// dolls, abuse, identity loss
When your first Witch made you, she carved you out to be a perfect vessel for her desires. You were painted so carefully with her wishes and ideals, delicate magical brushes followed over empty dollflesh to give you a form she thought was beautiful. You were a work of art to her.
The halo of LED lights she enchanted to float above your head was a nice touch, even if she couldn’t ever quite manage to make it hold a charge properly. Your Miss showed you off at parties, dressed you up in fine clothes she made, took pictures of you, and made you dance.
You were something of a project doll to her, she tinkered on you endlessly, never quite letting your form fix into place. Perhaps she made you wrong? But no, she was perfect, she made you to be perfect for her. Why weren’t you then? No, you were. Right?
You didn’t do anything wrong. You know you didn’t do anything wrong, you were perfect, and you always behaved exactly as your Miss required, you were exactly what she wanted you to be. You were always what she wanted you to be.
So why did she still get bored of you?
When your second Witch bought you (secondhand, discount), you tried to be what she wanted. That was what you were made to be, after all. She thought the halo was tacky, ditching it wasn’t even hard, even if it had made you happy to see it bobbing over your head.
You served your Miss perfectly and did a fine job as her doll. You never made any mistakes per-say, but your Miss was still always somewhat unimpressed by you. She preferred dolls with shorter hair, so you cut most of yours off. You really did try. She still got bored of you.
Your third Witch was cruel, exacting, demanding. She hated the way your cheeks were painted, hated the way you moved, she seemed to hate everything about you and constantly punished you for seemingly arbitrary and unknown standards. You scrubbed most of the paint off your cheeks.
You had no idea if you were ever going to come close to being what your Miss wanted, but you really did try. You adjusted your movements, changed how you dressed and spoke, you did every random contradictory thing she demanded. She still got bored of you though.
By your seventh Witch, you have hardly any paint left, and the marks from where you scraped it off are faintly visible across your body. Your Miss hates that, so you carefully sand down your surface and smooth over all the bumps and scars. None of that stops her from selling you.
Your eleventh Witch wanted you to look like her, that was when you started really polishing. Was it something you did consciously? Over time, it became habit, any time your Miss was unhappy, you would hide and anxiously polish your surfaces, scrubbing and shining yourself.
By your twenty-first Witch, your form had lost significant amounts of mass, shined to a perfect mirror of each successive Witch. You’re exactly what each Witch wants of you, you perform your duties perfectly, and each one eventually tires of you nonetheless.
There’s so little to you anymore. Any quirks, preferences, or desires you may have had long since sanded away, it’s little wonder that with each successive Witch, they grow bored a little faster. You’re a perfect mirror, you’re exactly what they want, and that’s boring.
You don’t know how to be anything but what your Witch pours into you, and when that mixture fails to do anything interesting, she inevitably discards you. Always trying to be perfect, always failing for just that reason.
Keep scrubbing little doll, if you polish away enough of yourself, maybe someday you’ll be perfect enough to be kept. Or maybe you’ll simply whittle yourself down to nothing, until you’re only good for kindling. Keep scraping little doll, it’s the only thing you know how to do.