The Doll House

There was this village, out in the middle of nowhere in England. Rolling green pastures, a lake glimmers in the distance under the brilliance of the sun, and beyond it was a lush forest. It was a sleepy sort of village, the kind where you could walk into it in the middle of the day and there wouldn't be a soul to be seen, not in the creepy or frightening way of an abandoned derelict building, no, but in the homey, snoozy type of way, the way a cat napping on the windowsill feels.

Freshly moved into this sleepy, lazy, warm little town, was a couple. Brand new, off the honeymoon and first-home-for-raising-the-children-in phaze, where they vigorously and enthusiastically took part of the necessary 'baby-making'. But alas! The years roll by and still no pitter-patter of baby feet stomp down hallways in the wee hours of the morning, indeed, she doesn't even swell with the promise of those feet. A doctor is seen, and devestating news, both are infertile. The wife tearfully cries "I can't be! I've been pregnant before! I miscarried!" The doctor just shakes his head and shows them the result, decrying that both are unable to bring life into the world....but he cannot explain why.

It were almost as though he was tempted to say they were born barren, but alas...there is the miscarriage.

Distraught, melancholy and mournful, they return home, to their dainty little cottage at the end of the street, homey and warm, just like the rest of the town. More years pass, and the wife developes a passion for making dolls. China dolls, porcaline, the fine art collectors edition of every type, every race and breed, from the baby-kin, eyes screwed shut and toothless mouths open in eternal silent cries, to the toddler-esque, three feet high, bright eyed and curious. The husband doesn't really understand it, until one night the wife shows him a particularly pretty doll, somewhere between walking and not, sucking on a fragile porcaline lollipop, the colours smearing from her efforts, and whispers to him "Look honey, this is the baby we would have had." He blinks at her in confusion "These are our children, the ones we can't give life to, they are our darling ones...right?" A strange ripple at the nape of his neck, the hairs rising, prompt him to nod in agreement "Of course dear, come, have something to eat."

More years pass, and the number of dolls accumulate, their blankeyed stare filling the rooms, more dolls than furniture, all lovingly handcrafted, a dedication of the wife to each of her 'children'.

Twenty years on, from that mortifying news that they were infertile, and the husband dies. Or rather, is found dead by the cleaning lady one weekend, the wife was at a friends place, buying fabrics for her 'children'. There was a shattered doll beside him, what could be seen it was a younger one, perhaps two or three, eyes screwed up, tears down its little cheeks, and the shattered end of its arm imbedded in the husbands through, imbedded with such force that it came out the other side, the porcaline streaked with blood.

The cleaning lady screams and runs out of the house, calling the police, who upon arrival, before the wife returned home, found strangely, no shattered doll, no arm pushed through the husbands throat -- just a hole where it was, and a pool of drying blood.

The wife, with a few grey hairs now, is thrown into a fit of depression at the news of her husbands death, feverishly turning to her now, only solace -- her children.

Production of the unique dolls comes out as never before, a new one every week, and soon, she can't move for risk of knocking one of the life-sized, realistic creations over and risk shattering them. Two months later, she dies of a heart attack, an unfinished doll in her hands, older looking than any of the others, a girl of around eight, only half of her curling blonde hair was attatched, her face painted to hold infinite sadness, melancholy in her green eyes, and her dress half-sewn yet pulled on, tattered edges showing.

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Years after the unfortunate couple's death, the doll house still stands, complete with the fortune of now antique dolls, a silent guard, balefully glaring at any who dare try to enter, the door unable to open for the dolls shoved up against it, wedged tight so as to not shatter under a hard shove. Yet strangely, in one room, sitting at one window, is a single doll, half-finished, as though she had been set aside briefly, to be finished at a later date, alone in this one room, watching the comers, watching them leave, alone in the study.

Some say, that lone doll seems mournful when the visitors get turned away, her sad, sad eyes seem to weep real tears when people flee before the glares of the other dolls, all perfect, pristine, finished works of art, crying the innocence of childhood, yet how they glare! It's as though they blame everyone for their mothers death....but that can't be true.

They're just dolls, after all. Attatching emotions to the inanimate is a foolish human trait.


Right?

Sleep

Sleep is a funny thing lately.

It is elusive, and demanding at the same time.

It is like trying to catch a moonbeam blinding your right eye, with a butterfly net. The moment you go for it, a cloud passes over the face of the moon and that silvery beam of irritating light is gone, and the need is no longer present.

So you relax, pack away your butterfly net, and consider carving a log. You get to the middle of that log, where it is starting to take the shape you see in your imagination, when the cloud passes and that moonbeam is back in your eye, -demanding- that you try and catch it with your butterfly net. You try, and try, but the silver keeps on slipping free, but demanding your attention, until another cloud comes, and you are no longer half-blind from the silken light.

That is about how ....easily...I sleep lately. I meditate, I count sheep, I turn about on my bed as though I was a compass that couldn't find north and still, I do not sleep. Or if I do, it is a doze that lasts a few hours, and I am irritatingly awake again, with that blasted moonbeam -daring- me to try and capture it.

Funny, today....erm, yesterday now, looking at the time, (It's 4.28am), I passed out from exhaustion at say, 10.30am. I had woken the day before at 11.30am. Now, I sprawl out on my bed, dead to the world, well...mostly. The whole daylight thing, and other people being around. I wake up at 1pm, and then at 2.30pm, or there abouts. And funnily enough, that was the best -rest- I have gotten for a very long time. It was lovely.

I get drowsy again at eight, get up, make dinner. Oh dear, no longer drowsy! I get sleepy again at about 10.30pm, I push to 11pm, doing last minute before bed things, like showering, and.....

Lay in bed.

I roll over.

I roll back.

Onto my belly.

Onto my left hand side.

Onto my right hand side.

Onto my back.

I look at the window, and shift so that my head is pointing to it (across the bed), knocking some clothes off in the process.

I roll over.

I roll back.

I doze. Yay, sleep!

Onto my belly.

Onto my back.

I shift so that my -feet- are pointing to the window.

Rinse, wash and repeate. You get the idea.

Five hours later, I give up. Or there abouts. It is exceedingly frustrating. Do you know how -long- it takes for those hours to pass while you stare at the back of your eyelids, the headboard of the bed, the wall, the ceiling, your eyelids some more...

I have reached the conclusion that sleep is highly overrated. Who needs a bedtime anyways? Who -wants- one? We all manage to get some approximation of sleep at around 3am, and wake up again at nine thirty, right? No? Wow, man, you are so -weird-, you should get that checked out ay? Might be serious.

Imagine.

Regularly sleeping every night. My mind boggles!

Oh, and the few moments when I -do- get to sleep (Apart from earlier yesterday when I hit unconsiousness in the middle of the day) I dream. And they're really, really animated and energetic dreams.

People say you dream in black and white. Right. Then why did I dream I had a pet snake, that had a jet black head, and a blood-crimson body? A snake, mind you, that doesn't seem to exist. If anyone knows of a snake with those colourings, be a dear and let me know? I wan't to know what the devil it is.

*sigh* I'm thinking about getting over the counter sleeping pills, since I have a sneaking suspicion that I sleep too much to get prescription tablets, to be declared an insomniac. Who needs to sleep anyways? You can sleep when you're dead!

Funny, this seems to be a recurring topic/occurance with me. Either I sleep too much, (14 hours plus) or, I don't sleep at all. Hmm. Maybe there's something wrong with me.

~ShaedowDancer~