WARNING: Allusions to child molestation, disturbing writing in-general. IF THIS SQUICKS YOU, PRESS THE BACK BUTTON RIGHT NOW.
I warned you. Don't say I didn't because I did.
*Suggested Music: Still Doll by Kanon Wakeshima
Still Doll
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Like a porcelain doll made of the finest china, crafted by the most skilled hands, this child was as pretty (not cute, not boyish, not handsome) as an expensive toy or heirloom. With eyes the color of a forest after rain and skin as smooth as silk, the young boy was simply a dream to look at, if one had the pleasure of viewing his childlike beauty. Hands small and dainty, like a petite lady’s, yet the frame, the build, clearly said this doll was definitely a boy. Eyes cast downwards, demure and so very young. Fingers clench nervously, clothing rustles and shifts, but still he is still perfectly doll-like. Pink stains his cheeks, child-like lips curve upward curiously, as if asking a question.
Answer with a nod, answer with a smile that wants—
The doll, who is set at his favorite toy: the piano. Those fingers dance and caress the ivory keys, like the fingers that smooth across his cheeks and his hair and his back. Caress and touch, the lips only curve curiously, caress and touch. The eyes are focused on those keys, on the answer. Not the fingers that slide over his neck, over his shoulders, over his torso. Heart does not race because the doll does not ponder.
Does not ponder the hands tracing patterns in his arms, his shoulders.
Does not ponder the hands ghosting over his lips, his neck.
Does not PONDER the fingers grazing the skin of his back, the fringe of his hair
Those lips, pearl-pink and pretty, curve and curve until those eyes, dampened nature, do not blink, cannot blink. Hidden, safe away those emotions, but will not blink.
The tilt of his head makes the bed of golden curls sweep against the porcelain neck that would snap pressure is applied. Curls softer than feathers or fur on an animal, thicker than the woven quilt framing the shoulders. The skin is beckoning for a touch, a glimpse and a simple taste. The skin is fine silk, of the purest of blood, and smooth like the marble busts in the dollhouse. Nothing less than the sweetest and softest honey before it hardens and breaks to pieces.
The doll, the boy, the doll does not blink. Does not waver under the fingers and the hands and the painted lips that stain, stain him and his ivory keys. The piano plays childlike tunes, yet the child does not show his whimsy. His back curves in like a bow, his lips, so pink and tender, twist. The fingers shake, the tune echoes. Curls of gold shift with each movement.
Hands, fingers, nails sneak where there is skin, smooth and pale and unmarred. It warms under the touch, the caress, like a flame to a wax candle. Does not burn, does not hurt. Glass-like eyes flicker, eyelids flutter.
Fingers clench, body shudders. A sound, the doll speaks, but like all toys he cannot be heard with such a small voice.
The child, the boy, the doll does not blink. Clothes do not become disordered. Still like the china porcelain, like the forest after the rain, like the candle after the flame has burned the last of the wick. It leaves burn marks; it leaves more fire in its wake.
Hands smooth over clothed arms, clothed waist, clothed thighs. Barely, barely there, the hips, undeveloped and so young. So young and sweet with every shake and shudder and telltale curve of those lips.
Slowly, slowly, the answers are harsher, are forceful, are unavoidable.
Slowly, it builds up, those touches and caresses, into a large crescendo. The keys slam awkwardly in sound when the doll resists, this time.
Other times, those eyes and lips did not focus. Other times, those caresses did not linger, did not last longer than a moment. The doll, the doll, the doll had creators who would not agree with him being played with.
Other times…are not these times, where the doll thrashes and tries to SCREAM but doll-like fingers cannot pry away those caresses, those touches. They burn into his silk skin, yet do not tear into his clothing. The doll struggles, the doll tries to run, the doll, the doll, the boy—
Cannot, will not escape or run or be free from his doll-like hands or his doll-like frame that quakes in fear when his legs are pinned to the piano bench. Eyes searching, searching for a way out as the boy, the doll’s back twists against the seat in horror and in shame.
Shutter, flutter the eyelids that are restless and swimming with fear, drowning in the rain of the forest. Hands ghost and slip along neck, along sides, along cheeks.
Pink lips curve, curve downward and unyielding against the fingers sliding along the soft flesh, the marble tints red and pink.
Doll-like hands, soft and dainty, reach out, grasping at air. Batting uselessly against the toy, the piano’s ivory only to hit a wrong note.
- END -
