The Arcadian had tried to make the doll feel at home. It wasn’t the same as where she had been, that beautiful doll’s house he had taken her from, but he had tried his best with what he could afford. He put love into it. And he had to admit, he was pleased with the result.
The house was plastic, cheap, the furniture likewise. He had spent the morning in Toys R Us and going round charity shops until he had enough. The furniture didn’t match but it was mostly pink, which was important. Hers had been pink. It wasn’t pristine like hers had been: some of it was old and worn, chewed-looking in parts, but he tried to ignore that. The walls were pink. And the doll looked happy in there, like she belonged. That was the main thing.
He stood staring at her. For how long, he didn’t know. He zoned out. He had heard that builders did that, stood and admired the work they had done. Not looking at any part of it in particular, just staring. Seeing it, seeing through it. That was what he was doing.
He imagined that she was talking to him, telling him about her life. Thanking him for putting her in the house, not letting her go. He remembered the butterfly he had seen when she had died, beautiful, iridescent, and then the smile on the doll’s face. He knew what had happened. It was so obvious. She was thanking him in that smile. And telling him something else: Take the doll. Give her a home. She’s me now. And she’s yours. I’m yours.
She sat at her chewed table, teacup in hand, smile etched permanently in plastic. Perfect.
He shook his head, blinked. It brought him back to reality.
The previous night came to mind. And the elation he had felt at placing the doll in her house escaped out of him. He had entered the bar wanting to make contact. The friction of flesh, the frisson of fucking, the release. He knew he wouldn’t recapture the high he had experienced with the doll, all smiles and butterflies and pure Arcadian pleasure, but he had to try. Or at least settle for the next best thing.
He had stood in the bar, hand in his pocket stroking the doll’s beautiful blonde hair, looking round. The men were all shapes and sizes, but he felt they had one thing in common: they were staring at him. At first he didn’t like that, felt naked, exposed. But he gradually became accustomed to it, drew strength from it, even. It gave him the power to choose.
Except there was no one there he wanted to choose.
The drag artist was up on stage, miming to some old pop song, and the audience were whooping it up. But the Arcadian didn’t like it. The drag queen was doing the actions to the lyrics in the song, but not very well. She overexaggerated any subtlety the song had, telegraphing her gestures as if she wanted them to be seen several miles away. Her make-up matched her actions. Like a Kabuki or Noh actor. Not like a genuine woman. Not like his doll.
He smiled to himself. Oh yes. He knew Kabuki, he knew Noh. He wasn’t thick. He was an educated man. Educated.
There was nothing the drag queen had that he wanted. He checked the others at the bar. Men made up as women. He stared at them. Imagined his doll in their place. Imagined doing to them what he had done to his doll. Getting them alone, loving them for what they were, then showing them how they could be so much more. Giving them their dream. Taking out his knives and sculpting them into real women. He imagined doing that to all of them. Each and every one. Just standing there, staring. His hand in his pocket caressing the doll, his other hand sculpting with a non-existent knife.
That was what they all wanted, he told himself. The Arcadian to work his magic on them. That was what they were all there for, why they had come out for the night. Secretly they wanted to meet him, have him take them home. Make them into the best they could be. And maybe they didn’t realise it. Maybe he had to show them. Give them what they wanted, what was best for them. Even if he had to subdue them, tie them up in order to do it. They would thank him for doing it. All of them.
He had stared at them so long, his imagination working all the while, that he zoned out again. When he blinked himself back to reality he was aware that the drags weren’t looking at him any more. In fact they were looking anywhere but at him. He became aware of his hand in his pocket pressed against the doll, the doll rubbing his erection through his trousers. That must have been the reason why. He didn’t care. But he couldn’t stay there. So he had left the bar, gone home.
And that was when he thought of the idea of his own doll’s house.
Now he sat, curtains closed against the harsh winter daylight, staring at his doll’s house. It was perfect. The doll, the house, everything. He was amazed he hadn’t thought of it earlier. Small and controllable, yet also noticeable. But something about that wasn’t right. Something didn’t fit. He stared again at the house, trying to work out what it was. And then he had it. So obvious he didn’t know how he hadn’t thought of it earlier.
There was only one doll.
She was lonely. She needed company. Someone to talk to. Someone for him to talk to. He had to plan ahead. Work out who she would like to live with her. The house could become a diary. Each doll a memento of his work. Yet more than that: a repository for the butterfly. A home for souls. With him all the time. He could talk to them, listen to them. Live with them.
He sighed, crossed his legs. Pondered.
What to do about it, what to do…
He could go back to the bars again, like he had done last night. Entice a drag home and set to work.
Maybe. But that didn’t appeal so much. Part of the fun in creating the doll had been the build-up, the anticipation. The preparation. He was ready to do another one, no doubt. But he would have to do it right. Picking up someone random held too many variables. All he could see was the ways it could go wrong.
No. He had to do it better than that.
He thought some more.
The answer came to him. So simple. So perfect.
He looked at the doll in her house and smiled. ‘Not long now,’ he said. ‘You’re going to have some company…’