Kiss the Glass

[Amethyst]

oh look, another tl;dr

[quote]
[size=2]This morning, just as all others, another group of ladies passes in front of the glass, admiring the new girls with such passionate, gaudy envy that one might expect their very skin to course with a speckled sinful green. Fortunately, the affair passes from their minds quickly enough as they all hurry each other along to their luncheons or parties or whatever it is that allegedly animate women such as them do during the day, as they whisper slander and rumours of girls disappearing right out of the streets- while I simply sit, and wait, among friends who I can never speak to, dressed in clothes that I can never wear. [/size]
[size=2]There are some who would see me, and say that I am fortunate- that I lead a life of luxury. Perhaps so. I am dressed in the finest fabrics known to Europe, my hair perfectly done, and re-done each day, and I am invariably loved by everybody. Indeed, compared to those around me, I may have had some luck after all to gain a seat before the glass, where the other ladies are left with mere shelves to sit on- only walls to stare at. I am the celebrated face that greets each passerby through the street. But still am I miserable. [/size]
[size=2]“Why does she look so sad?” one girl asked, peering through the window. I was naive, and as was the fashion, wore fragments of my breaking heart upon my sleeve. Rest assured, that mistake has long been corrected- my heart could not now be more whole. This girl, however, was far from whole. Jealousy rushed through her every vein each time she looked through the glass. She would reach out mindlessly, knocking her hand against the cold, invisible window- each day forgetting again that it remained. But still she was possessed by the girls she saw through the glass, in all of their pale, porcelain beauty. [/size]
[size=2]It may seem silly of one to be so absent minded, but some sins are known as deadly for a very good reason, and if envy can drive a heart to stop its beating, why should it not just as well darken the knuckles upon the hand of she who traces its fine, lacey edges? On days when she found more time, or simply had more patience to torment herself, she would wander inside, only to be escorted out yet again by a middle-aged gentleman who seemed far too overdressed to have any business running such an establishment. And so away she would go again, leaving her thoughts for the day at the door with a sigh.[/size]
[size=2]But allow me to answer her question- of sadness. My sorrow is a product of that very ritual- for I steal the hearts, wishes and sighs of many a perfectly beautiful girl. I am a temptress and succubus for the souls of ladies whose half-broken hearts are torn just enough for the slight fragments to fall through the door- through the glass- and never touch the fashions and fancies of the girls in here. [/size]
[size=2]And I cannot be anything but sorry for them, for I have been sitting before this glass doing just that for quite some time now. I do not believe I ever shall do anything else again. After all, that is all I have been placed here for. That gentleman, in his fondness for bloomers and blouses, petticoats and precious gems, has put me here before the glass so I may charm and vamp. A porcelain princess, I am perfect. I have accepted that by now. I was made into a doll for that very reason. But this must all seem very strange. Then I'll start at the beginning.[/size]

