The Doll Maker

Lithia was back again. She was such an early riser; Lynk hated mornings. As the sun began to appear, Lithia would be just before it, running errands for her mother or just jumping around to make the time pass. She knew Lynk would be deep in slumber, but it was funny seeing her grunt and crawl out of bed, hair still perfect and shiny, like one of her newest dolls. Lithia always thought she was just as beautiful as the dolls she made. Perfect. She knew for sure that Lynk had had many suitors ask for her hand, but didn’t understand why she turned down each and every one of them. Most were rich and important men in the village, but it was as if she wished to remain an unmarried woman for the rest of her life. Lithia faintly remembered asking her a long, long time ago, and remembered her replying, “I will when I find him.”

Him? Lithia, although only six, understood her need for ‘the one.’ She wanted one for herself! But, it wasn’t just that. Lynk never dated, not even on weekends. In a way, Lithia thought of it as pitiful, but then again, she wanted to be just like her when she grew up. Independent.

Oh…but then, of course, I’d marry later.

Lithia poked her head through the door, glancing side to side. The room was still, shafts of light seeping through the velvet curtains behind the window. The chandelier twinkled and shook slightly, but then went silent. She heedfully shut the glass door.

Then, sucking in her breath, she screamed, “Ly-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-nk!”

The sound rattled the room, making the chandelier twinkle and shake. Lithia heard a thump on the ceiling—Lynk had fallen flat on her butt out of her bed. She heard a grunt, and then stomping. Soon, Lynk appeared, angrily throwing herself down the stairs. When she made it to the ground, she glared at Lithia.

“I’m off today, Lithia. What do you want?”

Lynk was in her little silk black night gown, edged in white lace. For some reason, Lithia thought her skin was always paler in the morning. Her skin is always pale, but she looked like the white clouds that hung over the village. Her hair was pulled into a pony tail, her curly locks cascading around her. As always, Lithia thought, she looked perfect.

Lithia smiled devilishly. “I know. I was bored, and I know you do nothing during the day anyway.” The girl went and sat behind her desk, eyes closed, resting against the back of the chair. Lynk could hardly believe this.

“Excuse me, I have a life, Lithia, and I have to get going.”

“Going?”

“Yes, and you need to get out before I lock up.” The doll maker turned, her short silk night dress bouncing with movement, and began heading for the spiral stairs.

“No, wait!” Lithia jumped from her seat and scrambled to latch onto Lynk’s arm.

The doll maker turned, trying to get out of her hold. “Lithia!”

“Are you meeting someone? Is it a guy—?”

“Lithia!” Had she really suggested she was meeting a man? This girl was too young to be getting into her personal life.

“Please…” Lithia groaned, leaning back on her heels to stop the doll maker from moving.

“I’m going to the city.”

Lithia stopped, eyes wide, mouth agape. Silence took over as Lynk looked down at Lithia, her face hard. Lithia looked up at her, too, eyes big and scared.

“Why would you…? You can’t possibly mean…?”

Lynk turned away, face still hard, and pushed Lithia off. Lithia, living all her life in her village, had never been more scared then she was right then. If humans were to figure out her true identity, they would burn her, or drown her. They would torture her until she told them what her purpose was for being on earth, for being in their town. Well, that’s what they did in the old days. Things couldn’t have changed that much, right?

Before she knew it, tears were running down her face. “No!”

And before Lynk could go up the stairs, Lithia’s arms were wrapped around her waist. She sobbed into her back, drenching her dress and wings flapping angrily. “No, please. They’ll kill you!” The little demon girl kept sobbing until Lynk finally turned. Lithia collapsed on the floor.

“Lithia…” She sighed, but then changed her mind about leaving her. If she did leave without another word, she was bound to tell the whole village of her whereabouts. They’d search her house and find the wax doll upstairs, waiting for a soul.

“I won’t be gone long, and they won’t even see me. I swear.” Lynk paused and thought of the consequences for her actions. Those damn priests would have her head on a stick. She almost laughed at the thought, but with someone else’s head on the end—then she thought if their plans backfired and the priest’s head ended up on the stick. She held back her insane giggles and rubbed Lithia’s back.

