Frisk hates birthdays.
It reminds her just how little she gets to say in the matter about the one special day that she's supposed to use to her desires, but there's never any fun in it. Her parents assume and act until it's nighttime and the magic's all gone, and the year goes on like usual. She knows it will be no different today, and curls up in the velvety material of her blankets, clinging to its warmth as she hears the faint creaking of the door. Footsteps follow, followed by whispers and giggling, and Frisk holds still, playing pretend she's in deep slumber and thus not to be bothered.
She breathes steadily, moving to face the other side for a change of position. More giggling ensues, her parents talking softly, a little too loudly for her liking but not loud enough that it would wake her from actual sleep had she been in one. Then the shutters are lifted, and Frisk crinkles her face as light hits it.
"See, she's awake!" A female voice rings, and Frisk grunts sleepily in annoyance, shoving her head under the pillow. "Wakey wakey, birthday girl. Get up, we're having a feast for today's breakfast, just about the best for you! Now, come on, you know it's getting annoying by now. Don't want to make mommy angry, yes?"
She reluctantly crawls off the blankets, falling onto the floor with a thud.
"That's not a birthday attitude," Her moms says irritably, placing her hands on her hips. "Don't waste my time, you hear me?"
They all climb down the stairs, with Frisk trying to block out the merry chatter between the other two as she descends. Her body is still warm from the excess time spent in bed, and she's a little overwhelmed as she approaches the table. A round, fancy cake is placed in the middle, with big, creamy letters of 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY FIONA' written over it, while the rest of the content of the table is familiar dishes of carefully arranged sandwiches, cornflakes, at least three types of juice - while Frisk is a voracious eater in the mornings, she reels back, tearing her eyes away.
Her dad urges her to sit down, and she does, keeping her head lowered down.
"Don't be embarrassed. You'll be the star of the day, after all," He reassures her unhelpfully, and she hunches over more. "What's the matter, Fi?"
"Have you..." She whispers, sliding down a little. "Have you-"
This gets the attention of her mother, who eyes her skeptically. "Speak up, girl, and do it confidently."
Have you ever thought of asking me what I want? Her mind screams, Maybe I don't want this to be a big deal at all.
"Nothing, sorry." She replies in a merry fashion, sitting up in the chair. "I'm overwhelmed is all. It's not every day that it's my birthday!"
It's not worth the risk.
It's exhausting.
She meets and talks to more people than she wants to, smiling and grinning and bouncing in faked excitement until they go away. Some stay for longer than necessary, some are equally uncomfortable about having to be faced with Frisk like she with them, others she genuinely hopes to spend her time with; and they all leave, Frisk's head pounding and begging her not to engage in further interaction as if she could help it.
Frisk attends a restaurant, windowshops, and reluctantly follows her mother in stores they already pay frequent visits to. Her dad is equally cheerful, trying to engage in a conversation, and Frisk keeps it short like always, hoping to be left out of it. Sometimes she is, sometimes she isn't. She is no longer sure where they're headed to, and drags along, eyes searching for any indication that it's getting dark. Summer days are painfully long.
At some point, her mother dons a familiar grin on her face, and Frisk knows where they're going.
Her mother loves dolls.
Porcelain little pretties, sitting on shelves, their gazes docile and looking right through you. Some had golden curls, little caps over their sunny heads, eyes of the colours of the skies, or sometimes of chocolate, or sometimes of greenery; some had light brown ponytails, some fiery red braids. Frisk has a growing collection of them, pretending not to have a distaste for the way they stared at her at night as if they were going to gouge her own eyes out.
They enter the shop, Frisk flinching slightly at the way the bells jingled at every customer's entry. One thing she likes about the shop is the owner, a bald, fat man with an eternal, genuine grin who plays along to every child's game and gives the dolls life and character. He greets her mother warmly, shakes her father's hand, and smiles sweetly at Frisk. "So, what will this year's birthday pick be, soldier?"
She shrugs nonchalantly.
"We've expanded our collection - there's the victorian girlies, they're a real hit! We've got boys, too-"
"Fiona wouldn't like a boy doll," Her mother interrupts, a little uncomfortably. Frisk turns her head at her and sticks out her tongue while she isn't looking. "Oh, that one's so cute! Sugar, what do you say we get this one? She has your eyes, see?"
"Let her pick for herself," The owner laughs pleasantly, gesturing to the shelves. "Come on, soldier, take your pick. We've got plenty and they all seek a new home."
Frisk can't see a resemblance between her and the doll her mother pointed out. She ambles around the shop, regarding some of the girls, as if in deep thought about her pick. Some shelves are too high to reach, and she doesn't bother with them, reaching out for a doll at random instead.
Until she feels a different set of eyes pierce through her.
She looks up, her gaze meeting a rag doll that stands out uncomfortably from the others, stitches uneven and its hair limp and brown. There are black buttons, although both a different shape, in place of her eyes, and a shabbily sewn little blue dress on her. It's on one of the higher shelves, and Frisk bounces up towards it.
"Oh, you want this little girlie?" The owner muses, surprise in his tone, and approaches the shelf, picking it up. "We got her a while ago as a donation, even though we don't typically accept them. She looked so sad I just had to have her here."
