It’s…beautiful.
“You can’t leave. You’re the first one I ever told that. You have to take responsibility for it. Papa says everyone is responsible for how they react after they see things. If you ignore something bad, you’re a bad person.” A tear falls from her eyelid, straight on to my cheek, and drips to my mouth, making me taste salt.
“Who do you hate the most between them?” I ask quietly.
“I don’t hate my parents.”
“You must. If they’re fighting, one of them is causing it, right?” I pause. “In my case, my father does, and I hate him.”
I don’t know why I tell her that. Could be because I want to conjure that look from earlier, or simply because I want to say it out loud for once in my life.
“Why do you hate your father?” she asks.
“This is about you. Who do you hate the most?”
“I don’t hate her, but I don’t like M-Mum sometimes.” She stares away as if she doesn’t want to admit it.
“Why?”
“Because she dislikes everything and keeps telling me I need to act like a lady. I can’t play outside or invite my friends over. I can’t run to hug Papa when he comes home. I can’t cry or scream. So I do it here, you know.” She motions at the park. “I cry and scream here when no one is around.”
“She’ll want to take you when they divorce.”
She sniffles, her eyes doubling in size as she stares at me again, then she violently shakes her head. “No. I don’t want that.”
“When other adults ask you, tell them you want to stay with your father.”
“And…and they’ll let me?”
I nod. “That’s what Sally did. She chose her mum and they let her live with her.”
“Does that mean I’ll never see Mum? I don’t want that.”
“You will, but you’ll stay at home with your father most of the time.”
She draws a crackled breath, offering me a small smile. “Thank you. I’m glad you’re the first one I told this.”
“Me, too.” I get to see her like this when no one on this earth ever will.
Suddenly, a thought takes over me and becomes a need.
Just like the need I had when I wanted more chaos.
“Now tell me your secret,” she demands, still fighting with the remnants of her crying.
I grin. “I want to be your first.”
“My first in what?”
My thumb wipes the moisture under her eyes. “In everything, Butterfly.”
“Then I want your firsts, too.” She juts her chin. “Promise me.”
“Promise.”
2
Doll Master
Hello.
You don’t know who I am, but I know who you are.
I’m the monster under your bed and the bogeyman in your closet.
I’m the unknown.
You don’t see me unless you look for me, and even when you do, are you sure you’ve looked hard enough? Searched thoroughly enough?
Here’s something you need to know about me: I like dolls.
Or rather, one particular doll.
My father didn’t let me play with dolls. He said he didn’t like them and they weren’t for me.
So I hid my doll and proved him wrong.
Now, I’m proving everyone wrong.
Including you.
This is the story of my new favourite doll after I lost my most precious one.
I didn’t believe in love at first sight until I saw her.
And I mean, all of her.
The porcelain skin, the baby blue eyes, the golden hair, and the pink dress with ribbons and tulle.
It’s like she was made for me.
She was.
My own doll. My special doll.
I was broken the first time I saw her. I was about to make a decision I’d regret for the rest of my life, but she showed up. She was there, beautiful and crying, and I knew I had to keep her.
I already had a doll before, so I hadn’t paid her any attention.
Now that my doll is gone, I finally see her.
Crying, speaking.
My previous doll didn’t do that. Not really.
Her golden hair camouflages her face and hides her from the world, but eventually, she’ll be completely visible to me.
There’s an art in being a doll master. You get to see and notice things no one else sees or notices. Not even the dolls themselves.
Masterpieces in the making.
I can recognise a masterpiece even before it’s fully formed. That’s why I’m the best doll master you can ever find.
That is, if you can find me.
You can’t.
And neither can she.
I’ve mastered the art of deception, of hiding, of being invisible.
Sometimes, even I don’t see myself.
Even I find trouble in recognising what I’ve done. What I can do.
My limit has been myself, but today, I’ve let go of the last shackle.
Now, I have a new doll. My prized possession.
Silver. My beautiful little doll.
Welcome to my world.
You’ll find it fun.
Eventually.
Oh, and don’t search for me. You won’t find me until I let you. And when I finally show up in front of you, all you’ll be able to do is shatter into bloody pieces.
I smile at the thought.
Time to start my homework.
Run, doll.
Hide.
And don’t ever, ever look under your bed.
Silver
Age eleven
I have to stay with Mum this weekend. I don’t like it.
She takes me to parties and brunches and makes me wear dresses and sit with her friends’ children.
I want to stay with Papa and listen to his friends. They’re cool people – Papa’s friends, I mean.
They own the whole country.
Papa says no, that the Conservative Party doesn’t own the UK; they just govern it. And the only reason they do that is because they gained the people’s vote.
I don’t care. They’re cool and they own the country in my mind. They know a lot of stuff about stuff, and they make me feel so important when I help our housekeeper bring them tea. Papa always asks about my opinion and lets me read his favourite books.
When I grow up, I’m going to be him. I’m going to stand in front of many people in the parliament and defend my beliefs.
Mum is also in the Conservative Party, but she’s from the loser faction — or that’s what Frederic, Papa’s right-hand man, says. He tells me Mum is from the faction who nominate a leader who never wins the internal elections.
Being members of the same party should’ve given my parents a reason to stay together, but they somehow managed to find a way to disagree, even while having the same general beliefs.
Anyway, Mum’s friends aren’t cool. They’re snobs and frequently make me feel like I need to walk the line around them.
Papa’s friends are way better.
But this weekend, I have to go to Mum’s. I asked Papa if I could stay with him, but he says she’s my parent too.
If I don’t go, Mum will come and pick a fight with Papa all over again. Mum doesn’t shut up — at all. She made the divorce and the custody process so messy, I still have nightmares about it.