Page of Cups

// dolls, cycle of abuse, trauma

They say th–

You stumble out of the din of the bar into the evening silence, ears ringing and burning. Lonely, embarrassed, all that glitter and your still can’t manage to be a person. It doesn’t matter, you don’t have any patience for asshole mages. Why are you so lonely then?

The metal railing is cool and feels good to perch on. At least it’s a nice night. You light a cigarette, and that’s when you see the doll. 

Wary, desperate eyes look back at you from behind a ragged overgrown mop of hair. You blink and clear your vision. You’re staring now.

“Hey uh, can I have a cigarette?” The doll asks you as you stare at it, at her. What’s gotten into you? What do you see in this girl? Pity? A twisted mirror?

The roar of a million crickets combine with the buzz of halogen bulbs and fluttering moth wings into a deafening silence.

You finally register her words after an awkward amount of time and fumble for your cigarettes, shakily offering her one and asking her name. 

She takes the smoke and lights it with jerking clockwork precision. Something about her has you transfixed. Is it how fragile she seems?

She tells you what she’s been going by lately, along with the fact she’s new, and doesn’t really have anywhere worked out to go yet. Before you realize what’s happened, you’ve blurted out an offer of a place to stay. 

The fear in her eyes as she accepts curls around your heart.

You light another cigarette, using the wash of nicotine to try and keep your cool. Don’t be weird now. She chatters excitedly to you while you listen, drunk on her words as you work out a plan to take her home with you.

They say that within every doll is the seed of a witch.

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