// dolls, cults, paranoia, PTSD
They say that every doll has a satin ribbon wra–That’s stupid shut up shut up there’s no such thing as dolls.
Why are her dolls here anyway? How did she find you? Is she coming after you? You pace frantically, fighting down the panic. Dolls, fucking dolls.
You take another shot of bottom shelf vodka as you stare at the collection of enamel pins. You know that the alcohol will corrode your gears, and ye–
“That makes six of them,” you tell your girlfriend with pursed lips, “They’re still doing the doll bullshit?”
Your doll nods excitedly, you trained it well considering you’re just another broken doll yourself, when she takes you back it’ll ma–No. No that will not happen.
“Oh yeah,” your do–girlfriend–is gesticulating with a cigarette, “They’re definitely on some sorta shit.”
“They’re hanging out at the Mage bar downtown,” your doll reports, leaning against a cluttered table, “They had business cards, fliers, the whole thing.”
She isn’t coming for you, she’s invading. It isn’t safe here anymore. It isn’t safe anywhere. You’re hyperventilating again.
“We need to leave,” you tell her, looking around as the walls close in on you, “We have to get out of this state.”
“They’re really that dangerous?” Your doll asks. Innocent, naive, how could a doll understa–you nod firmly.
“Just pack the essentials, we’ll leave first thing tomorrow morning,” you say, trying to keep your overwound springs from sna–
She hasn’t found you, this place isn’t infected with her yet. You still have time. Take a deep breath. You still have time. Your doll starts packing.
Is that clockwork or just the thundering of your heart? Don’t think about it. Just keep loading the car and suck down another cigarette.
Breathe. You aren’t just a scared little doll anymore. You can do this. They say within every doll is the seed of a witch right? Breathe.