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When the meeting adjourns, Mother Miranda tells you to wait. Angie jumps twice in excitement on your lap, you bow your head. When you are alone with her, she grabs your wrist — her fingers smooth and cool against your damp skin. “I have something special for you,” her lips curl into a loving smile. The look in her eyes is tight.
All the nights you have sat in bed, looking over at her portrait on your nightstand are countless — warm summer nights where the windows are open, the smell of flowers wafting in, sitting on the edge of the bed whispering your prayers so that she may look upon you for even the slightest of moments; falls where the cool is creeping in and you welcome the enveloping warmth of your comforter and the chilling breeze of Miranda’s gaze upon you, seeking out her presence in the empty house as you feel Angie’s gaze from the chair behind you.
Now, she stands here, nails slightly jutting into your wrist — ones you hope will leave a mark for you to stroke on your way home until the presence of her disappears upon arrival.
Her other hand slips something into your hand. Angie giggles as your fingers brush and your throat goes dry.
“We are in need of your handiwork,” the drawl of her voice is smooth. Her eyes are fixated on your gaze, even under the veil. “Can I trust in you?”
Angie curtsies and answers for you. “Always for you, Mother Miranda!”
Her gaze does not waver from yours. She smiles, tight-lipped, beautifully closed off. Is she lonely too?
“Good. I know you will put your skills to good use. Don’t disappoint me.”
“As you wish,” you whisper, bowing your head.
“What is it! What is it!” Angie asks, tugging on your sleeve. She is cradled against you, fighting the cold of the winter.
“I don’t know.” You say. The photo is still in your hand. The back is facing outward as a thin sheet of white like those of unpainted doll eyes. “We will find out when we get home.”
“Well then, don’t dawdle! I wanna see!” She snuggles closer to you. You press your cheek against her head.
When you arrive home, Angie leaps out of your arms and goes to greet her friends, telling them all about the meeting as they stare blankly. You look down at the sheet placed between your thumb and forefinger. Slowly, you turn it around.
You gaze at it - there’s a blurriness to it, it is hard to make out upon first glance. You follow the curve of a blood-splotched neck to the smoothness of her nose to the hair spread out beneath her. The house is quiet. Angie is no longer talking, she is turned to you, silent.
“I… believe this is for Ethan,” you murmur. You look at the blood, covering every inch of fabric and her eyes - open, staring, beautiful in death? you wonder. You do not know her name for there is nothing written on the back. She is just a woman, a wife, nothing more to remember her by for there is only Miranda and Miranda is decreed the only name for you to remember, inside and out.
Angie silently steps toward you and you show her the photo.
“Mother Miranda wants us to make a doll… of that ?” Angie's voice rises into a cackle that echoes in the entire house. “That’s so messed up! Who is it? Who is it?” she squeals.
“I believe his wife…” you look at the photo once again. She looks peaceful and pained all in one. You wish to feel what she is feeling, to know if it has reached her to her heart’s content. “This doesn’t feel right-”
“What do you mean? Mother Miranda asked you! Would you really doubt Mother Miranda after allll she’s done for us? We get to live here together forever because of her! Doesn’t that make you happy?”
You waver for a second before remembering Mother Miranda’s voice, her face, shining down upon you asking for your gift of creation; so beautiful, so kind… she took you in when there was no one else. When you were alone.
“It does,” you say as you crouch down and take Angie’s hand - once too big for your small, child's hands that now nest well into the dip of your palm. Her fingers are soft against your skin, despite how much she has aged, despite how much you’ve given her refined parts. She teeters happily on her feet.
“Then what are you waiting for? I wanna see it! Now!”
You hum, scooping her back up into your arms. She laughs, which leaves the other dolls to titter.
The carving takes the longest - building the parts is easy, but creating the grooves of the hair, the cut of the lips, and the shape of the face require precision. Time is meaningless to you, serves you no purpose other than pain, so you lose time of how long you have tended to this doll - gathering her parts and filling them out. You become so acquainted with the photo that you know every curve of her face, every strand of hair, despite not knowing what the full of her looks like. Her eye is covered and you wonder if she is like you, scarred and hideous.
You spend hours stroking the photo as if stroking her skin. As if you could tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, trace the lines of her cheekbones and the smoothness of her lobe. Angie has not spoken in a while, she hasn’t since you put the torso together, smoothing down the wood to create something human. The radio croons a song unfamiliar and distant. You envision a cruise liner, the sun, the smile of a beautiful woman, things you have only read about in books and long to touch, long to taste, long to see — so far away and surreal.
The sound of Angie walking over pulls you from your thoughts. Her fingers reach the top of the table that the doll is lying upon. She stands on the tips of her toes and peers to get a look. Her eyes hardly reach the table. “Lift me up! I wanna see!”
Your fingers wrap around Angie’s waist as you pull her upward. She stands on the table, looking closely at the doll; following the lines of intricacies, the newness of her skin, as her spindly fingers following their way down her throat. “Hmmm,” Angie mulls. “Still not as cute as me!”