[size=2]There is a little shop, nestled in the a corner of Rotherhithe- a bit off the river and down Moreton Terrace- and there are lines and lines of the most beautiful dolls set up in the quirky little shop that occupies the window. It's a shop of dolls and diamonds, with a curiously ephemeral owner. He appears to be only middle aged, but has an air of timelessness about him, no different from the girls he sells. For all the time I've spent here, I couldn't recall either his or the shop's name, but the few men that have been acquainted with him have simply called him Count. [/size]
[size=2]No one was quite sure where the Count imported the dolls from- perhaps no one cared all that much, for they were always the most lovely. If one wanted to buy one, he would always offer the lowest price, by far. The jewels too- they were genuine, every pearl, but by the price one would never guess he valued them at all. Naturally, he was quite a salesman- but to say that is perhaps an insult, for while he has all of the charm and outward air of a merchant, he right lacks any of their untoward stuffiness. It is fairer to say he is a performer with no script or stage- for art is inherent to life if only it can be found within it. This was a man who knew just how to do that, and never hesitated to do so. And for it, the shop thrived in mystery's spotlight. [/size]
[size=2]Many were curious about the odd Count and his store, but none more so than that very girl. [/size]
[size=2]“Why does she look so sad?” she asked, once again knocking her hand against the glass. She paused, and after a moment slipped through the elegant oak door, letting it slide closed behind her. She strolled over to the doll the glass had barred her from reaching, and picked it up, admiring it.[/size]
[size=2]The girl and the doll were not so very much different. Though the doll had no name, the girl did, and that name was Dorothea. They both had the same fair hair and pale complexion, but the former left uncurled and unpolished, and each had the same sorrowful look in her eyes. That very look may have been what drew them together in the first place. Silently, the doll must have wondered back, [i]Why are you sad too?[/i][/size]
[size=2]Dorothea never knew to answer the doll's question, for porcelain lips only speak when broken, but if she had known, she would have told it of a boy named Dorian, and how beautiful he was, and how they had grown up together, and been kind, great friends for years, and also of how taken he had recently become with a beautiful girl but heartless girl named Sydney, and how she barely knew him when it had been herself that met and played with him in the cove on the side of the Thames for years, and even their names rang together and how there was absolutely no fairness in it at all, and how despite all of that she knew that there was nothing she could do anyway and so there was no point in even trying. But before she could begin to say a word of it, the Count appeared again from the back, and sent her away with yet another word that the glass was placed there for a reason, and she was [i]never[/i] to touch the dolls.[/size]

[size=2]There is a little cove on the bank of the Thames, formed where an old knoll has met decaying archways under one of the many bridges. It's a quiet little place, which few people can see and fewer people can find- the perfect sort of place to look for if one wants to get away, just as Dorothea so often did. It was the place to which she and Dorian had always come as small children, along with Thomas and their other friends, but most of them were out in their country homes by this time of year. However, Dorian should still be there, she hoped. [/size]
[size=2]He often was, and they would talk for long hours about absolutely nothing, and feel perfectly comfortable with it. Once, they had skipped stones across the river and gathered what sand they could find into palaces that they promised they would one day own, and must surely visit each other at. They would look up at the bridge above, and watch the people talking, and pretend to speak for them based on their gestures and expressions. If she were lucky, Dorian might even bring her a pastry, or a craft of some kind. [/size]
[size=2]“Well,” he would rationalise, “We have less then they do- those vendors... It doesn't hurt them too much if a few pounds go astray- what difference does it make if it's in the form of bread?” Once before her father had been hired at the factory, her family had gone without food for more than a fortnight- but Dorian met her every night by the river and gave her his prize of the day. He had kept her alive, and ever since had she owed him her eternal affection. But that was in the past. The childish innocence that had filled her memories was replaced by a jaded breath. The cold stream filled the banks, and they would do nothing now but sit across the way, and exchange glances, comments, curious remarks, and the occasional silence. [/size]
[size=2]Dorothea stepped onto the frozen puddle before the cove's entrance. She heard a breath, and intuitively thought it Dorian's. He was often there, so who else should it be? But as she listened closer, it appeared to be heavy- nearly a pant. And then it doubled. Timidly did she peek around the corner into the cove, careful not to come into view herself, but her heart itself stopped as she looked on. Dorian was there, yes, but also Sydney, and her saffron locks falling onto Dorian's beautiful chest. Her dress fell around her as she pressed against him. He burrowed his face into hers. For weeks now, they had grown closer, and with each day, Dorian grew more distant as she stole him away. For weeks now, in his mind, her own voice had grown quieter and quieter, to where it was left as barely as a whisper, fallen flat into a darkness left unremembered in his cares, and while left she was, lonely and miserable, here did he lay entangled in the arms of she the succubus, falling into her, deeper and deeper, their breaths, their bodies, melting together in sin, the electricity and flesh hardly discernible between them. [/size]
[size=2]Few realise what isolation unity can bring. She had not until that moment. She had thought the world simple, and innocent, but there was no innocence left, least of all within Sydney. Sydney was a demon, truly- Dorian was not her first. Thomas, too, had once been taken with her, and after she had supped from him his gifts and praises, insisted never to speak with him again. The poor boy was broken afterwords. And now with her black hole reality had she drained Dorothea's life of it, too- Innocence. It was replaced by a mere shiver, and the yearning to run, far away, hide in some dark corner, to know full well that reality will never reach there, and though cold, alone, and dying, she was who she was, and somehow better for it, no matter how miserable it made her.[/size]
[size=2]That day, she didn't bother taking the final step across the Thames into the cove at which she and her friends had played for nearly their whole lives. She turned away with a jolt, the ice shattering beneath her feet. She slipped into the frigid pool, sparking a splash that made Dorian and Sydney jump in surprise, thinking that they had been spotted, but as they looked for their voyeur, they met no one, and assumed it to be just a trout. He returned to her lips, as the cold broken shallows fell back to their stillness from where Dorothea's tears had kicked them into a ripple. In some other body, it might have just as well been a tidal wave. But some things were simply not meant to be. [/size]

