Mannequins ~ By Nicole
Sequel to Dolls
He placed the books in front of her. A dozen or so books with dark covers and
many pages, some where white, some as yellow as sunflower petals. Some books
seemed brand new to her but most look as if they hadn't seen the light of day in
a long time. The older ones had water stains ruining their thick covers and
smelled of musk and dust. Dorothy looks at them as though they were bugs,
impassive, as they laid under her slender nose on the polished tabletop. One
finely arched eyebrow was raised, her nose scrunched up from the horrible odor.
Her hands ached to push the disturbing books far away from her. But with her
composure remaining as nonchalant as ever, she slowly raised her eyes to shoot a
questioning gaze up at the tall man whom loomed over him. There was a look in
his eyes that caught her uncertainty.
"What are those for, Roger?" she asked. Her voice was as dull as dry
clay; monotone and lifeless like always.
The dark clad negotiator only shrugged at her before he moved away from her. He
left the books behind. "They are just some works I want you to go
through," he told her. He took his seat at the opposite end of the dinning
table, his face as calm as ever like his command was not something out of the
blue. Dorothy tried to keep the confusion away from her face, though she doubted
that he face would ever bend to the expression. "You might find them
beneficial."
Dorothy kept her dark eyes on him for several more moments. A feeling of
suspicion was slowly crawling into her mechanical senses.
"Oh," she replied. "Are you assigning me homework now?"
Roger briefly glanced at her, unamused. Then he shrugged again-a movement that
Dorothy soon grew to hate-before turning his attention to the plate of food that
Norman had placed before him. "Think what you would like, Ms Waynright,"
he told her, fingers curving around his silver fork. "I want you to look
through those books. Maybe you will like them."
"I have no doubt in mind that I won't," Dorothy shot back
sarcastically.
She missed Roger's frowning glare when she had already lowered her eyes to the
neglected books before her. Her plate lay beside them, just as ignored. But all
too soon her hands were on them, spreading them out to see what they were. Many
of them looked to be books of science and works of the human body. One was
completely dedicated to the human voice, one to the workings of the facial
expression, and one to the fascinating discoveries of the eyes and all that it
could reveal about the human soul. There were many more about her, some on the
same subjects but giving different theories and opinions.
For a moment she became frightened and a little nervous, or at lest this would
be the time she would become so. The reactions seemed appropriate enough. Had he
seen her play with the dolls in the attic last night or was this just merely the
answer to al her problems as an android trying to act human? She didn't know
which one had triggered Roger's unexpected gifts but she did perceive that the
books would be better than trying tirelessly to mimic Roger like a lost monkey
in her quest to obtain more human movements.
A sudden thought hit her suddenly, making her fingers crawl away from the hard
covers and musty pages. Her movements were slow as if she had just touched blood
and didn't know what to make of it. She glanced at her hands, seeming to tremble
a little as she held them palm up in her lap. Roger watched this, his eyes
questioning.
"Dorothy?"
"I thought this city had rid its self of books, Roger," she told him.
"I never really put much thought into it last night when I cleaned the
attic. Isn't it nefarious to keep books that would trigger one's memory?"
Roger seemed to understand her question. He placed his fork down next to his
plate and, resting his elbows upon the table, looked at her with his eyes
appearing above the point his fingers made. "Dorothy, it is not nefarious
for you to read them," he told her after a moment. "You have no
memories of your past life so these books will not trigger any. Do you
understand?"
Dorothy was slow to come around. For a moment she looked as if she was
processing what Roger had said and for that time he grew apprehensive. What if
she had changed her mind about them? But his fears were put aside when he saw
her nod her crimson head and push back her chair. Stooping over the table she
gathered the books into her arms.
"I will begin reading them tonight," she told him. "Good
night."
"Good night, Dorothy," Roger replied. He watched she turn to leave the
dining room under his eyelashes. Her voices seemed as monotone as ever but he
thought that her pace had picked up a bit. Was she in a hurry? If it had, Roger
couldn't have been more proud of her.
