My mistress had a talent. She could make things, things no one else could. People from every village around would come with their children to tour Bulma's Beautiful Creations and find something exquisite. One of a kind. Hand made by my mistress.
Her hands. They were so graceful. How many hours, days, months had I spent watching those delicate hands craft her wares? It was hypnotic. Soothing. A balm on a restless soul to watch those slender fingers caress the intricate cogs and joints that made her toys work. She was a genius. A goddess to bring to life something out of nothing.
Wide-eyed children stumbled from shelf to shelf, held up by the firm grip of their guardian's hand as they stared with wonder at my mistress' collection. Everything the imagination could conceive of and more existed here. Wooden owls whose wings would gracefully flap. Metallic trains whose parts were all to scale and functional. Porcelain dolls with a beauty and filigree that could rival the finest noble lady. One could even find fantastical creatures, fairy tale and myth made real on my mistress' workbench and sold for a few silver pieces.
Nothing lasted long here, everything snatched up.
Everything except me.
I sat in one of the farthest corners of the shop, out of the sunlight where dust and cobwebs often gathered. I had been one of her first, a badge of honor I wore with pride despite the pitying looks of the parents as their eyes swept over me. Compared to the rest of my mistress' creations, I left a lot to be desired. There were no moving parts, no shiny paint work, no whimsy about my design. But it mattered not to me.
"The Prince". How I swelled with pride at my name tag. Not "the owl" or "the train" or any other mundane denomination. No, I was a prince. Her prince. She had made me this way. Therefore I could only believe she had made me as she wanted.
Perfect.
It did not matter that the customers saw me as less. "Ugly." "Scary." To hell with their assessments. She did not think so. She had made me. And every day I remained un-bought was another day by her side.
The sign outside the shop-door slammed, rattling in the wake of an autumn storm. The customers grew restless, making their final purchases as they eyed the dark clouds outside and made comments about the weather.
"Almost as black as that sad doll over there," one of them joked at my expense. Not for the first time. I saw the furrow of my mistress' brow, the inclination to put the rude customer in place brewing within her. But she didn't indulge this time, offering instead a polite — if tight — smile and bidding the man a safe journey home.
The customers left, and my mistress closed up the shop and pulled out her tools to work.
Her gaze fell upon me. A delight like electricity danced over my body. It had been a long time since she regarded me so purposefully. I still remember the way she smiled when she made me, how proud she had looked to hold me complete in her hands. With unyielding certainty, I knew that I was her greatest achievement.
She approached my corner and picked me up. Always so carefully, not jerking me up and down as the children who handled me did. Carrying me to her work bench, she laid me out and brushed off the dust from my face and the black suit she had fashioned me in. It was such a treat to be held by her again, to feel the warm of her fingers seep into me.
My chest tightened at the chance to see her so close. The soft curve of her cheek, the crystal blue of her eyes, the enchanting way her blue tresses fell over her right shoulder. Her beauty outshone us all.
She brushed her hand over the flame of my hair. The sensation shivered all the way to my toes. She smiled, but it was a sad thing. If she had fashioned me a heart, I might have found it breaking. My mistress wasn't often melancholic. What troubled her? I yearned for her confidence, for her to whisper in my ear like she did once when she first created me and spoke to me of her day and worries.
The wind whipped against the shutters. She undressed me. First my coat, peeling back the regal black fabric with hand-sewed embroidery. Then my shoes, each one worked from real leather with tiny laces. Then my vest and its mother-of-pearl buttons. My trousers. My socks. My shirt… Each piece stripped away until I lay bare before her. I felt no shame. She had made me, inside and out. I had no secrets from her, except the undying esteem I held her in. Could she read that in the black glass eyes she had given me?
My mistress' gaze furrowed. She picked up a pencil and started drawing on my skin. A flicker of doubt rose within me. Was she… not satisfied? Had she not made me perfect? Did I displease her?
The clip of the pencil as she placed it down rang as loud as a falling axe. She picked up her tools and carefully, fastidiously, removed my left leg from my body.
…No matter. What use had I for it? If my mistress required it or found it displeasing then I could oblige this. She had given me life, what was one leg?
Helplessly, uneasily, I watched her tool moved up. Next she took my left arm.
My leg. My arm. She had given them to me. Made them for me. Why now did she take them back?
My mistress pushed my limbs aside and picked up a different tool, one slightly curved. Not easily forgotten. She had given me sight with that tool. It had been the first thing I saw, other than her smiling face.
She placed the tool under my left eye. For the first time in existence, I begged her. Not this. Please mistress, not this…
The candlelight reflected in her glassy unfeeling eyes, and all my hopes dried up like burnt paper.
As the tool sunk into my socket, so did the truth. I had never been her prince. Only a doll. The steel cupped my eye with the cold hand of death, and regardless of my shameful panic she pried out my eye and left me in half. Broken. Unmade.
Imperfect.
She stayed up the whole night to remake me.
The next morning, children swarmed the shop window to stare at her newest creation. She had taken me from my comfortable spot in the shadows where I could watch over her, and thrust me into the spotlight to be gaped at and ridiculed. Unable to see her with my remaining good eye.
The children's eyes bugged with fear as they stared at my furry left side, the hideous half-man half-ape she had turned me into, a wretched frozen metamorphosis of a monster. Their mouths whispered my new name as my own snarled a silent scream that no one could hear.
Prince no more. She had taken everything good from me.
But she had made me this way. Therefore I could only believe she had made me as she wanted.
"Ew, what is that? It's terrifying."
"That's the Beast."