Mannequins ~ By Fujin

Sequel to Dolls


He placed the books in front of her. A dozen or so books with dark covers and many pages, some where white, some as yellow as sunflower petals. Some books seemed brand new to her but most look as if they hadn't seen the light of day in a long time. The older ones had water stains ruining their thick covers and smelled of musk and dust. Dorothy looks at them as though they were bugs, impassive, as they laid under her slender nose on the polished tabletop. One finely arched eyebrow was raised, her nose scrunched up from the horrible odor. Her hands ached to push the disturbing books far away from her. But with her composure remaining as nonchalant as ever, she slowly raised her eyes to shoot a questioning gaze up at the tall man whom loomed over him. There was a look in his eyes that caught her uncertainty.

"What are those for, Roger?" she asked. Her voice was as dull as dry clay; monotone and lifeless like always.

The dark clad negotiator only shrugged at her before he moved away from her. He left the books behind. "They are just some works I want you to go through," he told her. He took his seat at the opposite end of the dinning table, his face as calm as ever like his command was not something out of the blue. Dorothy tried to keep the confusion away from her face, though she doubted that he face would ever bend to the expression. "You might find them beneficial."

Dorothy kept her dark eyes on him for several more moments. A feeling of suspicion was slowly crawling into her mechanical senses.

"Oh," she replied. "Are you assigning me homework now?"

Roger briefly glanced at her, unamused. Then he shrugged again-a movement that Dorothy soon grew to hate-before turning his attention to the plate of food that Norman had placed before him. "Think what you would like, Ms Waynright," he told her, fingers curving around his silver fork. "I want you to look through those books. Maybe you will like them."

"I have no doubt in mind that I won't," Dorothy shot back sarcastically.

She missed Roger's frowning glare when she had already lowered her eyes to the neglected books before her. Her plate lay beside them, just as ignored. But all too soon her hands were on them, spreading them out to see what they were. Many of them looked to be books of science and works of the human body. One was completely dedicated to the human voice, one to the workings of the facial expression, and one to the fascinating discoveries of the eyes and all that it could reveal about the human soul. There were many more about her, some on the same subjects but giving different theories and opinions.

For a moment she became frightened and a little nervous, or at lest this would be the time she would become so. The reactions seemed appropriate enough. Had he seen her play with the dolls in the attic last night or was this just merely the answer to al her problems as an android trying to act human? She didn't know which one had triggered Roger's unexpected gifts but she did perceive that the books would be better than trying tirelessly to mimic Roger like a lost monkey in her quest to obtain more human movements.

A sudden thought hit her suddenly, making her fingers crawl away from the hard covers and musty pages. Her movements were slow as if she had just touched blood and didn't know what to make of it. She glanced at her hands, seeming to tremble a little as she held them palm up in her lap. Roger watched this, his eyes questioning.

"Dorothy?"

"I thought this city had rid its self of books, Roger," she told him. "I never really put much thought into it last night when I cleaned the attic. Isn't it nefarious to keep books that would trigger one's memory?"

Roger seemed to understand her question. He placed his fork down next to his plate and, resting his elbows upon the table, looked at her with his eyes appearing above the point his fingers made. "Dorothy, it is not nefarious for you to read them," he told her after a moment. "You have no memories of your past life so these books will not trigger any. Do you understand?"

Dorothy was slow to come around. For a moment she looked as if she was processing what Roger had said and for that time he grew apprehensive. What if she had changed her mind about them? But his fears were put aside when he saw her nod her crimson head and push back her chair. Stooping over the table she gathered the books into her arms.

"I will begin reading them tonight," she told him. "Good night."

"Good night, Dorothy," Roger replied. He watched she turn to leave the dining room under his eyelashes. Her voices seemed as monotone as ever but he thought that her pace had picked up a bit. Was she in a hurry? If it had, Roger couldn't have been more proud of her.

A movement at his side caught his attention. He looked sideways, meeting the face of his butler looming over him.

"What is it, Norman?"

Norman seemed troubled. "It is nothing, sir," he murmured at first. "Do you think it was wise of you to give those books to Dorothy. She might not understand them and perceive them the wrong way."

Roger nodded, smiling a little. "If she could perceive the workings of Lord McCabey, she can understand anything she wants too. Just give her time. This is what she wants-to be more human. And reading up on the subject is probably better than mimicking our movements."

Norman won't argue. Long ago he had come to realize Roger's streak of stubbornness. He would not admit to doing wrong until wrong crossed his path. So with a sigh, Norman gave up the battle. "Yes, Roger. I see. Forgive me for my questions. I have stepped over the boundary."

"It's all right. But you have to admit, seeing Dorothy become her own person is something we can't deny her."

"Yes, Roger."



*~*~*~*~*



Darkness had fallen over the city. The moonlight poured into her room from her open window and flowed upon her figure as she sat on her bed, legs crossed and reading a book. Several laid before her and several laid to her side. The ones before her she had all ready completed reading them while her brain still fused with their unlimited knowledge of human nature. Enlightenment ideas philosophers of old would say. Even so late in the night, her mind ran wild with thesises and issues she had never thought of before and never imaged she would think. Never had she wanted to be more human than now-to react and have all the emotions the books praised. She seemed to be a dry sponge drinking in the intoxicating pools of wisdom.

But all too soon Dorothy yawned and stretched. Was she actually sleepy? She had the urge to laugh aloud to no one in particular out of pure amusement as she removed the heavy book from her lap and stretched her numb legs. Since when had she ever wanted to laugh? Certainly not any time she had stayed here with Norman and Roger. Where those books getting to her? She sighed as she rubbed her eyes. What was it that she felt? Was it fatigue? If she were tired she knew no matter how tired she felt she still would remain as enthusiastic about the world about her as ever, eager and willing to put to the test all she had learned just this night. Still she needed a good night's sleep for the next morning.

