♦️█ ░ shes little...miss n0 name...shes l0nes0me and blue. shes l0nging f0r s0me0ne...exactly like y0u! she has n0 0ne t0 talk with. ପ(∗´ര ᎑ ര`∗)ଓ ▒ ▓❤️ ♦️█ ░ she just sits and she stares. ପ(∗´ര ︿ ര`∗)ଓ ▒ ▓❤️ ♦️█ ░ she needs s0me0ne t0 h0ld her. s0me0ne wh0 cares. ପ(∗´- ᎑ ര`∗)ଓ ▒ ▓❤️ ♦️♦️♦️█ ░ p00r little miss n0 name. 0n her cheek theres a tear. shes a sad little n0b0dy. ପ(∗´╥ ﹏ ╥´∗)ଓ ▒ ▓♦️♦️♦️ 💔█ ░ cause theres n0 b0dy near. ପ(∗´⋟ ﹏ ⋞`∗)ଓ ▒ ▓💔 💔█ ░ s0 w0nt s0me0ne? w0nt s0me b0dy? d0 what s0me0ne sh0uld d0? ପ(∗´╹ . ╹`∗)ଓ ▒ ▓💔 ❤️█ ░ and take hive little miss n0b0dy? w0nt s0me0ne? w0nt y0u? ପ(∗´╹ v ╹`∗)ଓ ▒ ▓❤️
I. This takes me back, actually? Outer GODS, this takes me back. I am curious how many other, if any, Roses remember this doll. It is a vivid flashbulb memory that deprioritizes all preceding counterparts. I remember owning a Little Miss Nobody Doll. In a fit of self-induced hypnosis...I think I can even recall what transpired. I am staring at a parcel wrapped in faded, slightly yellowed newsprint under the tree. It was not labeled with my name. It was not labeled with any name. It was made out to nobody in particular. Inside is a miniature porcelain doll with hair the texture of chaffed dry grass and eyes painted with a dull, matte glaze that seems to actively deflect light no matter the angle poised overhead, or trajectory with which it is held and flung in horror. When I asked my mother about it, she took a slow sip of her martini, blinked with exaggerated innocence, and asked what I was talking about. She claims she never purchased it. She claims it was simply there the morning of, and she presumed I had gotten it for myself. As recollection serves, the packaging was sitting directly on top of the unpleasantly textured machine-knit improperly gauged swatch cashmere sweater she did buy me. I remember the doll seeming almost. Smug. Looking at me right now from across the room with that vacant, needlepoint-focused smile, pretending she doesn't see the tiny ceramic hands resting on the edge of the rug like a pair of discarded teeth. I was thoroughly profoundly creeped the fuck out. I conducted an inventory of the attic crawlspace the morning after. No boxes matched the newsprint. No receipt existed on the kitchen island, stashed in the middle console of the car, beneath the bronze inlaid vacuum cleaner, hell even the trashcans upturned turned up nothing. My mother doubled down with the discipline of a seasoned federal agent, casually gaslighting, suggesting that I may have "manifested" the object in a fit of holiday-induced somnambulism, and encouraging me to check my credit score. As if I subconsciously yearn for a mass-produced artifact of Victorian despair with a slightly cracked chin. As if I wanted this. It was then that I decided we were both victims of my mother's perpetual neglect and inability to see eye to eye. So. The doll and I did instead. The shellacked, shell-shocked, massive eyes, droopy lips, and unkempt hair became...well. Nightmarish. But life outside of dreams proved no different. And the familiarity became a cold, but no less welcome, comfort. What about you?
D͇o͇ b͇r͇u͇s͇h͇ h͇e͇r͇ h͇a͇i͇r͇ t͇h͇o͇r͇o͇u͇g͇h͇l͇y͇. E͇v͇e͇n͇ i͇f͇ y͇o͇u͇ t͇a͇k͇e͇ p͇o͇s͇s͇e͇s͇s͇i͇o͇n͇ a͇n͇d͇ h͇o͇l͇d͇ o͇f͇ i͇t͇. S͇h͇e͇ d͇e͇s͇e͇r͇v͇e͇s͇ t͇o͇ b͇e͇. L͇o͇v͇e͇d͇. O͇t͇h͇e͇r͇w͇i͇s͇e͇, w͇h͇a͇t͇ w͇a͇s͇ i͇t͇ a͇l͇l͇ f͇o͇r͇?͇
Disturbingly close to my own recollections, except Mother accidentally (or "accidentally") ran it over as she was backing out of the drive.
...You know, I think I remember her as well. Despite our insistence otherwise we did love that doll. We despised what we assumed she represented - feared her in our weaker moments - but I remember a genuine fascination, occasionally bordering on obsession, with the strange twisting feeling it gave me to stare into her eyes. An early foray into horror. Or a latent fetish, who's to say if there's even a difference. I also remember hissing at her I think. And the third part of me feels a little jealous at how much attention you apparently paid her. You and her had history, but we had chemistry. All those long evenings spent knitting on me, improving me, covering my flesh with tendrils woven from tendrils, replacing my felt mouth and eyes with a foreign textile, transforming me into something terrifying and strange and far more beautiful than I ever was... So what if she has scary eyes? I had your near singular fixation for a good long while! Hmph, I say! Hmph! Your princess now requires comfort and reassurance that I'll always be the most important doll in your life. And since I'm you I can provide that reassurance myself! I just hugged myself it was very cute and I purred.
Mine sat at the feet of one of the wizard statues for one, maybe two weeks. I was deathly afraid of the whole "opening someone else's mail is a crime" thing, so I tried to keep it out of mind for as long as I could. Alas, curiosity got the better of me. When I unwrapped it and looked the contents I almost dropped the entire box- Jaspers had hissed at it when he curiously peeked over my shoulder at the sound of crumpling and tearing paper. You're correct in saying it didn't matter what angle it was, her beady little eyes stared in a way that I am now too used to myself. Here's where the tale would turn into something like. I placed the doll back at the wizard's feet, or I sent it to the attic and then it was resting back on the couch but no. It's far worse. As I did not want to take any chances, I performed a simple cleansing ritual and burned it. Three days later, a girl that went to my school, who was quite mean to me, was said to have suffered a freak accident involving a deep-fried turkey. She survived, but...