There was a young girl known by the surname of Crane. Fear rustled around her dark skirts, bumping its face into her tiny legs and generally being a petulant fuzzy creature that she absentmindedly adored, stroking every now and then to keep it content.
She was unlucky, they said.
She was a freaky little bitch, they said.
But what the hell. She’s young, they thought. And she walks alone.
Some days on the girl’s pathway back home, through grim-ridden gutters and streets in which no lady was prone to trespass unless she held her occupation doing such, sultry eyes gleamed in the dark.
It lurked.
It focused.
It stared.
It was fond of the little girl.
Some days, the young girl known by the surname of Crane could tell when she was being followed by normal dangers. They, of the desperate or the depraved, dodged her steps from a block away and carefully tracked her path of winding alleys. They knew dead-ends of the suburban rot where no law could penetrate, and when she accidentally wandered into a closed off corner, the shadows falling over her tiny form told it all.
She knew what they were.
(for mommy told her not of men or women, but of monsters.
for mommy told her not of strangers or dangers, but of running—please run, run as fast as you can, do you hear me, do not look back, just run.)
They knew she wasn’t very good at running.
She knew they knew, and this made her smile wanly.
She knew what they didn’t know. That was it.
Twin sprigs of fiery orange pigtails bobbed as the young girl twisted her neck suddenly in the direction of red gleams that hadn’t been there a moment ago. The child was familiar with the outline that peeled itself from the recesses of the dark. It emerged from the depths of tainted desires, twin juts sleek and pointed, which wound down to curvy, slimmed plastic that shined startlingly in its smooth artifice.
The glamorous grimace did not alter.
The girl’s heart did not pound.
The young girl known by the surname of Crane tilted her head in acknowledgement, utterly undaunted by the naughtily clad figure that tweaked a ball-jointed arm towards her ever-so-slightly; a blink-or-miss twitch of a movement that managed to convey reassurance if witnessed by the right form of twisted mind. Its voluptuous figure was overlaid with twisty laces and tight stocking; lines and shading that barely concealed the intimate places that didn’t exist on its flawless form.
I am everything they want, and I am everything they fear, its smirk said.
The fabric of the girl’s black skirt rustled, stirred by the collective panic of her stalkers. Their hysteria unfurled and tightened, hot and heavy and painfully urgent. Fear mewled pitifully, pawing at her legs and screeching to be coddled. The young girl was rather fond of it, but didn’t quite understand the appeal. Adults tried so many funny things, like alcohol and drugs and sex. To her, it seemed that fear was popular among them as well.
The young girl reached out a tiny, pale hand to touch the exquisitely molded protrusions jutting from the Mannequin’s slippery palms.
She complimented it.
The Mannequin stared.
They held each other’s gaze.
“Thank you,” said the girl politely.
Tiny fingers curled around the cold plastic and squeezed it in a tentative handshake. She let go soon after, but the warmth of the child’s hand still lingered on its palm.
She turned around. There were no monsters blocking her way.
She turned around. There was no guardian watching her stay.
Oh. My. God.
This is… amazing.
There are no words. Thank you so much. I—
I will draw more of this now gosh… youareanamazingwriter.
