The Dollhouse

By Erin B.

I wake up and I don’t know where I am, I don’t know when I am, but worst of all, I don’t know who I am. My head pounds with questions to which I have no answers and the white ceiling, at which I am staring, spins. A melody with words I can almost catch echoes through my mind. I try to sit up and instantly a sharp, shooting pain runs through my fingers, up my arm, and down my spine, piercing my heart. I collapse, unable to bear that pain again. While I lay there, I realize I am wearing a soft, white nightgown and my dark red hair stands out in a deep contrast. A thin gold chain runs around my neck. I am too tired and pained to see where it leads. Slowly, ever so slowly, the agony fades and my head clears.

I try to sit up again, this time with success. I can take in where I am now. I am in a featureless, colorless room. There are no windows and the only source of light comes from a single harsh orb in the middle of the ceiling. The door sits in a corner as if not to draw attention to itself and resting at its side is what looks like a light switch. There are no mirrors to be seen anywhere. I am sitting on a bed, just as nondescript as the rest of my small confines. There are only three things that stand out to me: there is a dollhouse in the corner, a small mouse hole in the wall, and there is no doorknob.

A pinch on my arm distracts me for a moment. I find it bandaged, as if someone was drawing blood. I pull it off, feeling it rip the skin, leaving an angry red mark. A dot of blood still lingers. Suddenly, I hear a noise in the corner by the door. I jump and look over. I see nothing. I hear it again, it sounds like a voice lost in static.

I listen carefully this time, and can make out a few words. It sounds like “she’s asleep.” Static.” We got her just in time.” More static. “Almost ready,” and then the noise fades into nothing. While I strain my ears to hear it again, a few lyrics of the song I was thinking about earlier flow through my brain.

Remember the Time, Remember the Flight

Sing to the Stars and Remember the Light

Do not Weep for those now Lost

Remember your Wings, but Remember the Cost

I cover my eyes feeling overwhelmed. What did the voice mean when it said all those strange things? Where was the voice coming from? Why am I here? Who am I?

I look up and glance around the room. My gaze lands on the dollhouse. It, like the rest of the room, is colorless, as if in an icy, pale world. I climb out of the bed and my feet touch the cold, hard floor.

The dollhouse is tall, rising to about my waist. From what I can tell there are five stories and an attic. The only color on it is the latch on the side, which is gold. It is locked. I remember the chain around my neck, I pull it out from under my nightgown and on the end is a key. I kneel down and gently insert the key into the small keyhole. The lock clicks and the dollhouse swings open.

There are little rooms with little furniture and little people, mostly children, doing tiny everyday things. A boy with brown hair plays a miniature piano. A girl in a blue dress brushes her ebony hair by a mirror. In that tiny mirror I can see a bright green eye staring back at me. Another child, a boy with blond hair and dark brown eyes, sits painting a minuscule picture.

The last child sits at a desk and stares thoughtfully at the wall. She has long dark red hair and bright green eyes. Horror rushes through me, drowning me in its iron claw; that doll is me.

I can’t feel scared now. I need to focus. That’s when I notice a scrap of paper too big for the dolls. It sits on the floor of the attic. It reads-

Moira,

Don’t worry. We are going to find you soon. Just sit tight and be patient. Everything will be all right.

L.O.

I have just finished reading it when the door opens.

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