A movement at his side caught his attention. He looked sideways, meeting the
face of his butler looming over him.
"What is it, Norman?"
Norman seemed troubled. "It is nothing, sir," he murmured at first.
"Do you think it was wise of you to give those books to Dorothy. She might
not understand them and perceive them the wrong way."
Roger nodded, smiling a little. "If she could perceive the workings of Lord
McCabey, she can understand anything she wants too. Just give her time. This is
what she wants-to be more human. And reading up on the subject is probably
better than mimicking our movements."
Norman won't argue. Long ago he had come to realize Roger's streak of
stubbornness. He would not admit to doing wrong until wrong crossed his path. So
with a sigh, Norman gave up the battle. "Yes, Roger. I see. Forgive me for
my questions. I have stepped over the boundary."
"It's all right. But you have to admit, seeing Dorothy become her own
person is something we can't deny her."
"Yes, Roger."
*~*~*~*~*
Darkness had fallen over the city. The moonlight poured into her room from her
open window and flowed upon her figure as she sat on her bed, legs crossed and
reading a book. Several laid before her and several laid to her side. The ones
before her she had all ready completed reading them while her brain still fused
with their unlimited knowledge of human nature. Enlightenment ideas philosophers
of old would say. Even so late in the night, her mind ran wild with thesises and
issues she had never thought of before and never imaged she would think. Never
had she wanted to be more human than now-to react and have all the emotions the
books praised. She seemed to be a dry sponge drinking in the intoxicating pools
of wisdom.
But all too soon Dorothy yawned and stretched. Was she actually sleepy? She had
the urge to laugh aloud to no one in particular out of pure amusement as she
removed the heavy book from her lap and stretched her numb legs. Since when had
she ever wanted to laugh? Certainly not any time she had stayed here with Norman
and Roger. Where those books getting to her? She sighed as she rubbed her eyes.
What was it that she felt? Was it fatigue? If she were tired she knew no matter
how tired she felt she still would remain as enthusiastic about the world about
her as ever, eager and willing to put to the test all she had learned just this
night. Still she needed a good night's sleep for the next morning.
Removing the books from her bed, she suddenly relished in the newfound softness
of the black covers, over the firmness of the mattress. Why had she never
realized these things before? They were complete heaven! Slowly, as if they were
nothing but a sleeping serpent, she ran her slender fingers over her quilt. She
at once decided that she liked the glossy texture of the silk run across her
cold skin. Then she touched her pillows next, pressing down on them. They were
as malleable as clouds! She fell onto her bed when the books were on the floor,
feeling her body bounce twice before settling. She wanted to laugh and cry at
the same time. Was this like being human? She thought it was pretty close.
She sighed as she placed her head onto the pillow, her hands resting at her
sides while her fingers continued to stroke the silk covers beneath her. She
knew she ought to sleep but all to soon she was sitting up again, now more
determined to observe her surroundings more closely than even before. Eyes
roaming around her dark room and fingers timidly ardent to touch things, she
felt like a child marveling at the wonders of a new world that lay before her
like magic. She crawled off her bed and walked to her closet, the dark fabric of
her day dress swaying silently around her shins. She opened the wooden doors and
retrieved her long nightgown. It was black as usual and the paleness of her
fingers made the black even darker as she held it before her.
She frowned. Was dose Roger insists on only black clothing? It's so gloomy. We
are not mourners at a funeral. She slowly touched it, running her fingers down
the front of it. At least it was as soft as the covers on her bed.
