Broken Dolls

by Tyrolin Puxty

  “This is hard in a dress,” she says, her voice tight.

  I don’t reply–she doesn’t need the distraction.

  The drainpipe shakes, barely holding Gabby’s weight.

  “Uh-oh,” she says.

  “Let’s go back!” I yell, sickened by how far away the ground is. I’ve never dangled so high above anything. What if I break completely? If Gabby lands on me, that might be it. I might be beyond repair–just like Lisa.

  “No, it’s okay,” Gabby says, perpetually optimistic. She loosens her grip and slides halfway down like firefighters do on those poles in the movies. We’re not far from the bottom, maybe a few human feet, but it might as well be a mile. “This might shock you a bit. Hold on, Ella.”

  Without giving me a second to process her words, she releases her grip and falls.

  I can’t help screaming as the ground streams towards me. The force of the hit rattles me, but we’re okay. Gabby crouches, steadying herself before she stands.

  “Phew!” she squeals. “Lucky you were weighing my dress down! It nearly went up over my head! That would’ve been embarrassing!”

  “Out of everything that just happened, that’s what bothered you the most?”

  Gabby laughs, dusting herself off. She pushes on a gate that squeaks when it moves, kind of like I do when I stretch my legs.

  We’re in the backyard. We’re actually in the backyard. Gabby heads towards swings and slide that are next to a sandpit. Wow. There are so many things out here to play on, and I had no idea they even existed.

  It’s a little scary outside, but only because it’s a new experience. It’s a lot more vibrant than I could’ve ever imagined. The flowers are in bloom, and the grass looks so soft, I’d give anything to feel it against my skin. The sky is grey though–I can’t find the sun or see a patch of blue.

  Our backyard looks like most of the ones on TV. Not particularly big and surrounded by other houses that look similar to ours. We have a brown fence that boxes us in with a tree that the professor hasn’t educated me on situated in the corner. It’s tall, and its trunk doesn’t sprout branches until the very tip, where it morphs into a baldish Christmas tree. I can’t believe I don’t know what it is. I’ll have to find a way to query the professor.

  “Time to cross one thing off the bucket list!” She rushes to the ladder, not accustomed to a living doll crouching in her pocket. She must keep forgetting I’m there because I’m starting to feel sick. Do dolls get sick?

  She watches her footing as she climbs and sits at the top. It’s taken her no time at all. For me, it would’ve taken forever.

  “Nervous?” She pulls me from her pocket and places me between her legs.

  “Very.” The slide is long–too long–and I’m regretting wanting this in the first place. I look up, my neck creaking. “I can’t do this, Gabby. Let’s go back to the attic.”

  “OH MY GOD, you’re so cute!” she squeals. “I promise, this is fun.”

  “But I’m worried I’ll go too far and break.”

  “You won’t break. I’ve pushed a lot of my dolls down the slide before. They got a little dirty, but they never broke.”

  I try to compose my thoughts, but I feel lightheaded. It’s like when I dream–nothing pieces together right, and my thoughts are unclear. I suppose this is what nerves and adrenalin must be like.

  “I’m going to push you.” Gabby nudges my back. “It’ll be over before you know it, and you’ll be begging to go again. Ready?”

  “No.”

  “Ready?”

  “No.”

  “GO!” I don’t feel her push me, but the grass rushes towards me just like it did when Gabby dropped from the drainpipe. I scream in preparation for my body’s destruction and draw my knees to my chest, deafened by the susurration of my ballet slippers scraping against the steel.

  I slow down as I reach the end of the slide, only centimeters from the edge. I remain still, a little dazed by the experience.

  Gabby whooshes down behind me, beaming. “What did you think, huh? Fun, right?”

  I raise my eyebrows at her and smile. “I didn’t break!”

  “Of course, you didn’t! You’re not as delicate as you think! What next?”

  I glance at the swing that sways in the breeze. “That thing?”

  Gabby’s nose scrunches when she shakes her head. “That’s the best one, so let’s save that for last. Jump in my pocket, and I’ll take you across the monkey bars.”

