Five of Wands

 // dolls, cults, paranoia, PTSD

You stare tiredly into the half-drank glass of cheap beer. With rent paid with a little to spare, you can feel your springs unwind and release the tension they had been accumulating. 

You sip your beer, eyes taking in the shitty dive bar. That’s when you see it wander in.

You’d recognize one of her dolls anywhere of course, it’s practically your sister, she made each of you sp–shut up up shut up shut up, what the fuck is that doing here?

The doll placidly takes in the bar. You can see its enamel pins. It’s definitely hers. It doesn’t see you.

You realize you’ve stopped breathing and draw in a ragged breath, still hiding your face behind the glass. What a pathetic broken doll, not even willing to tal–

That’s right, you’re broken. You’re not like them. You’re free. You wait for the doll to look away and bolt.

The familiar streets to which you had begun to grow accustomed took on a sinister energy as you raced home, constantly glancing over your shoulder.

How the fuck did she find you? You know how she found you, wrapped around every doll’s heart is a satin ribbon whi–you throw up.

You slam the door to your flat closed behind you in a near panic, just managing to lock the deadbolt before crumpling.

You knew this would happen you pathetic doll. Did you really think you cou–your doll hugs you gently, silencing the voices and leaving only your quiet sobs.

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