The Silent Doll

A short story written as an exercise.

This is a work of fiction. Any relation to the living, dead, places, events are coincidental.

Mary never liked dolls. She didn't like them because they talked, and they never had anything nice to say. She told her friends, her mother, and her aunt that the dolls talked, but they didn't believe her.

Why would they?

The dolls never talked to them, and dolls surely did not talk.

How Mary hated those dolls. The small, unrealistically beautiful toys made in the image of young girls spouted the cruelest words. How could such intricate and lovingly tailored things be so menacing?

What made matters worse was that the dolls could walk on their own. They followed her to school, to church, to the park. Everywhere. They never left her alone.

Her aunt was the one responsible for gifting her the dolls. One for every birthday since the day she was born.

Mary begged her aunt to not get her another doll. "Please, please, please!" She argued, "I'm too old. Dolls are for babies."

Her aunt laughed, saying, "Every girl needs dolls." The woman would buy her dolls until the day she died.

On her fourteenth birthday, Mary forced a smile as she tugged at the soft purple ribbon around a box wrapped in sky blue paper, dotted with brown teddy bears. Dreading what face would smile up at her. Eyes too round and big. Eyelashes too many. Lips too pink and hair too perfectly styled. Wearing a fancy dress made of silk pieces and lace. Following her around, talking with a high-pitched voice like the obnoxious girls at school; joining the raucous chatter of the other dolls.

But all that, she did not find upon opening the box. Mary couldn't take her eyes off this new doll. It stared back at her with plain brown eyes, simple eyelashes framing them, and lips nude of color. Plain brown hair, brushed neatly, reached down to its mid back. Its sundress smattered with a daisy and robin print. So simple. So beautiful.

Mary took the new doll to the garden. Waiting for it to talk. It was silent, though its eyes moved hesitantly. Gazing at the flowers, and the bees buzzing by.

Catherine. A proper and lovely name. She asked the doll if it liked the name, adding that she'd never named any of her dolls before. Well, she’s tried, but they had always named themselves. Displeased with the choices Mary made.

The doll didn't speak. It continued to gaze with saddened eyes. Almost troubled. Worried maybe.

Well—Mary wringed her hands—it was time to see if the doll was like the others. Maybe the doll would feel more comfortable in their company. All of them had, and they’d created a bullying clique. The thought made Mary sick to her stomach. She didn't think she could handle another doll taunting her, stalking her...

The introduction to the other dolls was what Catherine had been worried about. The others saw her, didn't like her and didn't try to hide the fact they didn't. Disregarding her feelings as if she had none.

Mary scolded them and put them in the toy box under lock and key for punishment. Stacking her school books on top for good measure as the dolls had ways of breaking out. She gave Catherine the honor of sleeping in the doll bed. It was a mini replica of Mary's bed. A four-poster bed complete with a canopy, silk sheets, down comforter and pillows.

It didn't take long for jealously to grow among the dolls. Mary took Catherine everywhere she could. To the theater, church, school, the evening stroll in the park, and at the dinner table.

Though, no matter what Mary did, Catherine seemed unhappy. The only time her depressed mood would lift was when they were in the garden and a bird would fly overhead. Catherine would watch until it disappeared, a longing, hopeful sparkle in her eye, only for the hint of joy to dissipate quicker than a blink of her sad, little eyes.

Mary had enjoyed the silence of this doll. Now it started to worry her. Especially when the birds didn't lift the doll's spirits. At night, she would hear Catherine crying. When Mary would inquire as to what was wrong, the doll would remain silent. She brought the doll to sleep in the bed with her. The doll's crying subsided to soft snores.

One morning she had found her doll with its beautiful brown hair cut short so it stuck up in funky, uneven spikes. Mary still loved the doll, trying to discover a way to make her happy. She found picture books of birds, hoping they'd cheer Catherine up. It did. The sweet doll made noises of awe and wonder as she looked at the elegant winged creatures.

The two were becoming quite the bird watches, now able to place names to the birds they spotted in the garden and on walks.

One night, Mary awoke to find her bed empty of Catherine. The locked toy box's lid was ajar, her school books scattered on the floor. Panic pushed the sleep from her mind. She searched for Catherine. Praying the other dolls had done her no harm. She entered the bathroom adjoining her room, and there was Catherine. Quiet, bird lover, Catherine. Hanging by a string under the sink, her eyes gorged from her face, leaving dark hollows framed by ragged eyelashes. The doll's face now distorted with scratches of dark colors.

The other dolls, all sitting prim on the edge of the bathtub, smiled. Smug. Victorious.

In a fit of rage—knowing they had killed and defiled the sad, silent doll, who was finally beginning to know love and happiness—Mary swung her arm, knocking them all into the tub where she turned on the water and held them under. Their bodies struggling against her hands until they drowned.

Mary caught her own reflection in the mirror. Her own brown hair cut short in odd, uneven spikes, and her face distorted with smudges of color. Her eyes red and swollen from crying. The girl broke down and started to sob in silence.

As the morning sun peeked through the high window in the bathroom, the dolls in the tub were gone. As was Catherine from under the sink. All that remained in the bathroom was a silent girl, hanging by a silk sheet noose from the light fixture in ceiling, limp as a doll.