Removing the books from her bed, she suddenly relished in the newfound softness of the black covers, over the firmness of the mattress. Why had she never realized these things before? They were complete heaven! Slowly, as if they were nothing but a sleeping serpent, she ran her slender fingers over her quilt. She at once decided that she liked the glossy texture of the silk run across her cold skin. Then she touched her pillows next, pressing down on them. They were as malleable as clouds! She fell onto her bed when the books were on the floor, feeling her body bounce twice before settling. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Was this like being human? She thought it was pretty close.

She sighed as she placed her head onto the pillow, her hands resting at her sides while her fingers continued to stroke the silk covers beneath her. She knew she ought to sleep but all to soon she was sitting up again, now more determined to observe her surroundings more closely than even before. Eyes roaming around her dark room and fingers timidly ardent to touch things, she felt like a child marveling at the wonders of a new world that lay before her like magic. She crawled off her bed and walked to her closet, the dark fabric of her day dress swaying silently around her shins. She opened the wooden doors and retrieved her long nightgown. It was black as usual and the paleness of her fingers made the black even darker as she held it before her.

She frowned. Was dose Roger insists on only black clothing? It's so gloomy. We are not mourners at a funeral. She slowly touched it, running her fingers down the front of it. At least it was as soft as the covers on her bed.

With a little sigh she threw of her day dress, slipped out of her shoes and stocking and pulled the nightgown over her head, and down her slender body. For a moment she suddenly felt proud of her figure. Why won't she? She was a model of perfection-slender, long graceful legs, pretty face, snow-white skin, short crimson hair. She thought she might call herself beautiful. When she saw herself in the mirror hanging on the closet's door she found herself drawn to it automatically. Studying it intently, Dorothy ran her hands through her hair, touched her pale cheeks, and traced the bridge of her slender nose. This was the first time she had ever cared for her appearance and it was also the first time she actually smiled. A smile meant only for her, an experiment to see how it looked on her pale red lips. It seemed awkward at first, as her fingers run over her stretched lips, but with a little practice if felt normal and uplifting. Why had Roger never smiled?

She tenderly stroked the mirror; its cool surface remained her of her dinner plate, so smooth but certainly more reflective! Still smiling a little she quietly closed the doors of her wooden closet and slowly treaded back towards her bed. On bare feet she giggled softly as it tickled her feet and in between her toes. Seduced by the pleasant itch under her small feet she slowly spun around in circles, her arms wide open as her hair brushed against her cheeks by the cool turrets of air that turned about her like a invisible waltz partner.

With an exhausted laugh he all but feel onto her bed, breathing heavy and worn out. She laughed a little at the range of strong emotions that ran through her body then as if slapped in the face by reality she began worried. Petrified at the sudden change of her own self. Why had she changed all of a sudden? What had brought these sort of changes? The books weren't a reliable source. She had just read them this night! Surely she wasn't that fast to adapt to new ideas. Her new life with Roger took weeks for her to adjust let alone one evening.

What had made this time so different? Why was she experiencing so many new things in one night? For the first time in her life Dorothy felt confused. Why was she feeling this way? Was there something wrong with her? And if so, what? How can there be something wrong with her? She felt perfect.

She thought that her room would answer her questions. With ebony eyes on the verge of sleepless worry she glanced about her bedroom. Like many other rooms it was dark and gloomy. If this night would have been normal for her she would not care for the dismal aura the four walls gave off, but tonight it disturbed her. It was so dark it was as if she were in a coffin. She had to shiver involuntarily at that thought. So this is what it means to lay dead in a coffin, all darkness and gloom surrounding you with nothing but your stillborn limbs as your sole source for comfort and company. Roger should really let some color creep into his house now and then. Did it upset him to have so much black in his home?

Her eyes feel onto the painting above her empty fireplace. A gist from Roger it was, so to speak. Weeks ago he had painted that when he was working with an odd case. She thought it was a horrid thing but she couldn't tell him that straight out and give the picture back to him. So she had to suffer silently under the watch of that ugly picture. Save a splash of white paint for her skin and hideous smudges of red paint for her hair, it didn't even look like her. Roger really wasn't a very good artist. In fact she thought he made a pretty pathetic one. She could tell the day he stared to paint that thing that her impression was right but she didn't have the heart to burn his dream.

Yes, Roger did have a dream to paint something. She couldn't deny that and he hadn't tried to deny her dream of becoming more human. The facts are that he willingly supported her by providing her with those books of science so that she might have a concept on how humans acted. Yes, that was her dream. She couldn't run away from it, no matter how frightening she knew the transformation might be. She had to stick to it until her dream came true. Long ago she set out to find within her the power to become human and now that she was about to discover it, she couldn't give up her dream so easily. That's want would give her the strength to keep going. She had to become human or else be a robot the rest of her life, a plain shadow of a dead girl eating out of the pitying hand of humanity.

She made up her mind.

"I don't care," she murmured to herself. Her voice was filled with so many feelings-anger, anticipation, and hope. "I don't care anymore. I want to be human. It is my choice." With a sigh she glanced about the room. "Grandfather, you always believed in me. I know you would be proud if you saw me now." A pensive pause, a pause plagued by ancient sorrow and woe. "Leave me alone, Dorothy. I'm no longer your ghost. May your soul find peace now that I no longer choice to walk in your footsteps."

To be continued......