Beady Black Eyes

"What is your name?"

"Morgana. My name is Morgana Raynott," I whispered, my small mouth unmoving and my beady black eyes staring eerily up at the man in the shadows.

"And why are you here, Morgana?" he murmured, sounding like he was smiling.

"I'm here because you brought me here. Have you forgotten?" I remarked.

"I remember," he chuckled. "But tell me why I brought you here, tell me your story."

I would have frowned if I could; why should I tell him anything? But I told him anyway, something about him made me think it was the best thing to do. I told him everything, starting with my death.

I lay in my hospital bed crying as my mother and father held my hands and my closest friend from my ballet class cried along with me. I felt sick, empty. This was normal though, as three years ago, I was told that I had superior mesenteric artery syndrome. SMAS for short. It made eating painful. I couldn't keep anything down. I was vomiting after every meal and I started losing weight. Eventually, I ended up in a hospital, dying of starvation.

I was told there was only a low chance I would die, and yet I did. The heart monitor&s repeated beeping turned into a single, long, droning beep. My mother cried out in sadness, my father and best friend comforting her, both still crying.

I watched them, standing beside my body. I watched them crying there for hours until the doctors finally urged them to leave. I latched onto my mother as they walked out of the room in each other's arms. They caught a bus home and walked the remaining way, my incorporeal body floating behind them.

My mother went to her room to sleep away her sadness, so I followed my father who went to his workshop.

He created and sold ball jointed dolls for a living. He had made a few for me, but I had never appreciated them as much as I should have. He pulled a picture of me out his wallet and started sketching concept art for a doll of me. Occasionally tears would stain the paper, but he didn't stop, moving to start sculpting as soon as possible.

He clearly didn't want to make a lie, as he made sure to show how skinny I had been. But he did something odd when creating the eyes. Instead of using his usual method, he used black resin to create my eyes, making me look even more sickly and creepy than I had been.

It was odd but I continued to watch him for hours upon hours. My mother came and went, giving him food and small kisses on the cheek. It was bittersweet to watch.

Finally, my body was done, 26 inches tall with gorgeous detail. My father had a talent for making clay look soft like skin, even without the airbrushed blush and dimension.

He made a wig to mimic my hair in a bun, then made a black leotard and a skirt out of white tulle. I had worn the exact outfit for my very last performance.

When he finished the doll, he took it into my old room and placed it on the bed. He left and I stayed there, latching onto the doll and eventually possessing it.

Time passed and I became dormant, I knew I could move. I had before. I had moved my hand while my father was looking at me to see how he might react. It scared him, as I should have guessed. It took a while before either of my parents came to see me again after that.

So I remained still. It didn't have the same discomforts as it would have if I was still alive. After a long time, I fell asleep, If you could call it that.

I awoke when I was picked up by my parents who smiled sadly at me then placed me in a box filled with scrunched up newspaper and other fragile ornaments. The box was closed and for a moment I panicked but it didn't take long for me to realize I was fine.

About a week or so later I was taken out of the box and placed on a shelf in an unfamiliar e room. Clearly, my parents had moved. After finding nothing of interest I returned to my dormant sleep.

Time passed quickly as my parents grew old and I collected a thick layer of dust. I remained dormant for a long time, until one night.

My parents were watching old people's TV after dinner when there was a loud crash from the kitchen, the sound of a window breaking. My father ran to go see what happened. He quickly returned and grabbed my mother, who was now standing, by the shoulders and told her to leave. But they weren't quick enough.

It happened so quickly, two gunshots, two thuds, and two corpses. My parents died. I expected to see their ghosts, or something similar, like what had happened to me, but it never happened. The murderer got away with a few valuable items in his bag. He paid no mind to me as I stared at my parent's lifeless bodies. Despite not needing to, I took a deep, exaggerated breath and screamed as loud as I could. What else would I do? I had just watched my two favorite people die. Sure my parents were overprotective and my dad was a bit odd, but I had loved them, I had loved them enough to will my soul to stay on earth and watch over them.

I cried for hours, finally knowing what my parents felt like when I had died. Eventually, I decided to do what my mother had done, I slept away the grief and pain.

I next awoke when someone new picked me off the shelf and placed me in yet another box. This time I was much wearier and I stayed awake. I turned out that I was going to be sold at an auction. I had no clue what happened to dead people's stuff so I assumed it was normal.

I was bought by a young woman who took me home and put me on another shelf, with plenty of other dolls. I was treated nicely, occasionally cleaned or dusted off.

Though it wasn't long before the poor girl decided to hang herself in her own room. Thinking back on it, I had noticed signs of depression and suicidal thoughts in the girl.

Once again I was sold, this time at a second-hand store, for $2, no less! $2! And once again I was bought, by an elderly woman with a nice face. Though something was different this time. This time, I was anticipating her death, looking forward to it even. When she finally died of old age, I would have smiled if I could.

The cycle repeated, found, sold, witnessed death, repeat. each time, I enjoyed it a little more. Then one day I decided to be a witness wasn't enough, I was going to orchestrate the death myself. I planned it out. At night I would climb off the desk I was placed on and steal a small knife from the kitchen, a steak knife preferably. Then I would climb onto the victim's bed and stab them in the side of the neck.

So I did. I used the desk chair to help myself down, then traipsed as quietly as I could out of the room to find the kitchen. I used the handles of the drawers as a ladder so I could climb atop the bench and open the knife drawer. I found the biggest knife my fragile little hands could hold and dropped it onto the floor as quietly as I could. I soon followed after it, Returning to the bedroom, knife in hand, I climbed onto a chest at the end of the bed and slowly made my way up to the victims head. I stared at them for a moment, thinking happily about all the deaths I had seen.

Without a second thought, I plunged the knife into their neck and watched them bleed out. The blood oozed onto the bed and when I removed the knife with a loud suctioning noise, it sprayed everywhere, covering my clothes. I put the knife into the victim's lifeless hand and lay down beside them to let the cycle continue.

"Why did you buy me? You don't seem to have an interest in dolls... So did you know? Did you know I was in here?" I questioned quietly.

"I knew," the faceless man replied, his sly voice thick and enticing. "I know everything, child."

Credited to TicTacTiny