A Collector’s Mark

I’ve never considered myself an artistic person, but out of habit I trace my eyes along the contours of Cassandra’s milky porcelain face, like I have a thousand times before. I find myself entranced with the clear artistic quality of her. My gaze lands on her blank, glassy hazel eyes framed in a perfect fringe of shiny black lashes. Her child-like expression with plump cherubic cheeks, a round little button nose, and small pouty pink lips makes her the supreme picture of innocence. She’s beautiful, but I’ve always found her almost orange eyebrows a little odd in comparison to her silky brown curls.

When I was in sixth grade my father gave me Cassandra. He had bought her at an auction and I hated her for the simple reason that my father couldn’t seem to recognize that I had long out grown such childish things. I felt a wry smile wedge itself against my cheek as I acknowledged that I was now a full grown adult and Cassandra was by far my most precious possession. My father died a week later and Cassandra was the last gift he gave to me.

I gently tap Cassandra’s nose and marvel over the fact that all these years later she still looks as fresh and faultless as the day I got her. Porcelain dolls are more durable than people give them credit for. Today though, it seems not even Cassandra can soothe me. I imagine that just beyond the painted color of her eyes lies a reflection of my own inner anxiety.

Abandoning Cassandra I go back to the bathroom to further examine my appearance. I skim a clammy hand through my softly curling blonde waves while critically examining my flaws. My lips are too thin, the bridge of my nose has a hawk-like bump to it, and my cheek bones are too broad in my oval face. Deciding to apply another layer of mascara to my short lashes, I grieve over how small and unnoticeable my eyes are. They aren’t expressive and large. Not for the first time I wish that I had Cassandra’s flawless, doll born beauty.

A heavy knock gets my attention and I go to answer the door to my dusky, handsome date. I invite him in while I grab my purse and coat. Coming back into the living room I notice as I approach that he is staring at Cassandra where I left her on the coffee table.

“Are you ready to go?” I realize I am wringing my hands nervously and force them neutrally to my side.

He tosses his inky black hair back and flicks his soulful dark eyes over to me. Offering an easy smile that folds into his devastatingly charming dimples, he takes hold of my face with his large cold hands and says, “You are so beautiful.” The words roll off his tongue in his sensual foreign accent, “So many women today hide their beauty behind makeup.” He gently drags his thumb down my lips leaving a moist trail of something cloyingly sweet, “Tonight I am going to show you how beautiful you truly are.” Letting me go he turns and picks up Cassandra with the utmost care and gazes down at her impassive little face. I can’t quite understand why, but seeing him holding Cassandra gives me a deep sense of unease. I feel dizzy and steady myself on the arm of the couch.

My knees buckle and my heart sluggishly pounds while my thoughts whirl. He ignores me and continues to look down at Cassandra tenderly and in my altered state for a moment Cassandra seems to kick and squirm, her empty face now filled with hatred and naked fear. I blink and again she is just a cold, lifeless doll.

“Cassandra was like you once,” he began in a soft nostalgic lilt. “I met her in the seventies. So filled with vibrant light and possibility, and yet so blind to her own charm. She had a doll too you know. Edith. Beautiful, fiery Edith.” Now he turns his eyes upon me and I wonder how I never noticed the feverish, manic gleam in them. I’m not even sure where I met him. “Edith marked Cassandra. And Cassandra marked you.” Cassandra was discarded as he carelessly dropped her on the sofa, his eyes now boring holes into my own. It’s now that I notice I’m laid flat out on the floor with not even the strength to crook my finger. “And soon my sweet perfect doll…you’ll mark someone new.” His words don’t make sense to me and inside I’m quivering with terror. His wide devilish mouth curls into a grin. He seems impossibly large as he looms over me. His hand reaches out to grab me and while he picks me up I seem to soar through the air in a disconnected way. The disproportion in our sizes gives me a sick feeling of vertigo and I blessedly lose consciousness.

When I awake I see a beautiful doll with large blue eyes and softly curling blonde hair staring blankly at me. Behind the doll are shelves filled with countless others in different colors and eras of style. I see Cassandra with her orange eyebrows and dark hair. In the haze of a second her face constricts in agony and I see tears before it is again the stoic expression I’ve always known.

I can’t move. All I can do is look at the blonde doll. A mounting feeling of trapped terror builds inside me and I want to scream, because it is then that I realize the doll I’m seeing is a reflection in a mirror.

A shadow shifts behind the blonde doll and with a jolt I realize it is the man from before. I don’t even know his name. He bends down to pick up the doll and just as he makes contact I feel two large pinches grip my waist. I am spun around to find myself facing his great distorted head. He cradles me and buries his face in my hair and I feel myself becoming sick with confusion and powerless panic. He pulls back and gives me a greasy kiss. “I’ll see you again my love. Just a few short years and then you can join your sisters in my private collection.” I try to scream and push him away, but the shriek only echoes in my mind and my arms never even twitch.

He carries me out of the room filled with dolls into a room where a woman is holding the hand of a young red headed girl. Upon seeing me the little girl’s eyes light up. I try to say something, anything but nothing comes out.

“My! What a beautiful doll. Your craftsmanship is amazing.” The mother’s monstrous head peers down at me in admiration.

“Making these dolls is my pleasure.” His despicable deep voice reverberates through me and horror chills my body. I’m a doll. He crouches down to the young girl’s level and carefully hands me to her. I see her shiny excited face before I’m mashed roughly into her chest by her childish embrace. “From one collector to another.” I can hear his smile. “I hope you’ll find yourself back to my humble workshop one of these days.” His tone laced with underlying intent.

My eyes peak out over the girl’s shoulders as she carries me out of the shop with her mother. I can see him standing there, his eyes shimmering with dark, greedy desire. It is then that I understand. Just as Edith marked Cassandra and Cassandra marked me. I’ve marked this little girl and one day he will come to collect her just as he came for me. We are doomed to be dolls upon his shelf.