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"What is your name?"

"Morgana. My name Is Morgana Raynott," I whispered, my small mouth unmoving and my 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 spoke anyway, something about him made me think it was the best thing to do. So 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 frowned at me, trying to hold back her tears. I felt sick, empty even. 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, vomiting after every meal. 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 monitors repeated beeping turned into a single, long, droning sound. My mother let out a loud sob, my father and best friend comforting her, both 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 then 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. Previously he had made a few for me, but I never appreciated them as much as I should have. He pulled a picture of me out of his wallet and started sketching concept art for a doll of me. Tears stained the paper but he didn't stop, moving to start sculpting as soon as possible.

It seemed he wanted to properly represent my poor health, 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 them, making me look even more sickly and creepy than I had really been. I chalked it up to my father's deteriorating mental state. He frequently had hallucinations, so I guessed that the eyes were one of them.

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.

He made a wig to mimic my hair in a bun, then made a black leotard and a skirt out of white tule. 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 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 to being 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 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 sorrowful night.

My parents were watching old recordings on the 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 had died, murdered in cold blood. I expected to see their ghosts or something similar, like what had happened to me, but my hopes were in vain. 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 after my own death. 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. It turned out that I was going to be sold at an auction. I had no clue what happened to dead people's unclaimed property 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 and 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 from 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, I was anticipating her death, looking forward to it even. When she finally died of old age, it made feel warm and fuzzy inside.

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 wanted 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 chair to help myself off of the desk I sat on, then crept 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 took the biggest knife my fragile little hands could hold and gently dropped it onto the floor so I could follow 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 victim's head. I stared at them for a moment, thinking about all the deaths I had seen and all the ones I would soon cause.

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 wriggled the knife out, 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 obscure man replied, his sly voice thick and enticing. "Surrealist knows everything, child." Blinking his single metallic eye at me. He took me in his hand and dropped me into a toy box, closing the lid and locking it.

Written by TicTacTiny
Content is available under CC BY-SA