching to make for flawless skin once again. He ripped the clothing from the boy and began replacing it with tattered laces and silks, roses and peals… He began to laugh like the mad man he was as the boy was pieced together bit by bit! He took a moment to admire the doll, now finished and bound by string as strong as steel but as fine as a spider’s web. He moved his fingers in a skillful fashion, uttering the light movements and commands for the doll to move. It did. Flawlessly, no creaks or groans came from the little darling, only the light tapping of it’s booted feet and the man took the time to dance with his beautiful doll, twirling it about in a graceful and formal manner. The spell was not yet complete, he knew this. It would be granted a new memory, one of which shall be empty and new, and the heart will beat again with new life. He would gain the vocals of the more desired siren and he would remain as alone as the old man himself was. That was the old man wanted. He packed up the thing in a polished wooden case, and shipped it off to some place far far away. His time was drawing near…

The old man admired the small casket like case the doll was in as It was brought onto the train, a rather fast moving express before turning on his heel towards home again…

At the stroke of 3 AM, the old man was home, in his dark, rotting home, up in his ruins of a bedroom surrounding himself with his fallen and broken dolls… They were his children with no mother, only a father at which loved them with everything. Just as the night was slowly fading into the first beams of golden light, he took one last thought for the newly created beauty. A name… he needed a name…

Glancing over to the broken window of his bedroom, he cast his eyes on a glowing, pure as the heaven’s bird. It’s light feathers lush and healthy, it’s white body ever so graceful… He motioned toward the bird, his spider like appendages waving the bird over. The bird flew to him, a beauty in the palms of a deadly beast and with a small call from the bird, the puppet master got his answer…

Closing his bony fingers around the bird body, it struggled helplessly against the ever tightening hold of the old man until… a sickly crack was heard. Blood and broken feathers fell to the floor in a beautiful dance…

Dove.

And with that, the old man closed his weary eyes which had sunken in and let his crimson stained hand fall from the bedside, hanging just over the remains of the crushed bird, a sheer sign of broken freedom… Only one feather, perfectly shaped clung to the blood caked palm of his lifeless hand. At 4 AM that morning, the old man died, his puppets returning to dust and broken, useless doll parts while somewhere far off, Dove was sent away to start his life… where his master’s ended.