Author’s Note: Wrote this thirteen years ago. Enjoy the story and R&R.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to or of the Yu-Gi-Oh! GX series.
Before announcing herself to the students of Osiris Red, the transfer student from Despairland, Alice, reflects on her origins within her haunted dollhouse.
Within the parlour of a single-floored residence, a girl sat quietly in front of her vanity mirror by an unlit fireplace. She combed her hair, watching as her black locks, tied together with indigo bows, fell over her cyan-coloured eyes in the glass. For a brief second, she felt displaced, as if someone had picked her up and thrown her into a stranger’s arms. Was she an uninvited guest in this place? If so, why was it that the mirror seemed so familiar? Was it not hers? She tried to remember what had happened prior to her arrival in that particular seat, which was rubbery and wobbled continuously as she pondered. Recollection, however, proved to be more difficult for her than previously expected.
“Where am I? Wasn’t I just –” she gasped in realization, “T-the stand!”
The image of the stand that had once held her upright flashed in her mind. The details brought on by the memory were clear, and for some reason, frightening: A beige platform of sanded wood, atop which a raised circular disk was cemented, enclosed by four tall window-like structures.
At that time, she was a prisoner to those walls, her feet no different from the hoop she stood on. All she could do was observe. Day in and day out, without sleep or nourishment, she would stare. There was not much else she could look forward to. Then that all changed. One minute, she saw something being torn in half; the next, darkness washed over her in a shower that stole her innocence, and embittered her heart.
There was a crowd that ambushed a blonde woman in her home. They beat her, smacking her against furniture and leaving her alone in a corner. Although she was beautiful, her skin a light shade of bisque, the assault left her body bruised and her elegant clothing in tattered scraps. A deep gash had also been made across her pale throat, yet the innards were not visible. There was no blood either.
“Apparently, she and I shared the same name. That’s what they said. They kept saying that ‘Alice’ had to be punished for what she did, and that ‘Alice’ had to learn to keep her mouth shut.”
Upon closer inspection, it became increasingly apparent that the members of the group, which she had first perceived to be middle-aged women, were far from human. They were toys. Oversized mannequins patched together by a manic dollmeister of sorts. Those that actually had heads possessed frozen expressions of horror, while others, missing limbs, crawled along the floor like morbid props of a puppet show.
“These artificial things…I surrounded myself with them. It was comforting.”
The doll parts drew closer to the unmoving ‘Alice’ again. The fanged skulls gnawed at her sides, while the dislocated arms squeezed tightly at her ankles. The fleshless torsos rolled around, mocking her predicament, and a pair of legs showed off its sole, high-heeled shoe.
“Cracked plastic. There was cracked plastic everywhere.”
The legs tapped a ghastly rhythm, signalling the execution: step, pivot, step, pivot, and so on in that fashion until the victim had been asphyxiated in a pit of hollow appendages.
“Alice had pretty eyes of emerald. Now they are dead. She was buried in a random plot, practically kicked into her grave. No funeral ever took place. Her passing wasn’t mourned. She had no family. No relatives. Ironically, it was her killers that cared enough to visit, tossing a rose over her coffin before the mound was covered up. How tragic that her life had to end in such a gruesome manner. She opened the door. It was she who dared pass through the gateway to misery. The silver arch.”
The girl occupied herself with brushing her hair. That was all she could do. Her Gothic black and white lace attire never wrinkled, and the dollhouse was always clean. For the moment, that was her only concern.
Brush your hair. Brush your hair. Brush your hair. Afterwards, you may birth despair.
Satisfied with her appearance, Alice removed her head from the table, supporting it from underneath with both hands. She pulled on the circumference of her semi-elastic neck, and succeeded in popping her head into place with little effort.
With a final glance towards the mirror, she turned to leave. “I’m beginning to think I’m not like other people…”