[size=2]Dorothea ran, leaving behind tears and tidal waves each in their own. She did not know to where she ran, or why, or what she intended to do afterwards, but she did not stop running until the sun had set, and she was left in a lonely little bank that she had never seen before. She began to panic- after all, there had been stories of girls disappearing lately. What if she were to become lost? Well, it might be for the better, she thought. She would never have to suffer the slings and arrows of Sydney's misgiving again. But Dorian- she would miss dearly- and how unfair it all was![/size]
[size=2]She flung herself at a stone along the stream, and then again at the ground. She waited, stuck for some time- and then stirred, slowly crawling to her knees, forward, towards the water. She reached the bank and stared at herself in the torchlight. The girl who stared her back was young, with fair hair and pale complexion, but her face was bitter, bruised, and still covered with tears. They rolled down her unkempt form, resounding in her infinite imperfectness. Just then a minnow splashed through the river, breaking apart her reflection. [/size]
[size=2]Just a minnow... [/size]
[size=2]“Just a fish jumping in the stram,” Sydney would reassure Dorian, somewhere down the bank, and she would return to extracting from him his soul. [i]Sydeney should be knocked into the stream- everyone would be better off[/i], Dorothea, thought. [i]No... I should fall in to the river... with my useless tears... and end it[/i]. A wonderfully terrible gravity pulled her head lower, and lower, stooping to the water's surface. She kissed her reflection in sin. It shuddered in response. A moment later, and she was gone unto Narcissus' memorial. [/size]

