by Rhapsody In Blue
Once upon a time, in a valley between two mountains - one of determination, the other of aptitude, there abided a wondrous and creative dollmaker, one of well-respected talent and perseverance. However, the dollmaker was never satisfied with his works - he moulded beautiful doll after beautiful doll, yet he thought the next one was uglier than the last. At last he simply exhausted himself to insanity, but not before this certain doll, made of delicate porcelain, was finally created.
As the dollmaker withered away, the beautiful porcelain doll was left in my possession. A runt, I was, of no real value, but I had a brilliant dollmaker's ultimate creation in my hands, whose touch polluted her fine clothing and smooth face. The doll, with midnight black hair, styled to silky perfection, clear blue eyes, a deep abyss that reflected the sky, and garments made of the finest satin, looked like a queen in relation to me. Through all the difficult times I endured, she was always silent and majestic in her tranquility, while I did my best to cope with the harsh bitterness of reality. As I slept, she left her eyes open to watch for me, and as I did anything else, she watched me with all the curiosity in the world. Every night, I would run my unclean fingers, corrupt by covetousness, down her cold face, wishing I could become like that porcelain doll, beauteous and stately compared to my clumsy, envious, desperate personality. I became so infatuated with the doll, infatuated with perfection, that I was almost blind to life�s meanings and reasons � that I was soon on the edge of reality and one more push by that porcelain doll would cause me to fall in a dreamscape of slumber and never wake.
The porcelain doll became a part of my soul, a piece of my heart. I loved it and hated it; I loved it for being so perfect, so ideal � yet hated it for the exact same motive, because those qualities were so unachievable for myself. Perhaps this was the reason why I felt so relieved, yet so reluctant, to place it in the hands of a buyer when the time came for me to acquire money to survive. I had to sell a part of my soul, a piece of my heart, to somebody, just to obtain value for the porcelain doll which was my life, and was probably worth more than I was. I shakily held it out to the buyer, and the woman most likely understood my tears, which were drowning my obsession. Suddenly, it flashed in my mind like a lightning on a sunny day � to let go of the doll, and bequeath it to someone else, the doll would be their curse and would silently devour the owner, as it had done to me.
I dropped it as if it were poisonous to touch it. The porcelain doll fell to the ground and shattered into a million pieces.
There, it was. I gasped, jumping aback, with even more tears flowing. The potential buyer scowled and sighed exasperatedly, and walked off, the money still in her pocket. I knelt down, cut by a few sharp pieces of china, to inspect the damage. Her flawless white skin was in a countless number of parts. Her rose lips cracked, her hair and clothing cut by the pieces itself, and in a corner of the mess, one of her clear blue eyes caught mine. It reflected my face, another mere reminder I had destroyed a part of myself. I already knew she was simply a doll, and nothing more, but as I examined it further, I realized she was hollow, filled with nothing. The porcelain doll I deemed so perfect, so complete, was completely imperfect because all that filled her beauty was nothing.
I stood up, brushing the broken china off my knees, ignoring the bleeding cuts and my tearstained eyes. The doll was broken by the rough touch of mankind, and I was broken by the rough blows of reality. Still, my heart did not break, as it was never whole. The porcelain doll took a piece of it, and I disgusted myself to discover that a piece of nothing had taken a part of my heart. I did not eat that day, and did not sleep that night, and even if I continued that routine for the remainder of my life, in all probability, I would never die, for the simple reason that my addiction with perfection had never allowed me to live.