Doll with a Journal
This one was tidying when it came across something. A worn journal covered in faded red canvas, bound with dissolving black thread and petrified glue. The book felt like a sugar cookie in this one’s hands. Like it might crumble to pieces if it gripped too hard.
Dust made microscopic snowbanks where this one’s fingers brushed across the cover. A faint brown stain on one corner felt no different from the corner where the canvas had peeled off to reveal its bare threads and raw cardboard prize.
The cover had a name on it. Not one that this one recognized, but one that felt familiar to it. Like there were memories attached to it which had been long removed. It was just a book, buried and hidden under countless other personal-made-impersonal belongings by the chance and grace of time. There was probably nothing significant about it. Surely nothing for this one to care about, at least.
The doll opened the book. The inside cover had a date- years in the past, but not many- an address- down a ways, but not too far- and a name- the same one on the front. This one traced its fingers over the words, as if looking for some hidden meaning in them. They were meaningless. This was nothing. The page was bleached with age and fingerprints and sweat.
It turned a page. Written in ink which was faded when it was new was a testimonial to the life of a man. He was neither a doll nor a witch, and was unhappy about his lot in life. The first page told a story about him not being able to make friends. He resented how he couldn’t connect with people. Something about him was off, he said. This one didn’t like the story much, but something compelled it to move to the next page.
The trend continued. Every page recounted some failed opportunity or missed connection for the man writing the words. He was unfulfilled, he was unable to keep up appearances, and he didn’t know why.
This one wanted to put down the book, but it couldn’t. Its eyes kept moving over words drawn by fleshy hands, even when its eyes unfocused and it forgot where it was. Another page. Another. Another misery.
Behind the doll, her witch’s voice appeared like a runway. This one moved faster than it has before and slower than ever to face her. She was just checking up on it, she said. She wanted to make sure the cleaning process was going well, that everything was able to be properly sorted. This one couldn’t respond. It just held out the book. The smile that its witch was wearing melted when she realized what it was. The witch, of course, knew what the doll was able to forget.
The witch didn’t have to tell this one that the man was who it used to be. That he had become it. Its witch just held her doll close and whispered gentle praises into its ear. Its witch told it that it was good, and strong, and that it was beautiful now. Its witch told it that she loved it. Her doll responded by wrapping its arms tighter. Its witch told it that she would erase the memories that it read today, that it would go back to how happy it was before. This one nodded into her shoulder. Then she said that she would get rid of the journal. This one refused.
This one is happy to be a doll. It is happy to serve and it loves its witch more than anything in the world. It is endlessly grateful that it gets to forget worse times, that it can let its witch deal with the past. But for some reason that it can’t explain, it keeps that old journal tucked away underneath its dresses and plushies. It will never read it, it hopes, but it needs to have it. It needs to have the choice. It is grateful that its witch trusts it enough to have it.




