  There’s a rumble in the distance, and Gabby stops mid-reach. “Damn it. It’s going to storm. We better do this, then hurry back in. I’ll take you on the swing next time, promise!”

  I raise my arms so Gabby can grip my waist and slip me into her pocket. She jogs towards the monkey bars and climbs the ladder.

  I crouch in her pocket, fighting the voice in my head that urges me to stop. “Gabby? Can we not do this?”

  “What are you talking about?” She reaches for the first bar. Her body tugs when her feet drop from the step and her arms tremble, holding her bodyweight.

  “Gabby, I really don’t want to do this!”

  She swings to the next bar and I shield my eyes, holding back strained whimpers.

  “Gabby!” I shriek. “Let me out!”

  “Chill, Ella! I got this!” She swings to the next bar, faltering. She regains her grip, reaches for the next bar… and slips, her body mere moments away from crashing into the ground.

  It’s like I’m not in her pocket anymore. I’m the one swinging, losing control, and slipping. I fall flat on my back, my head smacking into the grass so hard, I see a flash of white. I land on my arm, and the waves of pain rush through my broken joint. I can feel the twist, the break, swelling beneath my back. My throat hurts from screaming, but I don’t care. It’s the only way to get the pain out…

  “Ella? Ella? Stop! Ella, stop! Please, stop!”

  “But I’ve broken my arm!”

  Gabby’s face appears, but I’m still screaming and nursing my arm. She has placed me on the grass and is on all fours, fanning me.

  I must look more coherent once I stop screaming, because Gabby sighs in relief. Wait. Why is she wet? I glance up and see droplets of rain plummet to earth. I hate the rain. It’s like the sky is crying. It makes Gabby look a lot younger now that her hair sticks to her face.

  “What happened?” I ask, the pain subsiding.

  “I missed the bar and dropped, like, a foot. Then you started screaming hysterically!”

  “So I didn’t fall and break my arm?”

  “No. It was like you had some Vietnam flashback. Did you fall off the monkey bars when you were a human?”

  I pause. “I’m not sure…” Maybe I did. That daydream was way too vivid.

  The rain is loud and heavy, but nothing is louder than the back door slamming against the bricks.

  “ELLA!” The professor stands at the doorway, his expression beyond mortified. Running comes unnaturally to him, his limbs flailing uncontrollably as he slides to his knees and pushes Gabby out of the way. “Ella! You’re filthy! You were screaming! Are you broken?”

  “No,” I say softly, but he interrupts me by scooping me into his arms.

  “Go to your father’s old room, Gabrielle!” On the verge of yelling and despite the throbbing vein in his forehead, he manages to maintain his composure. “I can’t believe what you’ve just done!”

  “We needed to have fun!” Gabby wipes the mud from her wrists, thoroughly unrepentant. “She lives in that attic all day and night. How is that a life, Grandpa? I don’t care about repossessions anymore!”

  “Repercussions,” the professor corrects through gritted teeth. “You should always care about repercussions!”

  “Screw repercussions!” Gabby shrieks, storming through the back door.

  I cuddle into the professor, who unbuttons his jacket so that I can hide from the rain.

  He takes me upstairs and back into the safety of the attic. He spots the open window an
d hisses, rushing towards it and bolting it tight. He puts me on the table and pulls up a chair so that he can be eyelevel with me.

  “You’re drenched,” he says remorsefully, running his fingers through my hair, which now hangs below my shoulders. “I’ll have to get a new wig. You’ll never be able to put it up in a bun like this.”

  “It’s okay,” I whisper. “Really. Gabby didn’t kidnap me or anything. I wanted to go outside.”

  “You can’t go outside!” He stretches over me to grab a tissue to dab at my limbs. “See what happens when you go outside?”

  “It was fun,” I say defensively, although I don’t understand why I had such an intense daydream.

  “Were you hurting again? Is that why you were screaming?”

  “No. I was just… scared.” I also really, really suck at lying. This conversation needs to go somewhere else, fast. “Have you seen Lisa?”

  “No.” He dries my hair next. “Have you?”

  “No.” Two consecutive lies. If there is a doll Hell, I’d be in it.