"I'm not paying for this shabby little thing." Her mother snaps, causing even Frisk's father to flinch. "Why don't you pick something prettier, hm? It's your birthday, after all, and I'm getting the best for you here."
Frisk picks up the doll, looking it over in curiousity, and suddenly knows her choice.
"I want this one." She says firmly, holding it close to her chest.
"Oh, for heaven's sake-"
"Well, I'm not selling it because it's not a part of my business, so how would you like to have her for free, hm?" Frisk also decides she loves this man. "She's a charming little thing once you get to know her. Shabby, yes, but looks doesn't dictate personality, right, Mrs. Buchanan?"
He means it well, but she glares daggers through him. "Alright. I'm gonna get myself a treat from here, if that's her choice."
She means it maliciously, but Frisk has not felt happier about a birthday gift.
Her mom doesn't speak to her for the remainder of the day, and it's her father that comes around to kiss her goodnight and offer to read her a story. Frisk declines, then spends a few minutes awake, wondering whether it was normal for families to be that demanding. Her dad is an exception - a relatively soft man, but Frisk wishes they were worlds apart anyway, solely because he doesn't dare contradict his wife. She wishes she was worlds apart from herself, too, for the same reason.
Frisk tosses and turns in her bed, fearing the dark. Dolls from previous years are lined up on her shelves, and she dreads their very presence.
She's so ugly! Someone giggles.
How embarrassing. Someone hisses.
I don't want to be here, Someone whines.
We should go get her, Someone offers.
Frisk places her hands over her ears, her body shaking. Tiny little whispers echo all around the room, and she can't block them out; she tries not to cry, burrowing herself further under the sheets and pillows, wishing it was just a nightmare. Maybe if she repeats it to herself for long enough, it would turn out to be true. Hopefully, possibly, unlikely. It's not going away.
She hears hollow little taps on the floor, then a faint tug at her sheets. She freezes, then mutters under her breath, "Please don't. I don't need this, I don't need this, I don't need this, I don't need this..."
She chants it until it's audible, and there's another weak tug.
"Hey, I'm not gonna harm you." A voice whispers back gently, "Look at me. You'll be okay. You won't get hurt."
Soothed by the sincerity of the voice, Frisk lifts up her sheets, peering cautiously at a small figure in the dark. It's none of the scary toys of porcelain, and she's relieved, but understandably confused about their sentience. The speaker smiles, offering a clothed hand. "Come with me. Don't be afraid, nothing bad is going to happen to you."
Frisk reluctantly climbs out of her bed, towering over the rag doll as she watches her every movement in a wary fashion. The doll walks off, motioning Frisk to follow, and she does, keeping distance between them. It's dark, and she nearly stumbles upon some of her objects until they finally leave the room.
This is not her house.
She walks through dark corridors, following the strange entity as it descends down and up stairs, walks through doors she doesn't recognize, and Frisk makes a point not to turn away. For the first time in her life, she wishes she was in her parents' room, at least being comforted by safety and predictability; Eventually, they stop in a dark, wide room with a single light source from above in the fashion of a spotlight, where the doll urges her to move to. It illuminates them both as they settle.
"I'm really sorry about the girls," She sighs, looking up at Frisk with beady eyes. "They can be awfully mean sometimes. But trust me, they won't lay a single finger upon you, even if they want to. They're required by law not to. My, my, you have so many of them!"
Frisk stares back, then averts her gaze anxiously. "This is a weeeeeeeird dream. What's going on? Are you going to kill me?"
The doll falls silent for a moment in consideration, then bursts into laughter. "No, of course not, I'm not gonna kill you! In fact, I'm doing just the opposite, okay? I'm here to offer my protection." She hums gently, smiling again. "Human... it's Fiona, isn't it?"
"Frisk," She corrects her in annoyance.
"Frisk, yes. My apologies, I am not good at remembering names. We, as dolls, exist to offer protection. Not everyone qualifies for it, and I'll get to that later, but you're a very self-aware girl, aren't you? You see things that shouldn't be seen by normal eyes - in fact, shouldn't be seen at all."
Frisk swallows, expression alert.
"You have nightmares, don't you? Creatures that prey on your mind and tear you to bits and pieces."
She chokes back a sob, but doesn't turn her head away.
"You're not the only one. There are many like you," The doll continues sternly. "and what you see, if it goes on for too long, you're done for. I have a lot to tell you, but it is not the time. I want to offer you a contract. I will protect you, and you will protect me in return. We will act together, as a team, we will be friends and we will be teammates, we will be equal. Nobody else in your room will offer you that, Frisk. I need you to trust me."
Frisk sits down, silently basking in the light. It's bright, and she gazes upon the doll's expectant face. It seems too surreal to be a dream, but she acknowledges the sleepless nights and knows she wants them gone. "Okay. I trust you."
"Hold my hand and say it again. Say 'I trust you'. That's how we seal the contract."
She reaches out slowly, taking hold of the doll's limp hand. "I trust you."
Her own hand feels warm and looks like it's glowing. The doll shows no indication of wanting to tear it away. "Grant me with a name."
Frisk squints, observing the doll's features, and finds herself amongst everything. "Um... you'll be... mini Frisk."
Her hand ceases its glow. She pulls it away, inspecting it cautiously, but finds no change to it. The doll laughs gently and sits down with Frisk, a contented expression on her face. "We ARE quite alike, aren't we?"