[size=2]The next morning, just as all others, another group of ladies passed in front of the glass, admiring the still girls with such writhing envy that one might expect their very skin to boil off in desperation of attaining that glorious state of porcelain so finely mounted in furnace and fire under the silk and lace before them. Fortunately, the affair passed from their minds quickly enough as they all hurried each other along to their luncheons or parties or whatever it is that allegedly animate women such as them do during the day- except one.[/size]
[size=2]Dorothea stared longingly at the dolls through the window. This morning, she did not knock her hand against the glass. She did not move, or hardly even breathe at all. She was as still and as silent as the morning air, completely entranced in the transposition of her own reflection over the face of the clockwork maiden before her. She halted, hypnotised under the avalanche of her inadequacies, and for more hours than she cared to know, she stood. [/size]
[size=2]The Count wandered in and out of the storefront several times, and after them he must have taken some notice of the girl because instead of shooing her away as was the usual custom, he instead emerged outside to ask if everything was not all right. When still she made no response, he led her into the store, sat her on top of a stool and draped her with a cloth he withdrew from the back. For several minutes nothing was said, and then-[/size]
[size=2]“I have seen you,” he began, suddenly, but slowly, staring straight into her lost eyes, “for every day since May of this year, furtively striking your hand against the glass. Now, I am a very old man. I may not appear as such, but I am perhaps wiser than you will ever know. I understand a thing or two about the empty countenance that sits before me. I understand that you are not the same girl- changed, awakened... subdued? However, you remain within that same girl's body. And how is that fair in the least?”[/size]
[size=2]Dorothea glanced at him for just a moment. It was only a slight movement, but he accepted it as an invitation. “I will not impose to know what has happened to you, darling, to make you this way. I do not believe you would want or be able to tell me even if I did. It is utterly inconsequential. However, I am prepared to offer you an opportunity to prove yourself to no longer be that mindless girl.” He paused, and stared at her waiting for a response. She was quick to give it, finally turning her head to him, silently begging for him to continue.[/size]
[size=2]“I am prepared to offer you,” he whispered, “beauty.” Dorothea swallowed. After a moment of stillness, she nodded. [/size]
[size=2]The Count lead her into the back room, and I could not tell you what transpired there, but they did not reappear for hours, and when they finally did, as Dorothea stepped forward from the enchantments of the Count, and to a mirror that was placed in the centre of the shop, she gasped at whom she saw before her.[/size]
[size=2]Her old clothes had vanished. But more, her hair, and very skin, were changed entirely from what she once knew them to be. The girl who stood in the mirror was far more like any of the dolls around her than a real girl- and at the same time, far more beautiful. She touched a hand to her cheek. He skin was velvetine. The tightly wound curls of her hair brushed against her fingers tips as if to caress them. She followed her eyes downwards. Her figure was more feminine than any she had ever known, and her dress was something out of a royal ball. She spun giddily in the mirror, letting the frills of her skirt float back into place, the waves of her hair come right back to perfect form.[/size]
[size=2]She was in every sense, beautiful. And thrilled beyond words- though her face would never show it. Her thoughts were distant, too set on Dorian- not the Dorian locked in Sydney's arms in the cove, but the one from her memories, who had kindly fed her, and kept her warm through the winter months when no one else would.[/size]
[size=2]She thanked the Count graciously, and he bowed, stating that it was absolutely his pleasure. But as Dorothea turned to leave, he stopped her, and drew her close to him. [/size]
[size=2]“Listen, my child,” he whispered. “You have attained the highest of human beauty known to this world. I do not need to tell you this; you can see it in yourself just as well. But what the girl who stood at my door for one hundred and one hundred and seventy nine mornings, knocking her knuckles against the frosted glass did not understand was that beauty is only for the eyes. Not the finger tips. Do you understand what I'm telling you?”[/size]
[size=2]She looked back, confused.[/size]
[size=2]“You are beautiful, but you must not become the same girl you were then- you are for the eyes, only. You must never let anyone touch you, or else you will lose the only thing that gives meaning to your life, and life to your meaning.”[/size]
[size=2]His gaze pierced her own soul. [i]Do you understand what I'm telling you? [/i]She nodded. [i]You must never let anyone touch you. You will lose the only thing that gives meaning to your life, and life to your meaning.[/i][/size]
[size=2]She made for the door, stopped, turned, courtsied and left the shop without a word. [/size]