With a little sigh she threw of her day dress, slipped out of her shoes and
stocking and pulled the nightgown over her head, and down her slender body. For
a moment she suddenly felt proud of her figure. Why won't she? She was a model
of perfection-slender, long graceful legs, pretty face, snow-white skin, short
crimson hair. She thought she might call herself beautiful. When she saw herself
in the mirror hanging on the closet's door she found herself drawn to it
automatically. Studying it intently, Dorothy ran her hands through her hair,
touched her pale cheeks, and traced the bridge of her slender nose. This was the
first time she had ever cared for her appearance and it was also the first time
she actually smiled. A smile meant only for her, an experiment to see how it
looked on her pale red lips. It seemed awkward at first, as her fingers run over
her stretched lips, but with a little practice if felt normal and uplifting. Why
had Roger never smiled?
She tenderly stroked the mirror; its cool surface remained her of her dinner
plate, so smooth but certainly more reflective! Still smiling a little she
quietly closed the doors of her wooden closet and slowly treaded back towards
her bed. On bare feet she giggled softly as it tickled her feet and in between
her toes. Seduced by the pleasant itch under her small feet she slowly spun
around in circles, her arms wide open as her hair brushed against her cheeks by
the cool turrets of air that turned about her like a invisible waltz partner.
With an exhausted laugh he all but feel onto her bed, breathing heavy and worn
out. She laughed a little at the range of strong emotions that ran through her
body then as if slapped in the face by reality she began worried. Petrified at
the sudden change of her own self. Why had she changed all of a sudden? What had
brought these sort of changes? The books weren't a reliable source. She had just
read them this night! Surely she wasn't that fast to adapt to new ideas. Her new
life with Roger took weeks for her to adjust let alone one evening.
What had made this time so different? Why was she experiencing so many new
things in one night? For the first time in her life Dorothy felt confused. Why
was she feeling this way? Was there something wrong with her? And if so, what?
How can there be something wrong with her? She felt perfect.
She thought that her room would answer her questions. With ebony eyes on the
verge of sleepless worry she glanced about her bedroom. Like many other rooms it
was dark and gloomy. If this night would have been normal for her she would not
care for the dismal aura the four walls gave off, but tonight it disturbed her.
It was so dark it was as if she were in a coffin. She had to shiver
involuntarily at that thought. So this is what it means to lay dead in a coffin,
all darkness and gloom surrounding you with nothing but your stillborn limbs as
your sole source for comfort and company. Roger should really let some color
creep into his house now and then. Did it upset him to have so much black in his
home?
Her eyes feel onto the painting above her empty fireplace. A gist from Roger it
was, so to speak. Weeks ago he had painted that when he was working with an odd
case. She thought it was a horrid thing but she couldn't tell him that straight
out and give the picture back to him. So she had to suffer silently under the
watch of that ugly picture. Save a splash of white paint for her skin and
hideous smudges of red paint for her hair, it didn't even look like her. Roger
really wasn't a very good artist. In fact she thought he made a pretty pathetic
one. She could tell the day he stared to paint that thing that her impression
was right but she didn't have the heart to burn his dream.
Yes, Roger did have a dream to paint something. She couldn't deny that and he
hadn't tried to deny her dream of becoming more human. The facts are that he
willingly supported her by providing her with those books of science so that she
might have a concept on how humans acted. Yes, that was her dream. She couldn't
run away from it, no matter how frightening she knew the transformation might
be. She had to stick to it until her dream came true. Long ago she set out to
find within her the power to become human and now that she was about to discover
it, she couldn't give up her dream so easily. That's want would give her the
strength to keep going. She had to become human or else be a robot the rest of
her life, a plain shadow of a dead girl eating out of the pitying hand of
humanity.
She made up her mind.
"I don't care," she murmured to herself. Her voice was filled with so
many feelings-anger, anticipation, and hope. "I don't care anymore. I want
to be human. It is my choice." With a sigh she glanced about the room.
"Grandfather, you always believed in me. I know you would be proud if you
saw me now." A pensive pause, a pause plagued by ancient sorrow and woe.
"Leave me alone, Dorothy. I'm no longer your ghost. May your soul find
peace now that I no longer choice to walk in your footsteps."
To be continued......