“No one could be,” you say, nudging your cheek against Angie’s. “It’s late, let’s go to bed.”
“Read me a story?” she says as she leaps into your arms.
“The Boy with the Golden Stars?” you switch the radio off and glance at the doll one more time. It does not move.
“No! I’m not five! I wanna read Thus Spoke Zarathustra.”
You have grown close to this doll. She does not possess the ability to speak nor does she have her own movement; she is a tool for hurt, a reminder of what was taken away from Ethan. There are thoughts that swirl in your mind - what if the doll remains just for you? What if no one — Ethan, Mother Miranda, even your adoptive siblings — was to glance upon her? Except you?
The doll’s eyes stare up to the ceiling. They are dark and endless. Your forefinger strokes the crafted lines, the grooves where things are meant to fit and you wonder if she can be all yours, just like your dolls, just like Angie. You lean over the table, face to face, and run your fingers along the waves of her hair, stained and painted so carefully, so beautifully. She is the biggest doll yet and you wonder if you can bring her to life too - someone for you and Angie.
You part your lips to let out a sigh. Your draw your nails against her cheeks and down her jaw. Then, two fingers open her mouth — yet another hiding spot — and slip in. Her mouth is cool and hard, you don’t need a tongue for it to serve its purpose. You don’t need a tongue for it to be real.
Angie is silent again. Your thighs tremble. Your beautiful creation lies there, allowing you to do this. The radio is fuzzy, a woman’s voice is singing in the distance. The photo is on a desk. She is rightfully yours.
You pull your fingers out of the doll’s mouth and hike your skirt up to get upon the table. You’re on your hands and knees gazing down upon her. Nearly straddling her. Unalive, unblinking, cursed. You can give her life, you can keep her here. She can be yours. She is yours.
You rest your weight upon the doll’s sturdy hips. Your breathing grows warmer past your lips, faster. The heat pools between your legs as you press down closer. You pull your skirt up closer, closer until your thighs are exposed. The doll does nothing underneath your weight. You don’t need it to.
You lean over to cup the doll’s cheek, stroking a thumb where a cheekbone would be. You stick three fingers into the mouth and keen. The doll stares at you, through you, past you as you shift your weight to slip your fingers under the waistband of your underwear. You need no time to get yourself wet, as your two fingers slip into your cunt with ease. Your body shudders, you whisper a gasp.
You begin to fuck yourself on top of the doll, fingers deep in its mouth, palm against its jaw. What would Mother Miranda think of you? Fucking a doll of Ethan’s wife? That makes your body twitch with pleasure -- you’ve worked so hard to please Mother Miranda, even though you are not as adept as your siblings. She entrusted this to you... wouldn’t she want this for you?
Your hips move back and forth, curling deeper within you. You make no sounds. It is only the music that moves within the basement. Sweat perspires on your brow and strands of hair slip from your bun. You’re moving faster, harder, needing the release. The heat rises and you remove your fingers, placing them on the doll’s chest. You have not added the bandages so you get to feel the valleys of her breasts and envelope your hand over one as you press your clit against the jut of her pelvis. A fire burns in your legs, all the way up your spine and into your head as a haze overcomes you.
You notice Angie is watching in silence. She tilts her head from side to side, very slow. Your head dips down, your back curves as you move your hips slower and slower, trying to hit the right spot. You’re so close, you feel yourself coming undone—
When you come, noise does not rise from your throat. Your whole body shudders as your grip her shoulders. You swallow gasps, just how this house swallows you. You struggle between clinging to the doll or to keep going, keep moving your hips, to see if there is any more pleasure to find.
The same song is playing from before - or maybe you have been doing this for hours and you’ve not noticed everything else in between. Time does not matter here, only you, only Angie, only her. When you look to Angie, she is yet again slumped to the side.
You grasp the doll's shoulders as you raise yourself to sit. Your legs tremble, your fingers are slick, and the air smells of you and carved wood. It takes you a moment to gather yourself and remove yourself from the table and even then, all you can do is slump into your chair.
You tip your head backward and close your eyes.
The phone rings. You know it’s time. Angie picks up the phone, listens, and places it down. She turns to look at you.
You wish you had more time to spend with her. With them. You love your home, your friends, the world you have made for yourself.
You lower yourself onto one knee and cup Angie’s face with both hands. She does the same to you. The feeling of her porcelain fingers on your face reminds you of the summer nights you shared staying up until dawn and sleeping all day, the time you have spent fixing her dress even with the slightest of tears, taking care of her flower crown, answering her questions of “When are we going to get married?” You truly believed you had all the time in the world.
“I love you,” she says. You don’t know if you’re making it up or if the sadness in her eyes is true.
Does it matter?
You stroke her cheek with your thumb, hiding your tears behind your veil.
“I love you too.”