tw - unhealthy relationships, non/con, mentions of overstimulation, dehumanization, semi-public sex, and abuse.
[commissioned piece. donate to palestinians in gaza here.]
If Arlecchino had it her way, you think youād be more of a doll than a person.
Not that it would make much of a difference when it comes to how she treats you. To her, all the world might as well be pieces of a chessboard; playthings to pose and position as she deems fit. Knights are sent into righteous battles, pawns are burnt to ash on first line of fire, and youāre made to watch it all from your place on a glass-enclosed pedestal, where the cruelties of the world are visible, but at a distance. Thatās a flaw in her little world that Arlecchino hasnāt realized, yet ā your eyes, unlike those of the delicate figurines she favors, are not only painted on.
You suppose you should count yourself lucky, when compared to the rest of her unfortunate collection. Most of her pieces are chipped and scarred, sharpened into fine, deadly points only to be discarded when they begin to dull. You, on the other hand, have proved yourself worthy of her maintenance. Your wardrobe is curated to her particular tastes, every style of bow and pattern of lace hand-selected to suit her preferred aesthetics, and she spends each morning running comb after comb through your hair, brushing rouge onto your cheeks, taking leisurely minutes to decide if sheād rather see you in blue or pink or lilac ā always light colors, always gentle. You think, sometimes, that you must look like a groomed dog next to her, pastel and ridiculous next to her monotone elegance. Often, you try not to think about how little of a difference it would make if she added a leash and collar to your daily ensemble.
She rarely lets you leave her sight. Of course, obligation does draw her away from you from time to time (a rarity she laments as often as you pray for), but whenever possible, she has you sitting pretty by her side or, better yet, perched in her lap, straddling her waist and sobbing quietly into her chest as her clever fingers bring you to the brink of climax for the nth time in the past hour. The company she keeps rarely makes a difference when it comes to how or when she touches you ā although, you do try not to remember how many of her colleagues have seen you with teary eyes and open legs. A dollās owner rarely questions the way they choose to handle their toy, and so, sheās content not to think about how she handles you. Her only acknowledgement of your suffering is a quick kiss to the cheek as she coaxes you onto your own feet, a muttered comment about the new stain on the dark fabric of her pants. Itās a miracle that you can bear the humiliation of it, but your endurance is a convenience, not a necessity. Thereās no reality in which your limitations alone would be enough to stop her.
Arlecchino does, at least, make the occasional effort to pretend she thinks of you as a partner, rather than a plaything. Sheās made it clear that, in her ideal world, youād happily accept the total loss of your autonomy and thank her for each and every second you spend under the torment of her obsession, but she settles for the occasional, trembling smile when she presents you with a gift or confection you lingered on while passing by an especially charming shop, the tender intimacy of your head resting on her shoulder when yet another meeting proves to be more long-lasting than your attention span. On her best days, sheāll even respond to your timid requests to please not leave another bruise on your neck, another fang shaped indentation on your collarbone with a breath of a laugh and a hushed explanation of why she has to, rather than just an outright, wordless dismissal. You wouldnāt quite say she listens to you, but itās as close as she comes.
Dolls, after all, are incapable of requesting to be played with in a certain way, or asking their owners to treat them more gently, or speaking up about anything at all.
A doll, Arlecchinoās ideal doll, can only watch with a smile as itās broken apart.
