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Maintenance is one of the easiest jobs to do when it comes to dolls.
Ensure that the limbs are in proper place. Brush their hair and smoothen out any tangles from mismanagement. Fix any ribbons that have untied themselves. Adjust sleeves and bonnets. Wipe eyes and bisque free of dust. Display them properly and put them upright on their shelves. Make sure that the dolls shine, because there is no place for dolls that stay in the dark. There is no place for those that are not exemplary.
Exemplary dolls are usually the ones that make the biggest name for themselves, and for their makers. It is only right that they do. However, in the pursuit for what is “exemplary,” many dollmakers lose their own touch. They lose their gentleness and settle for what might catch eyes the most. The painful thing about it is that they do not often see that their works turn into an eyesore of a mess. A work reflects its maker’s intentions, after all.
Having such selfishness for wanting a creation to succeed is not wrong. The intention only becomes corrupt and vile when an artisan’s gentleness becomes familiar with desperation. The thirst for fame, the hunger for recognition— once selfishness meets them, it all becomes a dance for the devils to come tempt the artisan to spiral deeper and deeper. It is at that point where it is almost too late to stop moving. The music would be blaring loudly, the notes a chaotic symphony of pity and sabotage. The artisan would become their own puppet, a slave to their own mocking selfishness until nothing is left. Dancers who take part in the torturous song never walk out of it unchanged. Selfishness is easy to corrupt. It is easy to be manipulated, and it makes it easy to manipulate those who own it. Unfortunately, once the music starts up, it becomes almost impossible to stop dancing, because who said that the symphony did not sound like a masterpiece?
It is a masterpiece, indeed. The path these creators take is paved in fake gold. Their minds, desperate and longing to satiate their desires, see only light and glory, their dream . The world they belong to becomes a mere projection of their own ideals, and they prance about in their fantasy, seeing only gold as they dance to the joyous saccharine tune— until they realize that their little world was never the place they sought out to be in.
They would realize that they were listening to a requiem, and the field of gold they once knew would decay into misery. They would look at their own selves and feel their worn joints and limbs from the constant work. They would try to stop, but they wouldn’t be able to. Cries of pain and anguish would ring out, only for their strained voices to go unheard. They would realize that their limbs are shackled with chains and see that an unknown force is making them move. Once they finally see that they have become puppets subjected to work under their own selfishness, it is often too late to reverse the tides. What is done has been done, and it only ever ends when the path finally stops forming, and when the orchestra stops playing because, when this happens, it is often the message telling them that they’ve been forgotten, and everyone else moved on. This is when the biggest realization comes to light to these hapless vessels.
One’s downfall is a show that an audience wants to watch, and once they’ve sunk to the lowest of the low, the audience gets up— and simply watches another. Humans are vile, so what are they if they don’t want to see a vile display?
———
“The show begins in five minutes. Are you ready?”
“Please wait a few moments. Mirage will be out soon.”
Wide and bright blue eyes stare at a mirror. The figure remains motionless in front of her own reflection. She stays still as her frame gets poised, as her blonde hair gets brushed, as her frills and ribbons are adjusted, as her hat gets fixed into place, as her face is wiped down with a soft cloth, and as gentle hands work on the maintenance of the strings tied around her joints.
There is another figure behind her, one that is moving, and one with his own will. Despite that, however, he seems to operate under a set of strings himself. His pale face is wearing a sullen expression as he takes wooden control bars into his rough and bony hands. He looks at the mirror, clearly avoiding his own self. Dull eyes riddled from exhaustion dart around Mirage’s body, and they narrow on every little detail. After the inspection, he sighs, and gets up.
“It’s showtime. Are you ready?” He’s talking to himself.
Mirage is carried out of the dressing room and taken into the dark corridor of the backstage. Her head rests on the other’s chest as her limbs dangle stiffly under her body. The other puppet is careful in his movements, making sure to not tangle any of her strings— but it almost looks like he’s trying to not let both of theirs get mangled into each other.
Mirage is set down, and she’s standing by herself. She’s a human-sized doll. Doll is what the preferred term for her is, but she’s more known by many other titles. There’s great magician and disappearing beauty, and there’s puppet and deceiver. The latter ones are only what the other thinks, but he doesn’t admit that he also refers to himself with those words.
In the backstage wing is a staircase leading to another floor, one that extends over the stage, and that is where the other puppet steps onto. The control bars are in his hands, and he stretches his arms away from his body. Mirage moves her arms as a result. He moves his fingers and hands around, and Mirage walks in a circle. Their movements are quick and precise. There is no room for error. A puppet that makes a mistake is the fault of their controller.
When Mirage’s controller attempts to move her fingers, he notices that one of her digits is stiff. Ah. It’s not anything major, but it is something that needs to be fixed. Repairs cannot be done in mere minutes until showtime. Maintenance is easy and fast, but repairing can take hours into deep nights. Mirage can live through a simple disappearing act with a stiff ring finger— no, she can’t. There is no room for error.
Well, there is no point in brooding over an oversight now. The voice of the announcer rings through the entire theater, and the stage lights begin to dim. That’s their cue. That’s her cue.