  “That’s a worry…” His voice trails off, and he stops drying my hair, then shakes his head and continues. “You’ve had enough excitement for one day. How about you get settled in the chest, and I’ll lay out new clothes for you?”

  “Could I please have a dress like Gabby?” I clap my hands into a begging position.

  The professor’s expression is unsettling. It’s like he’s hurt and trying to cover it with a very unconvincing smile. “I only have tutus and leotards for you. That’s what you wanted.”

  “But can’t I have–”

  “No.” We remain in silence for several seconds. He kicks back the chair and kisses my head, leaving me in the solitude that is loneliness.

  My only company is the gentle patter of rain and the roar of thunder. A fitting metaphor. I feel like I’m the sky tears, trying to escape the overbearing nature. It’s only when I cower behind the stool leg as the lightning flashes that I realize that the professor, perhaps, isn’t the thunder or lightning in my metaphor. He’s something much worse.

  He’s the eye of the storm.

  he storm intensifies. Sticks and other small pieces keep flinging against the window. It’s really creeping me out. I keep imagining a demonic deer hovering outside, saliva dripping from its snarl as it headbutts the pane.

  Why a demonic deer? No clue. Deer are terrifying. I’ve never even been able to finish Bambi. Most people are traumatized by the mother dying, whereas the fact that the story revolves around deer is what gives me the creeps.

  My bed isn’t as comforting as usual. It’s the one place I always felt safe in, but not tonight. I keep kicking the sheets off, frustrated by the permanent point in my feet. I want to flex and stretch them out and experience what it’s like to walk flatfooted. Just because I like dancing doesn’t mean my whole life should be doing that. The professor won’t even sew me pajamas–the clothes he laid out was just another red tutu. Sequined, no less. How’s that supposed to lure me to sleep?

  I sigh and hang off the side of my mattress, staring at Lisa’s empty bed. Has she even slept in it yet?

  The professor kept the lid to the chest open tonight, so I can look out into the attic. I actually prefer it closed–the ceiling is decorated with glow-in-the-dark stars, so it’s almost like being outside with them. Instead, I get to gaze up at the cobwebs hanging from the attic beams that have broken bicycles and sleds stored between them.

  Maybe he’s punishing me.

  I roll over to the corner of my room and frown at the mirror. There’s something on it, but I can’t see well from this angle. I pull myself up and tiptoe towards it. It’s been painted entirely in red, smeared with white strokes. I wipe the paint off with my finger, surprised by how fresh it is. I stand in front of it, startled when I realize that the white streaks aren’t just random lines–it’s a stick figure of a girl in a tutu…it’s a stick figure of me.

  “Couldn’t smell the fumes, could you?” It’s Lisa’s voice, but childish and high-pitched. “Never look in the mirror–we are trapped in there.”

  I turn around and back into the mirror, the paint sticking to my dress. Lisa stands in the dark on her bed, a snapped paintbrush in hand. One end looks painfully sharp, the tip so pointed, it could easily pierce human skin.

  “My spirit’s sleeping somewhere cold.” A new lisp to her voice, she tilts her head, contemplating something. “Freezing, freezing. But she’s waking.”

  She vaults from the bed, landing with a thud, and brandishes the paintbrush above her head, wielding it like a knife as she ambles towards me.

  “Lisa?” I raise my hands protectively. “Lisa, what’s wrong?”

  She doesn’t respond, instead she continues towards me, forcing me into the corner of the chest.

  “Lisa? I can help you! Just tell me what’s wrong!”

  “But I’m going to help you!” She titters, following abruptly with a throaty growl. She swipes at me and rips the strap of my leotard. It hangs by my shoulder, fuzzy threads appearing near the tear. “You have to let me break you–it shouldn’t hurt for long.”

  I scream and crouch, covering my head when the paintbrush swings at me, then roll from the corner and leap onto my bed, looking down at her as she spins her weapon calmly in her hands.

  “I don’t want to be broken, Lisa.” I try to ignore the tremble in my voice, but I sound shrill.

  “You’re already broken,” Lisa enunciates, as if reasoning with a tot. “Destroying you completely is the only way you will be fixed.”

