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"Such a tiny little love. You can hardly move on your own, can you?"
It was true. Marie could barely move her glass eyes to watch the purple-clad woman move to pick her up. She tried to walk smoothly, but the doll still felt the thump of each step. That was okay. It felt interesting after not being carried for so long. Interesting in a good way. Like a heartbeat, almost.
The woman took her to the bath and stripped off all her clothes. She was pale porcelain underneath the dirty things, all smooth and shiny– ah, but wait. That was what she was meant to be. Her time of neglect had taken a toll on her.
“Not able to even clean yourself for all these weeks or months, hm?” the woman said, looking her over. It was not an unkind question, but Marie felt the light touches of shame on her mind anyway. But she soon forgot the feeling. The sensation of a soft, soapy cloth going over her torso was too nice to think.
Every time it came back dirty, the woman would take the cloth away and rinse it, squeeze the water out, and come back again. One time, she must have pushed Marie a little too hard because the doll fell back with a thunk on the bath floor.
“Oh, you poor dear, must I do everything for you?”
The woman picked her back up, carefully, and started again. She cleaned Marie’s face with a soft toothbrush, combed and brushed her softening hair and talked aloud about which clothes would look best on the little doll’s body.
“I might have to get a whole set,” she said, placing a little cotton tip into the doll’s ears and turning it ever so slightly.
“I could see you in dresses or little shorts. Oh, I think a holiday is coming up! I simply must have you in traditional attire when it comes. I’ll dress you with a little bow, or perhaps a tiny hat. Perhaps I should give you something new every day. It will be quite a chore, but a precious thing like you deserves to be cared for.”
She bobbed Marie’s head up and down like the doll was nodding and chuckled. Marie would have laughed too, if she could open her mouth. And had a throat. Or a diaphragm. But her lips were too delicate to move and sewn shut as they were, trying to open them would have broken her face. She was a delicate thing, too delicate for speech, for movement, for food. Too delicate for anything other than having her hair brushed, and being dressed, and looking perfect.