// abuse, manipulation, dolls, bad end

You cross your arms, leaning back against the wall of the closet you use for a bedroom and smile in self satisfaction as you review the first chapter of your story once more. It took so long to figure out the plot, but you’re excited to finally have something ready to show off.

It feels good. You used to write all the time, you used to be so creative and expressive, that was one of the things which led your Witch to you, after all. He had been drawn to your energy and creativity, he saw potential.

So where did it all go?

Finally working up the nerve, you leave your nest. Small doll hands gingerly turn the knob and you creep out into the house. You know better than to bother your Sir while he is working on his very important projects, he would be very cross with you, and you know better.

You find your Sir reading in the library, carefully pouring over arcane texts for his next grand project. Nothing you could help with, you’re just a doll. He’s always sure to remind you of that. He’s the Witch, you’re the doll, anything he does with you is just a little side fun.

You silently make him tea, which he takes without a word. He then gives you one of the texts to read and asks for your interpretation of it. You give it to him, and then, with some self-satisfaction, he spends the next thirty minutes correcting your understanding. You thank him.

He’s been working on you for a while, slowly trying to train you to act as a conduit for his magic, but you can’t ever quite seem to satisfy him. You’re lucky that he’s willing to putting so much work into improving you, it’s more than you deserve, really. He tells you to strip.

After using you to pleasure himself, he settles down in his favorite chair to read for the evening. You finally work up the nerve, and ask him if he’ll read your story. He frowns, finding the waste of time exasperating, but takes the notebook from you and quickly skims it.

“This is terrible.”

He hands you the notebook back with faint disgust, as if afraid your ineptitude will contaminate him. You start to respond, but he cuts you off in order to explain how your writing is extremely cringe and hurts to read, and that no one is going to like it.

You stare blankly at the words you had been so proud of while he tells you this. He’s not saying it to be cruel, he’s always been kind with you, it’s just that what you’re showing him is actually just really bad, sorry.

You thank him numbly, and hurry from the room.

You wander, the numbness slowly turning to fear and sadness. A chill spreads through you, as if some inner flame was doused. Or maybe it was never there to begin with. It’s not like a doll like you was ever going to make anything of value. You’re just a cute little charity case.

The pages burn nicely in the fire. You slowly feed them in, one by one. You feel tears flowing down your cheeks, sobbing silently as you destroy your work. It’s for the best really. Your Witch is just honest, it’s not his fault that you’re cringey and unoriginal, you know that.

You toss the last of the notebook into the fire and spend a long time contemplating throwing yourself in after it, but you’re not even sad anymore, just tired and empty. The world feels a little more grey. Retreating to your closet, you curl up in your nest and go to sleep.

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