let me be one of your girls . . .

WHO IS SHE !?

THE DOLLMAKER & HIS DOLL

I.

Vivienne De Vailmont, the rising star in the opulent world of 17th-century French ballet, was a mesmerizing porcelain-like figure with such precision and poise brought to life. She performed alongside La Fontaine. She danced for the grand courts of Louis XIV, performances of such discipline and elegance in the eyes of all. Her performances were what you'd call perfection. This was until the poor girl took a devastating fall during a performance that shattered more than just her career; it robbed her of the perfection she had dedicated her life to. With her efforts and soul crushing devotion for her craft came to an end, La Fontaine went on to become the first professional female ballet dancer. Vivienne, however, stuck in clouds of envy and despair, was left vulnerable to finding a solution to salvage the bit of dignity left in her.

II.

With Vivienne stripped of purpose, the dollmaker had made himself known to the young woman who was now in her early twenties. He promised to restore her title, her beauty, and her grace on the stage. But what qualities did a mere dollmaker have to help her? Vivienne, who was caught between the seams of insecurity and desperation, reluctantly followed his lead. But his offer was no act of mercy or pity for the girl— it was an obsession. The dollmaker was in pursuit of perfecting his craft of a living doll, an everlasting object of desire.

III.

He took it upon himself to remake Vivienne, mold her into his idea of perfection; binding her to an immortal, lifeless existence with the use of ancient elixirs. She would dance again like he had promised, but as something unnatural. A flawless marionette forever trapped in a body that would never tire, never falter, and never truly live as she is cursed to fouetté between the existence of life and death.

THE SACRIFICIAL LAMB

IV.

The flames of the candlelight in the workshop flickered violently as Vivienne loomed over the frail, aging dollmaker. The air between them thick, cold, and unforgiving like the pent up tension from all these years. His trembling, wrinkled hands clutched at the desk behind him, eyes wide with something between terror and awe at the doll he had devoted himself to. He had sculpted her into perfection, every delicate detail of her body a reflection of his own obsession—but now, she stood before him, no longer his creation, no longer his to hold captive. “You thought I would be yours forever,” Vivienne whispered, her voice smooth, eerily devoid of warmth. She stepped closer, slow, deliberate, the soft click of her heels on the wooden floor echoing. The scent of varnish, soot, and old lace filled the room, mingling with something metallic—his fear, his mortality, his end.

V.

“Mon chef-d’œuvre,” he croaked, reaching out as if to touch her one last time, as if he still had control. But she recoiled, her cold, elongated fingers closed around his wrist instead. He winced at the unnatural strength. She had been his, but he had made a mistake—he had given her too much yet deprived her of everything.

Vivienne did not need a blade, nor did she need to bare her fangs. The life in him was fragile, brittle like the porcelain dolls that lined the window sills of his workshop. So, she simply squeezed. The indents of her nails on the thin skin pierced through-- stabbing the flesh with a pop. His breath hitched, his body convulsed as Vivienne pinched the radial artery between her nails-- and with a final yank, the man gave a gasping rattle. The pulse that once rang in her ears, ceasing to exist.

Silence.

Vivienne exhaled slowly, tilting her head, watching the lifeless husk collapse at her feet. Her fingers toying with the elastic from his arm, the ooze coating her nails in deep hues. No warmth filled her chest, no satisfaction, no triumph. She was still his work, a creation too perfect to be real, too cursed to be human. And yet, she was free. At least, that’s what she told herself as she turned away from him, stepping past the rows of unfinished dolls staring blankly into nothing—just as she once had before being tricked into this vampiric entity devoid of life.

THIS ACCOUNT IS DEAD - DOVE, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. NO TWS. EXPLICIT CONTENT. STOP NOW BEFORE FOLLOWING.

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