[size=2]That night in the cove, Dorothea stood in silence before the Thames. She had been staring at herself in the river. She gazed at the still water's reflection as she had looked on in horror at Sydney, her wretched body wrapped around his. She watched herself kick a stone across the river in rage, but her face was still. Beauty is immobile, always. [/size]
[size=2]Suddenly, she heard a voice. [/size]
[size=2]“Oh, excuse me, miss.”[/size]
[size=2]She turned around, and saw a boy standing before her. Not just any boy, it was Dorian, but somehow appearing less beautiful. The light in his face had faded, perhaps already sucked from him by Sydney. Make no mistake, Dorothea still wanted nothing more than to take him from her, force the leech away. But he didn't recognise her in the least. “I'm sorry,” he continued. “I didn't think anyone would be down here, 'specially not this time of night.” He shuffled awkwardly, clearly nervous to be around such a girl- very unlike him. “See, I come down here a lot and never have I seen-”[/size]
[size=2]“Dorian,” she interrupted, unthinkingly. He jumped. Clearly that had been the last thing he expected to here from a woman as beautiful as Dorothea now was. And how could anyone blame him? But as he regained himself, he peered forward, hardly able to believe his own eyes. And how could anyone blame him?[/size]
[size=2]“D- Dorothea...?” He ventured, stepping closer. “No, it [i]is[/i] you. Dorothea, what happened?” He ran up to her to examine her metamorphosed body. “You're so- I don't even- how did...” [i]Speechless. How cute[/i], she thought. “You've become so much...” He moved a hand to touch her cheek, and she flinched right away, remembering the words of the Count. [/size]
[size=2]He was rejected, but stood his ground, continuing to press her for any truth of how she might have been so radically changed. Her lips were sealed though. Scarcely did she even hear his voice as she stared back at him, trying to see him through the eyes that were far from hers. Before she knew it, they were sitting together, back under the bridge among the limestone seats they had carved out of their many years of use, talking like old friends. But nothing would she say of how she had come to her present form. He soon accepted that, appearing rather taken with her. And how could anyone blame him?[/size]
[size=2]They parted ways fondly for the night. Dorothea was pleased- it was the first time they had really talked in weeks- ever since he began to spend more time with Sydney. After all, Sydney was quite the jealous type- or maybe it was just coincidence that any time she ever saw any other female come within a five metre radius of Dorian she suddenly [i]needed [/i]his assistance elsewhere. Dorian might object, but it never took more than a pleading turn of her eyes, a stroke of his cheek, and a falsely stuttered breath to ensnare him. He was perhaps too kind for his own good- or Dorothea's.[/size]
[size=2]Over the following days, they began to spend more and more time together. Sydney had come to the opinion that she effectively owned him-and he was rewarded handsomely for acquiescing each plea- a flash of the ankle, a kiss. He was deep within her web. Dorothea arrived at the cove one morning to find the two of them there already, her sitting on his lap. Sydney's head spun towards her with a glare, and back to Dorian. When she realised he had no intention of dismissing Dorothea, she stood up with a huff, and stormed down the river.[/size]
[size=2]Dorothea was pleased- though her lips would not dare show it- and took a seat next to Dorian, brushing away the cobwebs that hung about the stone. Dorian offered her Sydney's seat- in his lap? Well, she was flattered, but refused. The Count would never have such a thing. Only after the rejection did it seem to occur to Dorian how silly it would be, yet it seemed that Sydney had already made a common chair out of him. So they sat, and talked, for hours as they once did- and how long it had been! But that did not stop her from soullessly drifting out to the river. Dorian would leave, and return, and he would find her again, hardly moved at all, but staring down into the depths of the Thames, where she had buried her mirth.[/size]
