Prologue: The Perfect Doll
The television crackles to life in the dimly lit store window, its cheerful jingle cutting through the continual patter of acid rain on the pavement outside. The ancient cathode tube display – an intentional vintage touch in the neo-Victorian boutique – casts an eerie blue-white glow across the rows of glass cases. Inside each meticulously polished hexagonal prism, living things no taller than thirty centimetres maintain frozen poses, their eyes following passing pedestrians with careful, measured movements. The screen flickers with oversaturated colours, showing a 1960s-style advertisement that's been modernised for the current era, film grain effects deliberately superimposed over digital perfection.
"Welcome to a world of wonder!" a saccharine voice chirps over footage of dolls in pristine environments, the tone calibrated to evoke nostalgia while masking the clinical reality beneath. "Where dreams come true, and perfection comes in pocket size!"
The camera pans across serene scenes: a pale, porcelain-skinned doll with auburn ringlets in a hand-stitched frilly pink dress serving Earl Grey from a miniature silver tea set to a delighted child whose eyes sparkle with possessive joy. Another doll – male, with unnaturally symmetrical features – performs a flawless grand jete across a custom-built stage, his shadow elongated against the wall of an impressed family's opulent living room. A collector with jewelled fingers proudly displays their "living art" in crystal cases illuminated by pinpoint LED lights that make the tiny captive's shimmer like precious gems.
"Our dolls are expertly trained to bring joy to your home," the voice continues as the image shifts to a classroom bathed in harsh fluorescent light where rows of tiny figures sit perfectly still at miniature desks, their faces frozen in pleasant smiles despite the visible tension in their diminutive shoulders. A human instructor looms over them, a correction baton tapping rhythmically against her palm. "Each one carefully selected and conditioned to meet our exacting standards of deportment, talent and temperament."
Behind the staged perfection, a shadow passes across one doll's face – a flicker of fear as the baton passes near her, gone so quickly it might have been imagined. Her fingers, barely the size of a staple end, tremble almost imperceptibly against the polished wood of her desk.
"Remember," the voice continues, its sweetness taking on an edge like honey mixed with glass shards, "they exist for your pleasure. Your entertainment. Your collection."
The camera focuses on a doll in a glass case. This is Nyah, a ballerina with rich dark brown skin and curly black hair pulled into a tight bun, secured with pearl-tipped pins that dig slightly into her scalp. Her blush pink and pale blue tutu is hand-embroidered with silver threading that catches the light with every breath she tries to minimise. Her smile never wavers, her arabesque position held with such painful precision, the muscles in her calf visibly straining beneath the sheer tights. But her warm brown eyes... her eyes tell a different story. Deep within them, a memory flickers: the scent of lemon polish on wooden floors mingling with resin dust and sweat, the gentle encouragement of Thomas, her former teacher, his weathered hand steadying her as she practised – his calloused palm warm against the small of her back before she was seen as just something small, before she became property. The faint echo of Tchaikovsky's notes still haunts her, a ghostly reminder of when dance meant freedom instead of display, when applause meant appreciation rather than validation of a purchase.
Her limbs, arranged in perfect form, tremble almost imperceptibly beneath the weight of constant observation. To the casual observer, she is flawless art frozen in mid-motion. To the discerning eye, her stance holds too much tension, her pointed toes curled too rigidly, her smile a fraction too wide with teeth clenched behind parted lips – the telltale signs of someone performing under duress, of muscles held beyond endurance. Behind the blush-pink pale-blue tutu, she longs for the autumn-coloured clothes she crochets in secret – reds, oranges, and browns that remind her of freedom rather than this garnish performance costume.
Suddenly, the peaceful montage is interrupted. A doll – a young male with cropped blonde hair and a sailor suit – breaks character, his pleasant expression cracking like porcelain as his face contorts with desperate fury. He pounds his tiny fists against the glass, each impact making a sound no louder than a raindrop.
"We're not your toys!" he screams, voice tiny but fierce, barely audible through the thick display case. "We're- "
Technical difficulties. Please stand by.
The screen fractures into static, jagged lines cutting across the now-missing doll's face. In the brief chaos that follows, snippets of a heated debate flash across the screen like digital ghosts. A woman in a crisp charcoal suit with a company logo embroidered in gold thread gestures empathetically, her manicured nails gleaming under studio lights: " - legal rights would devastate the entire industry and the economy – think of thousands employed -" Cut to a silver-haired professor surrounded by holographic research papers, his augmented glasses reflecting scrolling data: " -cognitive studies clearly indicate sentience and emotional capacity equivalent to humans prior to genetic reduction procedure-" Another voice, a politician with a face smoothed by expensive rejuvenation treatments: "-property rights must be protected – the precedent would be catastrophic for other ownership-" And finally, a protester on rain-slick streets, her face partially hidden by a breather mask, holding a sign reading "DOLLS ARE PEOPLE TOO" illuminated by the harsh glow of streetlights: "-how can we call ourselves civilised when we literally enslave living beings to make them collectibles-"
The broadcast resumes moments later, showing different dolls, all smiling, all perfect. They stand in formation, a living display of compliant art pieces in varying costumes representing different eras and professions. The first doll is nowhere to be seen, the space he occupied now filled by a replacement with identical features but more docile eyes.
"Remember," the voice concludes, warm but warning, maternal yet menacing, "they belong to you. Forever."
The screen fades to black, reflecting the empty store window and the silhouettes of passersby who barely glance at the display, too accustomed to the sight to find it remarkable. But in the darkness behind the glass, tiny movements can be seen in the display cases – brief, frightened shifts of living beings trying to maintain their poses, knowing the cost of imperfection. A miniature hand presses against glass for an instant before withdrawing. A microscopic tear falls, quickly wiped away before it can be noticed.
Behind the scenes, in a back room hidden from public view, a small body lies broken on a sterile metal tray, limbs twisted at impossible angles, the sailor suit stained crimson. His wide-open eyes reflect the harsh overhead light but see nothing. A lesson to the others watching from translucent holding cells: perfection isn't optional. Compliance isn't negotiable. Their diminished size makes them easy to replace, easier still to discard.
And in her glass prison, Nyah holds her pose, muscles screaming, smile unwavering, as Walter – the store owner with his cold, calculating expression and slicked-back grey hair – watches a well-dressed couple pause to admire her form, the price tag glittering beside her case. Her thoughts drift momentarily to her brothers – Aneurin and Isaiah, tiny at just 2 inches tall – somewhere else in the shop, forced into outfits they hate, waiting in their own glass prisons. The weight of responsibility for them presses on her heavier than any dance pose could.
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Thank you so much for reading this chapter!
It means the world to me that you took the time to step into this story. Dolls is deeply personal, exploring themes that I hope resonate differently with every reader—whether it reminds you of something real, something imagined, or something in between. If it made you feel anything at all, I’m grateful.
Comments, thoughts, or even quiet reads are always appreciated. Thank you for being here. ♡