“Please, Lithia, don’t tell anyone. I’ll be back soon.”

She knew it was wrong of her to leave the crying girl, but she fled up the stairs, grabbed her bags, and came back down. When she did, the small girl was gone. Sighing, Lynk began to shut off the lights. As soon as the store lost its light, it’s beautiful glow that made the dolls glow healthily, she locked the doors and stood to gaze at the now empty place.

Then she noticed she had left the upstairs light on. Her work room. The room where her beautiful doll awaited her return. She imagined his face suddenly coming to life, sitting up, and putting her hand on the window. She imagined an eternal sorrow hidden in his face—to disappear when she returned.

She couldn’t let her high hopes get the best of her. For all she knew, he could hate her. Would she care? No. He would still be hers, whether he liked it or not.

“He couldn’t hate me.” Lynk whispered under her breath.

I’ll leave the light on for him, she thought to herself. Just in case he misses me.



“Stealing lunch money? Isn’t that a little out of date?”

The four tall men were still in their football uniforms. It was after their practice, and seeing Cross walking home, they pulled him into a narrow alley. The sun was already setting, but it didn’t matter. His mother didn’t care anyway.

“Shut up, Hemlock.” Briar, captain of the football team and Cross’ nemesis since he was twelve, sneered and spat somewhere near his sneakers.

“Why so formal? Were all on a first name basis.”

That was the last straw for the captain, and he let his arm swing. His sweaty, balled fist landed on Cross’ cheek. He was on the ground in seconds, but back on his feet in an even shorter amount. He rubbed the sore cheek, planning to walk away, but the way out was blocked by another bulging football player—Kevin, to be exact. Kevin Cummings. He was just a big idiot that followed Briar wherever he went.
Briar tried his luck once more, but missed, tumbling over and slamming his skull into the hard red brick. Enraged, Kevin grabbed Cross by the waist and slammed him into the gravel. At that moment, all he could feel was skin against skin, cloth against cloth—the whole rest of them had jumped for the attack.

Fists collided with his face, his nose, his chest, his shoulder. It was when the thunder clapped and the rain began to pour hard that they fled, leaving a bloody Cross to fend against the angry skies alone.

He just lay there for a long time, letting the rain wash his blood from the gravel, from his skin. He let himself fall asleep under it, feeling somehow comforted by its touch.

Somewhere in the rain, he heard a laugh.

A laugh?

It was definitely a female’s voice. If he tried to put it to a voice, he would fail—it was nothing he had heard from anybody he knew.

Cross opened his eyes, and asked meekly, “Who’s there?”

The rain seemed to soften slightly, but it wasn’t calm. He wasn’t sure his voice could be heard over the pitter-patter of it hitting the ground.

He shot up from his puddle on the ground, but cringed, holding his stomach. One of those idiots freaking broke my rib…

“Who’s there?!” He screamed. He was immediately given an answer.

“Poor boy.” The girl giggled, though she was nowhere in sight. He looked all around, but could not put a body to the voice.

Swiveling his head back around, he gasped at the sight in front of him.

It was a girl. A girl? No, a goddess. She would’ve been found creepy by the football players, but Cross being him, a true gothic, found her more beautiful than the whole cheerleading team—put together.

The girl, his age, had curly, silken chestnut red hair. It tumbled down her back, but was probably longer than he thought since it was partially pulled up by a giant black rose in her hair. The rose had stray threads mingling with the rest of her hair. She wore this amazing, Victorian black dress that stretched to her knees, puffing out around her. The complicated design looked completely chaotic, the dress hitched up there and stitched down here. It laced up her pale skin, just as pale as his. No one had skin like his in his town. She had a butterfly design on her shoulder. It was so dark and perfectly intricate; he knew that couldn’t possibly be a tattoo. On her hands and wrists, she wore little Victorian wristlets, a tiny choker on her neck, and three silver earrings in her ears. She had no pupils or iris; her eyes were just completely green.

And then, a small pair of bat wings on her back. He knew they weren’t fake because they flapped every once in a while, and she was levitating two feet off the ground.

Cross rubbed his eyes. Was he still woozy from the beating?