Oh, Pretty Little Thing!

There on the shelf you sit, oh, pretty little thing!    

Apart from the grim dozen that flanked you initially, even the others before you – mermaids, fairies, apostles, and angels – are all gone. You said you disapproved of the second lot more, though they may have once belonged to kings and queens. They were designed to bring luck, but drifting down the ages had made them weak. And weak, for us, wouldn't work.

You, on the other hand, said, ‘I haven’t changed a bit.’

Last Summer, I brought you home. Jubilant about my fortuitous find, I waved your little form at old Tommy. With unbridled joy, he bounded towards me as I laughed and said, ‘Look! We have a new doll!’ Unlike before, Tommy growled softly. Then he retreated, one paw at a time. ‘Tommy!’ I yelled, but it was too late. 

He had backed into the lawnmower and was mangled to death. Panic seized my heart as I bolted, pretending not to see the white fur ball turning into a crimson pile. I ran and ran until we reached my shop. That was the day Soha usually came by to tidy and mop. 

‘Luckily, my wife was out,’ I told Soha. 

‘She would've berated you again for scavenging disconcerting dolls,’ she replied. 

You said, ‘It wasn't my fault.’ 

After four weeks, Soha's extraordinary scream shattered the glass panes of the shop. A customer and I were negotiating the price of a mysterious African toy when we were both startled and rushed to the scene. Soha lay on the anteroom floor; the back of her head was smashed, and her eyeballs were terrified. Her sprawled limbs were distorted in impossible angles as if she had fallen from a cliff. Seeing our reflections on the oozing blood, I imagined the customer had screamed. But it was not Soha that scared him.

It was you, next to Soha, lying sprawled in the same way on the floor, smiling with glee. 

Then I recall the flustered auctioneer when I picked you up from the shelf. 

‘Oh no, not that one, Mister! She’s, purportedly, the worst!’ 

‘I have twelve, a dozen, so to speak. But none from this period...what is it? Late nineteenth century?’

‘You have twelve dolls, you say? Don’t take this one, Mister. As the thirteenth doll,’ he said, ‘you could activate a terrible curse!’ 

‘But without her,’ I said, ‘my collection would remain incomplete! Just look at her! So beautiful, and those eyes! By her dress and the frayed fabric, I can tell, this pretty little thing has survived many exchanges over three hundred years –wars and famines, rough hands and fine homes, plunder to abandonment to auctions – how could she be anything but no less than a Queen?’

‘Please, Sir, I beseech you, give it some thought,’ the auctioneer pleaded. 

But at that moment, you lifted your thick eyelids and glanced up at me, and your blue eyes shone.

The auctioneer persisted. ‘Mister, have you heard of the great fire from five decades ago in our parts?’ 

‘No. We moved here a few years ago.’ 

‘Well, in an opulent home by the sea, four children went up in flames.’ 

‘That’s horrible!’ 

‘A curse possibly froze them as they could not jump off their beds or scream.’ 

‘Oh. And, what happened to the rest,’ I asked. 

‘The rest of the folks in the house died of asphyxiation,’ he replied. ‘When the firefighters came, they found no evidence of tampering, only a mountain of rubble, bone and mortar, and thick black smoke spiralling. One newbie fireman, we’re told, felt something move near his feet. Standing high on the ashen heap, he appeared to have assumed it was a loose brick. He bent and picked it up, and it was this very doll!’

‘This pretty little thing?’

‘Unfortunately, yes,’ the auctioneer sighed and sat heavily into his padded chair by the desk, not looking at you or me. 

‘What has this story to do with this doll? What’s your point, Sir?’  

‘My point? Listen now carefully. That newbie fireman smiled and dusted the doll’s frilly dress. His friend said as he carried it down the treacherous slant and attempted to wipe the little soot-smeared face, he yelped! The friend beckoned, and the poor fellow went to him. What’s the matter, his friend asked. The fellow mumbled something about seeing a sudden scar appear on the doll’s right cheek!’ 

‘Ah, come, Sir, that’s just a story! The fireman must have been smoking pot!’ I said and laughed, not hiding my amusement or sarcasm.

The auctioneer looked up from his seat at me pitifully, as if I were the fool and not the fellow who said those words. He drank a sip of water, placed his elbows on the table, and leaned forward. ‘He was not smoking; he had turned pale and so had his friend. A black liquid trickled down his hand. What's it, Johnson, the head fireman called out when he saw the two of them. Wiping the cheek of the doll tenderly with his thumb, the fireman replied, nothing, chief. That was the first and last lie he ever said.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked. 

‘A fortnight later, Johnson was found hanging from a hook near his bed, and a soot-smeared doll was hung around his neck,’ he said. 

‘This doll?’ 

The auctioneer nodded and said, ‘Take her if you must, but don’t come back here ever again. Goodbye, Mister. May God protect you!’

We set off together that day, and since then, there on my shelf you sit, oh, pretty little thing!

My wife and I celebrated our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary last night. It was too cold for Winter, even for the mountains. So we ate and drank, reminiscing about our previous life. The home, the shop, and the friends were now all gone. My wife's mother broke her neck. My sister drowned. Then, after a few more deaths at our home, we had to leave town. We sighed at the passing images and lit cigarettes again. When the blizzard started, we downed the wine, feeling slightly randy. To my surprise, my wife stripped and mounted me after a long time. She rocked her soft body until we climaxed. 

‘Remember how we met,’ she whispered, ‘our first kiss, the wedding night.’ 

‘And,’ I added, ‘for a quarter of a century, we've overcome every test.’ 

Unexpectedly, my wife stiffened and said, ‘If you want to give me a gift tonight, I want that wretched doll. I'll sacrifice it in the blazing fireplace and watch it turn into cinders with those logs!’ 

Unnerved, I followed her accusatory finger, rising slowly at you. After a few moments, something shifted in my heart. I felt brave and yelled at you. ‘Let her be, I yelled! My wife means well!’ 

Then, I gently withdrew her pointing hand and clasped it tenderly to my chest. 

‘If that is what you want...,’

In that instance, as you moved, my words got mangled into a growl. I toppled her over and squatted on her breasts. 

‘I can't breathe!’ she pleaded. ‘Please, get off me! Please! What’s gotten into you?’ 

But I didn't think twice before smothering her to death. 

You smiled and dropped off the shelf.

I found the cricket bat under our bed. I raised it and brought it down on my wife. Again and again, ensued a continuous motion of lifting and slamming, the sound of her bones breaking, and I, not pausing, until my spine cracked. I doubled over from my middle, but my hands continued to grip the bat. You lay next to my wife's parts–red meat and splattered offal–all over the bed. Take her apart, take her apart, the humming grew in my head. 

‘Before the house, before the memories, before the soul escapes...before the others arrive,’ you said, ‘take her apart, take her apart!’

‘Why are you doing this to us?’ I asked as the last breath of life escaped my lips. 

'It’s just a job like any other,’ you said. 

(1338 words - 5 to 7 mins. reading time)