The room is dark, you think, looking around in almost a facade of calm. Ever-so dark. Except for the wires.
. . . . .
. . . . .
Clear, thin, strong, nearly-invisible metal cuts into every joint on your body; your wrists, your knees, your elbows, your fingers, your jaw and neck even. 'Complete control', an innocent-sounding singsong voice recited inside your head. You were instantly reminded of your first night here; of the silenced screams, of learning to read emotions from the glass eyes of a doll stuffed with straw, how grueling your new, forcibly-yours lifestyle would be.
Your skin has turned a sparkling, porcelain-white color, quickly learning that it was best to keep your hair tied up at all times. Never know when the master himself will slink in and demand obedience, you think longingly, shaking your head in surprise and disbelief as another girl enters the dim room. Just days ago I would be screaming at the thought of being disturbed-you thought, eyes widening when you realized the wires had left, slipped off your skin for a moment, and you had missed the small, cherished second of freedom.
She has long, sun-colored hair reaching down to her waist, trailing behind her and cascading down her small and frail-looking shoulders. Dismissively you glance at the newcomer, not more than twelve years old, you think, your jaw moving of its own accord as it asks for the uniform. My uniform, you call it, the possessiveness of the statement giving you the impossible: chills.
The string attached to your wrist jerks up and at her, snatching away the soft, silky, red nightgown from her thin, delicate fingers. Thank you, you respond silently, mouth still as you nod your head. Your hands lift on their own, haughtily shooing the child away. As she mirrors you the faint, metallic, near-invisible glint appears, the same controlling string extending up from her wrist, taunt and lowing her flawless white arm down, back to her side again. You turn away, thank you, you think once more, the girl's steps rhythmic, body moving stiffly, like a rusty gate.
. . . . .
. . . . .
"My darling," the same song-like voice inside your head said, except now it was real, and coming from a person in front of you. "My beautiful, darling, precious Pet, oh come here, I want to see your outfit." There was a gentle, worn-sounding creak, and you saw the person tilt their head almost ninety-degrees. "Come on, don't be shy. A girl of such perfection, and at such an age, should be proud."
His steady, small steps echo as he moves closer to you, and you can't help but think-he has such an amazing voice, it sounds like every word he says is a song, and then the wire holding your jaw still is suddenly removed. "Yes, master," you reply, passively of course, because if you say the wrong words the wire will come back.
"Good girl," he says, and intentionally or not, it sounds soothing to my ears. "Such a perfect little puppet, aren't you," and I can't help but think-just like you, Drossel. We're both immortalized far too late, far later than these little children's playthings running around in the mansion, and I suppose, although he rarely says anything about his insides, he feels the same way about our state of living as I do, and I think-the little girls would most likely complain about the wires.
. . . . .
. . . . .
Most dolls are not handcrafted, unique, special in their own way; they're processed, made from the same mold, forged from the same block of wood, sewn from the same length of fabric. Dolls never have to worry about fitting into a group, because they are the group.
To become one of his precious puppets, you have to give up everything. Every piece of originality, each personality trait, all the features you have that make you a living, breathing, one-of-a-kind human. He strips it away, leaving you nothing but a cold, safe, empty shell, the first reveal the most humiliating and pathetic of them all. You stand in front of him, without your clothes, without your ego or your hopes and dreams, no control of your body.
Drossel shows you exactly who you are, what you look like, what you're really good for. He plays to our strengths and eliminates our weaknesses, taking care of his darling dolls. What we are most of all is nothing more than a shattered, crumbling, enormously hurt broken-down relic of a once-human soul.
. . . . .
. . . . .
"Here, my precious, let me help you with that." His thin, nimble fingers swiftly undo the clasps of your uniform, the starchy white material falling to the floor, piling up at your feet. As more skin was exposed the multiple red cuts from the wires sting, connecting with the air, and you think-eventually, it won't bother me.
The soft pads of his fingers brush against your back and then they hover, hesitantly, you think. The same worn creak as before, and you sense his head tilting, only not as much this time. "Is there something wrong, my puppet?" he asks, and then the wires, not you, move your head from side to side. His fingers continue their busy work, and his auburn hair feathers across the back of your neck, and he replies, "That's what I thought."
. . . . .
. . . . .
Even now, with Drossel, the one you owe your entire life to-you think, enjoying the freedom you feel in his surprisingly warm embrace, the room is still dark. Even with the sunlight, glinting so beautifully off the wires.