[size=2]Dorian was here with her, more than ever, and Sydney fuming somewhere nearby- perhaps watching. He was wary of it too, for he knew she should be cross with him if ever she found him with Dorothea. And though he often was, it was only physical appeal alone that had finally won him. And where was the pleasure in knowing that one is only a doll to be devoured by the eyes of others? This alone wounded her more than envy ever had. In fact, she began to miss the days where she could stare longingly at another woman, or even just the porcelain dreams in the window of the shop in Moreton Terrace, and have something to wish for.[/size]
[size=2]Now, in her perfection, only an emptiness remained. Emptiness and spite for the witch that had driven her to this madness to begin with. Beauty is always madness, she thought. The very thought of it, is. And further madness was it that porcelain and silk could be more alluring than the real, warm pores and breath of a human. [/size]
[size=2]Yet, they were. None would disagree. Dorothea had become one of the most watched girls in all of Rotherhithe. Friends, boys to whom she had never spoken and never cared to speak now trotted along side her like it was they who had been close for years. Even Thomas, who had scarcely looked at a girl since Sydney once brought her flowers. However, he made the foul mistake of presenting them before Dorian, and before she knew it the two boys were gone, outside the cove. [/size]
[size=2]“Wait here,” Dorian insisted to her as he lead Thomas away. They spoke, quickly at first, and then louder- though she still couldn't make out their words. There were shouts, and then a thud, and then silence. [/size]
[size=2]Thomas returned the cove, covering his nose with his sleeve. His eye was darkened, and he was lost for breath. He walked up to Dorothea, and opened his mouth, as if to speak- but no words came out, and scarcely even breath. With a gated sigh, he averted his gaze, took the flowers back from Dorothea, and limped back out of the cove.[/size]
[size=2]Not a second after he left, Dorian re-entered, took his seat beside her again, and moved to take her hand, and apologise profusely for Thomas' intrusion. But Dorothea snatched her hand away instantly- not just for the Count's commandment, but because she knew this was not the kind, gentle boy from her memory. This was merely a face with his same name- and much more rage than she cared to know. But before she could say a word of it, a shrill voice echoed outside,[/size]
[size=2]“Dorian!” Sydney marched into the cove, a fire in her eyes. “I just saw Thomas. He told me everything. What do you think you're doing, hitting him over [i]her?![/i]”[/size]
[size=2]“It's a lot better than what you did to him,” Dorothea retorted quietly.[/size]
[size=2]“Excuse me?” she growled. “I want her gone,” she told Dorian. “Now.”[/size]
[size=2]“It's good to want things,” she replied, coyly. And in the next moment, Sydney shoved Dorian aside, stomping over to Dorothea, and stretching out a hand to grab her by the hair and drag her out of the cove herself. Dorothea recoiled against the wall, just barely missing Sydney's grasp. “Don't touch me!” she screamed.[/size]
[size=2]The shout echoed out through the river. Several of the passerby’s on the bridge above stopped in their tracks glancing around.[/size]
[size=2]“...I'm going,” Dorothea conceeded, and solemnly left the river, still able to hear Dorian and Sydney fighting behind her.[/size]
[size=2]“If I [i]ever[/i] see you with her again,” Sydney yelled, “I swear to God I will [i]never[/i] speak to you again.”[/size]

