A Cold Surface and an Earnest Desire

"You're blushing," the mannequin said shyly. "Dorian, you like me, don't you?" I looked away. Why? How was this the direction things were going? I felt stupid; no, I felt like the whole situation was stupid. I was in a mysterious room talking to a mannequin, and the mannequin seemed like she was coming onto me. My emotions were all mixed together. Was my heart pounding out of fear or excitement? I couldn't let this nonsense go on any longer. I crawled forward and reached for the talisman.

"Wait, please," the mannequin cried, and my arm stopped moving. For a moment, I wondered if by giving her my name I had granted the mannequin some level of control over me, but no; I knew well enough that I had stopped my arm of my own naïve accord.

"What's wrong with me?" I whispered. I slumped back in resignation and let go of the talisman.

"Dorian... Dorian..." the mannequin called out. I looked up at her and watched as her arm was raised up by its wrist, readying my punishment for having tried to seal her away. I braced myself, crossing my wrists over my face in a pose my sister had taught me years ago to use against the brainless fury of our rotten aunt. I waited, my face scrunched tight, but there was no pain. Instead, I felt a cold, smooth surface brush against my hand. I shivered and squeezed my eyes shut even tighter, but the mannequin's fingers continued sliding gently over my own. They jerked occasionally with a sharp clicking noise that made my shoulders twitch in suspense. Finally, the motion came to an end. Slowly, I opened my eyes and turned to look.

Her body was limp as usual, draped sideways over the chair's flimsy armrest. Her dusty hair swayed ever so slightly, and the frills of her dress curled with age. Her right arm was extended, her hand clasped comfortably around mine.

"Don't worry," she said, "I like you too." Her thumb curled across my palm, and I thought I detected her grasp tighten, if only barely. Her fingers were thin and perfectly rounded, and I couldn't help but feel pleased by the sensation of their touch, which was like glass marbles rolling across my skin.

"I don't—I don't like you," I asserted in a particularly unassertive tone.

The mannequin tightened her grip further. "But no one here has talked to me before," she said. "You seem so kind. Please listen to me, Dorian." I gulped as a bead of sweat dripped down my neck. I was nervous, but I nodded for her to continue. What else could I have done? She had hold of me; for all I knew she could have broken my hand, or worse. And her voice—how wistful it was. "I want to leave this place," she said. "I hardly remember the outside. I don't even know how long I've been here, exactly, but it must have been a very long time. I want to leave, and I... I want to be loved." My eyes widened. The mannequin's neck spun to face me head-on. "Dorian... if you won't love me, then please, help me find someone who will."

"I don't—" I started, but I was interrupted.

"It has to be you!" the mannequin cried, her back jolting awkwardly. "I can't wait again! I can't be alone for all those years again..." She began to sob, her body jerking intermittently, and she loosened her grip until her arm fell away from my hand and collided against her legs with a clatter. I was entirely stunned. All I could do was stare, eyes wide and mouth half-open, my heart beating so hard that I was sure the expansion and contraction of my veins was visible. I, too, lowered my arms that had shielded my face unnecessarily, and with my right hand I touched the palm of the left, feeling the residual coolness of the mannequin's porcelain fingers.

I was at a loss for words. How could I help this poor girl? I doubted I had the strength to carry her out of the building, but supposing I did, what could I do then? Where would I take her? She was a mannequin, and mannequins were not meant to live. She would be feared and taken and locked up again, I was sure. And what of my sister?

"I'm sorry," I said. The mannequin's crying grew softer, and I decided to give her a proper explanation. It was the least I could do. "See, my sister—I live with her—she got hurt, badly, and it was very expensive. We don't have much money, so... It's like I said. I have to do this job, for her."

The mannequin sniffled. "You really are kind, Dorian. I understand." I was again surprised by the mannequin's grace, and I found myself growing guilty over the thought of abandoning her in that dark, cramped room. I wondered how long she had really been there; years, she had said—could that be right? It was such a small, dirty room, and hardly any light could get in, even during the daytime. If it was true that she hadn't been able to talk to anyone before me, then how had she remained sane all this time?

"Really, I'm sorry," I said, and it was the truth. I leaned back on my palms, and for a moment we sat face-to-face in silent understanding.

"Dorian," the mannequin said. 

"Yes?"

"You can put the talisman back on, but... will you come back tomorrow?" My heart sank at the pain and hesitation that broke cracks in her words. She was expecting to be let down. I thought about it. I didn't want to lie to her, to make a promise I couldn't keep. What could I do, really?

"I don't know" was all I could say.

"I understand," said the mannequin. I picked up the talisman off the ground and, after a brief hesitation and a small sigh, placed it on the mannequin's pale forehead, and with a quiet "Goodbye, Dorian," she slipped into dormancy once more.