  Like a cat, she springs toward me, the paintbrush grasped in her hand like a joust. I dodge, the sharp end of the brush shredding the tip of my tutu.

  I leap for the ladder and climb out of the chest, landing awkwardly on my toes with a telltale crack.

  “What was that noise?” Lisa’s muffled voice trails from inside the chest. “Are you breaking, dancing doll? You’re not as new as you think.”

  I refrain from squealing in terror and launch towards the green chair, its usual sickly color camouflaged by the inky night. I scuttle beneath it, annoyed by the way my hips grind into one another with thunderous creaks. Thunderous to me, anyway—and all too audible to Lisa.

  “I always know where you are.” Her head pops up over the top of the chest, scanning the room. “Squeak, squeak, creak, creak, goes the dancing doll.”

  She throws herself from the chest and lands gracefully, taking cautious steps towards me even though I’m lost in the shadows.

  What do I do? Hiding and running seem like the best options. If I can’t do either, I have to fight back. I’ve never known how to fight–I don’t even like watching it on TV.

  Lisa creeps closer, silent lightning flashing on her vacant face. I turn to run, only to be violently hurled back against the leg chair. My tutu is caught on a splinter and no amount of tugging frees it.

  “Slowly and silently, cries the dancing doll, meekly, angelically, she weeps for her soul.”

  I pull down my tutu, leaving it stuck to the chair and canter as fast as I can, struggling with my perpetually pointed feet. Wait, I can leap! That’s my only shot at outrunning Lisa.

  I reach the attic door and glance at it, defeated by its size. I’ll never reach it.

  “Ella!” She says my name in her usual voice, husky and constantly irritated, and jogs towards me, the paintbrush leaning against her shoulder. “You’re being silly, now. There’s nowhere left to run!”

  “There’s always something…” I say through gritted teeth. I run my hand along the wall and sprint towards the dark corners in the attic. Lisa spent a lot of time there. Clearly, it’s the perfect place to hide.

  She runs behind me, but she isn’t as fast. The professor didn’t make her legs as long as mine.

  The corner is littered with lots of tiny pieces of paper with writing on them. I’m not a great reader, but I recognize a few words like “experiment” and “trap”.

  “Don’t read my notes!” Lisa crie
s, her feet slapping against the ground.

  I ignore her and search frantically, desperate to find something–anything–that’d help me fight back.

  There’s a nail in the corner. It’s rusted and heavy, but it’s a weapon nonetheless. I bend over to pick it up and accidentally kick it instead. It rolls deeper into the darkness, seemingly forever. I chase it, but it’s gone.

  That doesn’t make sense. Something can’t just disappear like that! I get on all fours to crawl when I’m encompassed by complete darkness. I glance over my shoulder as Lisa searches for me with a confused look on her face.

  “Did you find my mouse hole, dancer doll?” A demented smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “It’s a maze in there.”

  Mouse hole? Of course! The professor didn’t plaster over them all! I check my surroundings and spot the dark tunnel, which is possibly the way out of the attic.

  I quickly leap up and barge through the tunnel. I can’t see a thing, but I don’t slow down. I don’t have time to slow down!

  The tunnel narrows, so small now that I find myself bending over while I run. If I’ve never felt claustrophobic before, I definitely do now. I’m lost in the walls of my home with a psychopathic dolly on my tail. This isn’t a story that can end well.

  I smack into the wall, the dead-end—the nail in my coffin. I slap my hands on the surrounding walls, but they lead to nowhere.

  “Took a wrong turn?” Lisa’s voice echoes through the walls. “That’s good. You won’t see me when I break you. It’ll be less upsetting.”

  A whimper escapes my throat. There’s no point trying to hold it in–she already knows I’m here. Terrified, I slide down the wall and curl myself into a ball, preparing for my grizzly end.

  There’s a surprising amount of room down here, though. I don’t have to stay in a ball at all – in fact, I can stretch out without touching the other wall.

  I get on all fours and try to slap my hand against the barrier that’s no longer there. Of course! Mice are short, they would only need small spaces to travel through! I crawl to the narrow opening and squeeze through, losing my left hand in the process. I can’t say I care. It was a pathetically small hand, anyway.