Both puppets step onto the stage, and a spotlight shines over Mirage when she makes it to position zero. Above her, the other puppet makes her spin graciously and ends the movement in a smooth bow. The audience is clapping. They’re clapping for her. He can see their eyes.
Make a vile show, a voice akin to a devil says, echoing in the chambers of his mind. Let them revel in your suffering, another jeers. Dance, puppet, dance!
Mirage has no need for words. If her movements vindicate her silence, then there’s no need to fake a voice. It’s become one of her appeals, fortunately. It’s one of her qualities that makes her distinct from other magicians. Every single one of her motions are grand and done with purpose, but there was a time where she would move in exaggerated animation. It was a mistake. Her joints immediately grew stiff, and her clothes always had new tears and loose threads for days. Every error is a forced oath to never repeat the same mistake twice. All the checking, all the maintenance, all the touch-ups, they are simple reviews of what has been done in the past, of what should never be committed again.
There is a box onstage, and assistants show up, standing beside Mirage. They show the box, and demonstrate that there is only one opening, that being on the top. They take something out of the box, and smaller spotlights flash onto them, presenting chains to the audience. Mirage looks at them and bows politely. They start tying her up and heavens, please don’t be too rough. Her arms are bound to her torso, and she steps into the box, folding her legs neatly into it. The assistants close the flaps, and they take out a black curtain. They hold it so that the cloth is covering the box, concealing the deception to come.
Fifteen seconds pass, and the curtain is dropped to the ground. The assistants open the box, only for there to be nothing inside. Thirty seconds pass, and Mirage descends from one of the spotlights hovering on the stage, appearing as if she’s floating. The audience gasps in amazement, and they applaud loudly. Forty-five seconds pass, and Mirage bows, along with the assistants.
The puppet watches from the shadows, the thundering applause ringing in his ears. He’s breathing heavily. It’s a simple trick, but one that requires speed. The chains that bound Mirage are sitting beside him in a coiled pile. It feels like there’s another set of them, and that they’re binding him to something else. It’s been like this for the longest time. He chooses to ignore it, and lets the strings command his own control over Mirage.
The show goes on until the hour ends.
———
The puppets are in the dressing room, and Mirage is seated in front of the mirror once more. This time, her eyes are closed. One of the staff members opens the door and says that the show was a rousing success thanks to her. The other puppet looks at them, a brush in his hand, and smiles.
“Thank you. I’m sure Mirage is flattered, but she’s resting right now. Is it alright if she is to be left?”
“Ah, of course! Please tell her my thanks. Have a good night!”
Deceiver, the word rings out into his mind. No one in the staff must know that Mirage is a doll. Humans are vile, and they love to gossip and spread rumors. Humans are stupid too, and they love to believe rumors that destroy others. They love witnessing destruction, especially if it’s of their own kind.
The two are left alone, and Mirage’s hair is being brushed. Brushing her hair is a necessity, but it’s also become something close to relaxing. There’s something about the small, repetitive motions that feels therapeutic, and it sounds ridiculous, because this puppet despises repeating things. The brush sinks into soft and silky hair, smoothing out the strands and putting any stray ones into proper place.
Mirage’s hat is put aside on the dresser, and she’s checked for any irregularities. No cracks, no rips in the seams, and nothing out of place. That makes the dollmaker’s job easier. All he has to do is to fix her stiff finger. It shouldn’t take long once he gets back to his workshop.
He stands up and pulls out a case the size of his frail upper body. Cautiously, he carries the doll. Her head is resting on his chest. If he didn’t know that she was his own creation, he would believe that it’s a human girl sleeping in his arms. A human can never be as close to having as much beauty and purity as her. He sets her down into her case, gently folding her limbs, taking care to not make a mess of her strings. The strings tied around his own limbs must be a mess right now. Not like he can do anything about that. She looks as if she’s resting peacefully in a casket. Seeing her like this always makes the selfish puppet feel a twinge in his chest.
He could never bring himself to treat her like a doll, but it isn’t because Mirage is his creation. It’s because he knows that he will never amount to anything like her. She’s an exemplary doll disguised as an exemplary magician. Her name is stretched out far and wide, eliciting reactions from something as small as a hushed whisper of her excellence. Everyone knows who the famed Mistress of Illusions is. She’s praised by onlookers and revered by magicians of all origins and specialties. Such a pure being can never be born, and that’s exactly why she’s here.
Mirage, a doll, a puppet, has a bigger name than this dollmaker can ever have. No one knows who he is. His name is nothing but a breath never let out. There is no point in uttering it, because time used on someone who stays in the dark, on someone who is not exemplary, is time wasted.
A human can never be as pure and valued as her, and yet she was crafted by the gentle hands of a human riddled with selfishness. She is the result of an intention that grew more and more corrupt as time passed. Unlike most artisans who turn vile because of desperation, however, this dollmaker does have a different quality to him. It is one that makes him stand out, one that makes his suffering all the more enticing to watch.
“I wish I never made you.”
This one turned vile out of self-destruction.