Doll Girl

It was about the girl and then it wasn’t.
A little before that, she played the piano and it was awesome.
Actually, it was the keyboard, but that’s didn’t sound as cool. But this time around things would be different because she wouldn’t tell anyone–not even her doll, who she told everything to because that would just be like jinxing herself at this point.
It arrived on her birthday, and she thanked her aunty. Mom and Dad had set it up for her, but she didn’t play even though she secretly wanted to. They begged and begged and told her how wonderful it would be if she could just play–just look at her cousin, who was already playing, and she was only six years old. With a bit of practice, she could be even better, as long as she didn’t quit like she had dancing.
When it was clear she wouldn’t even look at the thing, they moved it downstairs into the basement among the boxes and books and old toys and clothes. And it was then, in the middle of the night, that she snuck downstairs with her iPod and earphones. She lugged the keyboard to the power outlet, plugged it in and plugged her earphones into the back. She searched-up “piano for beginners” on her iPod and followed along with the volume low.
And that was how she fell in love.
Songs she always listened to suddenly appeared beneath her fingers, and as weeks passed, she became faster and better. Even with the sleepless nights, she didn’t attract suspicion because of how alive she felt–even when her whole body was tired, she felt awake, excited for night to come again. And the power it gave her–it was like when she used to dance–before it was ruined.
That only made her want to hold onto it even more.
Control–the beauty was in the control. She learned the theory behind the songs and a whole new world opened up to her. She played and played–faster–better–and everything was going to be awesome—
And then she heard a gasp.
The music faltered and silence fell, and the girl turned, and Mom was standing there.
It was then that she knew it was over.
Not because Mom was angry, but because she was proud.
The next day Mom and Dad brought the keyboard upstairs, and she played for them, unfeeling, and they loved it. By the end of it, Dad smiled, and Mom hugged her and asked why she hadn’t told them. She just shrugged. It was easier than the truth.
“There’s the winter recital coming up–the one your cousin’s playing at. I can call your aunty and book you a spot. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And she made for her phone without an answer.
“Better get to practicing,” said Dad. “we’ve got high hopes for our baby.”
And like that, her love turned to work. The freedom turned to a cage and made her scared to play anything at all. It wasn’t okay to be good anymore, she had to be great. Perfect. Everyone was counting on her, just like they had when they’d found out how good she was at dancing.
Fingers stuttered along the keys–
Too fast.
Too slow.
Wrong note.
And her hands slipped off the keyboard.
She looked down at the white and black keys and cried.
“Stupid,” she wiped her tears, but they kept coming.
She ran to her bedroom and buried herself beneath the sheets, crying into her pillow so no one would hear.
Why did things always happen this way? Why did she always let people down? She just wanted to be good, but every time they wanted her to do something, she just didn’t love it anymore.
“And that’s the weakness,” said a voice, making her freeze.
Here, in her room.
“I can help you…”
She lowered the bedsheet.
It was coming from the wardrobe.
A little doll she’d forgotten all about.
“I can help you be what you want to be,” she said. “I can make you… perfect.”
The girl wiped her snot with her sleeve. “I just want to make them happy.”
“And we can do it. I can make you what they want you to be.”
“Okay…”
And she went still.
When she moved again, it was with a smile and empty eyes.
She played well that night.
After, when she was lying in bed, she guessed that she was actually better at dancing than she’d thought.
Just not to her own tune.
And beside her, in the wardrobe, the doll sat abandoned, its eyes shiny with the tears of a girl that wasn’t really there anymore.

Biography: I’m a Business Analytics student but I love to read and write in my free time. I’ve been writing for about eight years now, initially to prove to a friend that writing was far easier than they said it was. After all, you just have to make stuff up. It shouldn’t take too much effort to guess who won that argument (seeing as I didn’t manage to finish a single story for the first five years of my writing journey).

Artist Statement: I want to create art that has meaning, taking readers on wonderful journeys that, no matter how fantastical, always relate back to the struggles that come with being human. I want my stories to be a remedy for the people that have experienced similar emotions and struggles as my characters – to have them know that they are not alone.