[size=2]Between Sydney and Thomas, it wasn't long before rumours sprouted up about how often Dorothea flitted about men, and had her ankles displayed- and she never had- but, oh, what a darkness was cast nonetheless. Those around her grew miserable, and those further grew spiteful. And how is it said that envy is a sin when beauty is to be admired? Madness, every bit of it.[/size]
[size=2]And of all her inmates in the asylum of her life, none tired so quickly of that madness as Dorian himself. She watched one afternoon, as Dorian came to meet her. He had promised he would, and he had promised he would bring a gift. No, he wouldn't take no for an answer. He would be mad to not bring such a beautiful girl a gift, he insisted. On this afternoon, he must not have been quite aware that from the cove below where she waited, she could see him crossing the bridge above. He ran at first, but then stopped, and wondered, and slowly wandered away, but a moment later he spun around and continued onward, only to halt again and pace back, but not before he had turned this way and that and beat the bouquet which he carried against the railway in frustration no fewer than three times all the while sighing and muttering. [/size]
[size=2]When finally he brought himself to Dorothea, and she confessed that she had seen his frenzied stride-written soliloquy upon the bridge, he could not help turn a bright red, and very nearly dropped the half-beaten bundle of flowers- the very same kind which Thomas had tried to give to her- instead of presenting them. But one way or another, he managed, and one way or another, she took them from him with a thank you, and set them aside so that they might talk. But Dorian said nothing.[/size]
[size=2]It must have been several hours, Dorothea thought, but in reality no more than a few minutes, before he stirred again. And as they sat there, he confessed his newly discovered feelings which had been apparent for days now, and made to take her hand. Carefully, she snatched it away. She knew she must never touch him- but desperately did she want to reach out and embrace him, and accept him, and yet she could not. Dorian understood this well enough, or as the case may be, he misunderstood it well enough, and promptly stood up, and started away from her. He froze.[/size]
[size=2]“You never do smile anymore...” He remarked, and took off. [/size]
[size=2]Dorothea stood dumbfounded in the vespertine sorrow, as she had stood entranced by glass and still water time and time before, but now locked in a different reflection. Heart break is unsuitable, especially for one so otherwise iridescent. Heart-break makes minced meat out of the luscious, chocolatey passions that fuel human life. And why should she have to live with such a thing?[/size]
[size=2]Before she knew what was happening, Dorothea had taken off after Dorian. She would tell him everything- the truth of how she did want to be with him too, but could never touch him, and how he had no reason to feel dejected. But as she ran, catching up to him, in his funeral-march walk, she saw ahead of him a snide face- Sydney, coming around the corner. They would find each other. Sydney would ease his weariness, and he would go back to her, and Dorothea would be alone again. Her accidental rejection would cause him to be lost forever if only Sydney reached him first. So she threw all caution to the river, jolted and seized him, and rounded him about, feeling his warmth, his every gorgeous flaw, his fleshy, vibrant skin, and all in one fell, fantastical movement, kissed him, square on the lips.[/size]
[size=2][i]If I ever see you with her again, I swear to God, I will never talk to you again.[/i][/size]
[size=2]Sydney saw. She did not just see, she watched, and stared upon their dalliance in such bitter horror that she couldn't even give breath to the swears she seethed. And a moment later, she was off. Dorian, too, saw her, and hardly aware of what was happening, only fully overtaken by the heart of Dorothea's kiss for a moment, just a moment, captured in soul, pulled away, and bounded after Sydney in apology. [/size]
[size=2]But Dorothea had won. His soul was hers. It always would be. So why then, long after he had pulled away was she left lingering in her lassitude? Her lips were frozen, where they had been pressed against his. Her own heart stopped beating. It was cold, but she was not dead. Not entirely.[/size]
[size=2]In her languor was she left for several hours, long after the clock chimed three. She could not move, not a muscle. One gentleman had passed by and taken her for a new statue. He was not entirely wrong. A second gentleman arrived. He was the Count. [/size]
[size=2]“A statue?” He remarked, bemusedly. “Not quite. Only a meaning that's lost its life.” Effortlessly so, the Count took her away, back to Moreton Terrace, back to the back room. When he was done with her, replacing the last parts of her human life with a delicate clay, and after she was put into the furnace and I was withdrawn from it, he only remarked, “My child, you will forever be beautiful now.” [/size]
[size=2]To this day, I am. To this day, I still do not smile. But I am healed. The tender, fragmented vessel that once beat within me, that broke for a boy more day by day, had been replaced with solid clockwork. I would never hurt again. How gracious was he! But porcelain does not beat, porcelain does not smile. It does, however break. And so I am left to sit before this window, watching the ladies around and about the Terrace passing by, slated for slaughter in envy. I am watching Sydney, passing by, glancing into the window, pressing her hand against it, perhaps thinking if she could be as beautiful as the other dolls here, Dorian would not have strayed. Her fingers are right before me. I envy her lips, for mine are still, but if they were not, I would lean forward and kiss the glass. [/size][/quote]

[Maelstrom]

Super tl;dr

[Guest Sit]

Awesome.............

[Maelstrom]

Can we get a summary so we know what we're about to dive into here?

[Amethyst]

It's a simple, classic story, about a girl who likes a boy who doesn't like her back. So, she does what she must to win him, but in the process loses herself.

[Kiozo]

Well, I don't even HAVE enough time to read this lol.

Good job first off, it's nice for length haha. I wrote that much in a sitting; it sucks unless you really like it.

[Maelstrom]

Lol, I ended up writing something nearly that long earlier today when I was supposed to be working. Inspired by two songs that were inspired by MLP, of all things. 0.0

It's on my to-do list to type it out and flesh it out.

Also on my to-do list is to read this in its entirety.

[Aperture Draconequus]

My Little Pony inspired me to become the Zealot of Friendship and Logic I am.

> Weird things Inspire stuff.