Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch.
A/N: *waves* I wanted to finish 'Russian Roulette' but the words just aren't flowing, so here is a little one-shot instead.
A very small part of this was inspired by the lovely GloriaNewt's wonderful songfic 'Broken Doll' and the other part came from a comment that Carla Connor (played by the beyond perfection that is Alison King) made on Coronation Street a few weeks ago, and I felt it could partly relate to HB.
Thanks goes to typicalRAinbow *hands another creme egg*
Like A Doll
To look at her, she was almost like a porcelain doll. Her pale milky skin served as the perfect complement to her long dark hair, the locks cascaded down her back; the waves rippling wondrously like an inky waterfall. The long eyelashes which framed the beautiful shape of her eyes, those deep brown eyes; which could say and at the same time conceal so much emotion and mystery. Her ruby red lips. She truly was a vision of doll-like perfection.
Sitting at her dressing table, her posture perfect as always, she averted her gaze from the mirror as she picked up the lipstick, changing her lips from ruby red, to dark burgundy. The make-up allowed for her to cover any imperfections that were present in her complexion, but also allowed for her to replace the mask which she wore on a daily basis: The mask of control.
The mask of indifference.
The mask that Constance Hardbroom used to face the world, and most importantly herself.
She'd averted her gaze from the mirror as her eyes said it all. The eyes were known to be the window to the soul, and she knew hers must be damaged beyond belief. All the spirit and joy she'd harboured for life once upon a time had been mercissely crushed at the cruel hands of her personal tutor from witch training college: Mistress Heckitty Broomhead.
Even now the woman's name could still send a shiver down her spine, churning her stomach up so bad she had to swallow in an attempt to keep the nausea at bay, it burned in her throat, bringing the beginnings of tears to her eyes; tears she wouldn't, and couldn't let fall. She had tried to bury her past, but it just kept resurfacing; like a chest that just wouldn't sink to the bottom of the murky waters, never staying beneath the surface for long.
It seemed no amount of potions could keep it from her memory: the nightmares she suffered frequently were proof of that; so vivid, so real. The dark, cold, damp place she was locked in, her own personal prison cell; isolated from everyone and everything with nothing but endless volumes of spellbooks to keep her from losing her mind and barely enough scraps of food to keep her alive. And the screaming … so much screaming.
Yes, from looking at her she was like a porcelain doll, but underneath she was anything but, treated for most of her life.
Like a ragdoll.
Nothing but a toy.
It was strange how something so innocent, something associated with young children; something that was treasured by so many little girls, could carry such a sinister secret and hide such dark truths – truths that no child, or even adult should be made to see.
The doll was symbolic of a happy childhood but the reality couldn't have been more different. It conjured images; horrible, dark images. Images that were normally hidden beneath the surface: out of sight out of mind.
Lifeless.
Helpless.
Mistreated.
Abused.
Neglected.
until finally...
Abandoned.
Used purely for Heckitty's own personal amusement: tortured both mentally and physically; pushed to the brink; pushed beyond the brink; pushed until she was broken. Then discarded, thrown to the side, in favour of a newer shinier toy.
However even though she had tried and near succeeded, Heckitty hadn't broken her. If anything she had made her stronger, and more willing to fight. Thanks to Cackle's Academy, the wounds had been stitched; those silver little threads held her together and whilst they were still strong, so was she; she wasn't breaking.
She couldn't.
She couldn't bear how she would be treated if she did; the sympathetic looks people would give her when they thought she wasn't looking would kill her; they way they would view her, almost as if they were scared to break her; like she was fragile.
Like she was a porcelain doll.
A/N: If anyone wishes to know Carla's comment was "I've been treated like a ragdoll all my life."