In ancient Greek mythology, there was a man that fell in love with a statue

In ancient Greek mythology, there was a man that fell in love with a statue. He had craved the statue out of marble, making her the perfect creature. She had the palest arms, the daintiest waist, and perfect proportions. She was an angel and he fell for her immediately.

In the end, though, she was not a live, just a sculpture.

For days upon days, he prayed to the goddess of love to make her real. He claimed that his love was true and if she were to come to life, she'd be the happiest woman on the planet.

The goddess of love was a fickle creature, but she listened to his pleas. Maybe she believed him or maybe she was bored after her latest lover. Either way, she granted his wish and made the marble into flesh, the cold into heat, and the statute gave a breath of life.

It is a good thing that she did help him.

Had she not, obsession would have sure lead him to insanity.









Are you the puppet and I the puppeteer?

Or is it the other way around? My strings have been pulled until they broke.

What shall become of me now?









She is beautiful. Her hair cascades down her back like an fiery waterfall, made up of oranges and reds. Her leaf green eyes and pale, like the silver moon, skin contrast, making her bright pink lips stand out more. She is not too tall or short, just the perfect height with her body proportionate. Dainty feet and hands along with a body that is mature enough for him complete the package.

She is perfect.

That is a truth, something that will always be a constant and present. Even when she is gone, it will still remain as a fact because no one can deny her beauty.

This is what he feels when he looks at her, when he touches her, when he even thinks of her.

She is everything he wants and needs.


There is only one thing that is keeping her from gaining full goddess-hood. She isn't human.

She isn't alive.

She's just a rag doll, a toy, a puppet.


When he first made her, he was just trying to make a good doll for his niece's birthday. She was his favourite niece and he worked extra hard for her. It had to be just right for the little girl and he would make sure she'd always remember this gift. The doll was going to be life-sized as well, making her his crowning achievement.

For hours, he worked hard; carefully sculpting each body part and joint out of the finest materials. Their lengths were measured several times to ensure that they were correct and proportionate. The soft touch of her clothes, the smoothness of her arms, everything nit-picked to the smallest detail.

Slowly, he wanted to make the doll perfect.

He'd test every joint, making sure it moved properly before attaching it permanently. Each strand of hair in her scalp, each eyelash, each nail she had was checked repetitively to ensure they were smooth and silky. Her eyes and teeth were made of the finest and most realistic jewels, while her flesh took him a year to find.

Needless to say, his niece's birthday came and went and he missed it. He missed it the years following too.

Even as he kept missing her birthday, he kept working on his doll.

She had become an obsession.


"Hello," he whispered to the her ear, "Good morning."

She was lying in a bed covered with satin blankets and wore a silky gown. Beside her, her creator was also lying down, his arms curled around her so her back lay in his chest.

"We have a long day ahead of us so it is best we get moving," he continued to drawl in her ear but he made no attempt to move. Instead, he continued to lie there for a while, fingering the puppet's hair and dress.

Finally, as an hour passed by, he finally sat up in the bed. Grinning down at her, he pulled her up onto his lap and leaned against the headboard. On a table nearby, there was a brush and it was that he grabbed. "You know," he commented as he brushed her long strands, "I think you have a layer of dust. Someone needs a bath."

Picking up the light figure, he took her to his bathroom and carefully removed her clothes before placing her into the bath. Leaving her in there for a moment, he quickly folded her clothes—they were expensive and it took him a year to find what he wanted her to wear. Returning to her, he turned on the hot water and grabbed a bottle and squirted some of the contents into his hand. As he washed her flaxen hair, the dark-haired man hummed gently, as though soothing her.

After rinsing, he grabbed a cloth and soap. It was time to scrub off the dust.

"Your skin is soft," he commented as he wiped her arms, "and I really," his eyes glazed darkly with lust, "want to kiss it."

Gently, oh so gently, he brushed his lips against her knuckles before traveling up her arm to her lips. Pressing her soft, silken lip against his rough one, he closed his eyes. To add to the effect, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.

It lasted a moment and then he broke the kiss, frowning.

"Why don't you ever respond?" he bitterly asked, "Why?"

The puppet remained silent, not responding. She just stared at him with those bright eyes.

"Why?" he growled as he slapped her and then threw her into the door. Her eyes annoyed him, with their clarity and innocence, with their emptiness. In a fit of made rage, he swiped at objects and started to destroy the room.

"WHY?" he threw a bottle of pills to the ground. "All I ever wanted was to be loved. If you would just love me I—"

His hands froze around the bottle in his hands and his eyes widened. Blinking, he looked around surprised by the mess. "Wha—?" he started as he looked down at the floor. Noticing the puppet, he dropped the bottle.

"Oh no," he gasped as he fell to his knees in front of her. Holding her body near his, he quickly checked for any blemishes. "You weren't hurt, right? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It won't happen again. I'm so so sorry."

He kept apologizing as he washed her again.


"Oh, it's him," an old lady murmured to her friend as they sat on a bench in the park. The metal frame bit into their frail backs as they leaned against it.

"You're right," her silver-haired companion replied from beneath the nearby tree's shade, "It is him."

"I wonder what he does all day in his apartment," the first lady continued, grabbing some seeds from her paper bag. "He never comes out." She threw the seeds to the pigeons on the ground.

"You know, my neighbor tells me he's obsessed with a doll."


"Yeah, she told me that he treats her like a lover."

A gasp of shock came from the other lady. "What? Are you—are you sure?"

"No," the second lady chuckled, "My neighbor once thought Sam was a hamster. A Doberman a hamster? She needs new glasses."

"Oh," the old woman sighs in disappointment, "That would have been such an interesting story to tell everyone when we meet tonight."

The conversation spun off to different games and cheaters as the two friends sat under a tree's shade. Flowers, squirrels, and pigeons surrounded their bench as they continued to feed them.

The very man they were talking about walked past them without them noticing. He had heard their conversation and ignored it.

Let them only guess at the truth.

No one could ever comprehend his feelings.


He had dreams sometimes, when the pale moon was full and hung low in the midnight sky. His puppet would be breathing, warm and soverymuch alive in those dreams.

They started out beautifully; she was alive and he was there to enjoy it. They'd do the things that lovers normally did and he'd be happy. Sometimes he would be kissing her and actually getting a response. They'd be walking down a garden, eating food, or watching a movie. There were infinite things they've done.

However, the way the dreams ended was always the same.

He'd be holding her hand, smiling at her, and, where before she was responsive, now she did nothing. Instead, she'd treat him coldly, as though having a life didn't mean she'd have a heart. When he asked to hug, she'd hold him awkwardly; she'd kiss him when he wanted but there were no feelings behind them.

It was almost as though she didn't know how to feel.

When he woke up from those dreams, sweaty and shaking, he'd crawl to the puppet and just hold her close.

"Don't worry," he'd whisper to reassure her—or was it himself?—and he softly kissed her forehead.

"Don't worry. I know you love me."


What he wanted the most for her was life. In order to obtain that, he did many things.

He used methods mentioned in novels—lightening and summoning rituals. He tried to use alchemy or get some supernatural creature to help. Money was spent buying every item related to this topic, while he spent days upon days in reading to her about different methods to use.

He tried spell books and cooking, sorcery and magic. He tried using ghosts, possession, and so many things that he lost count of them.

After a year of trying, he had finally had to give up. He had tried everything and yet nothing worked. His puppet would stay a puppet, never to be alive.

That was ok.

To make up for that, he loved her enough for both of them.


Sometimes, his family would try and contact him. Every other week, he'd receive a letter, worried that he had missed someone's birthday or wondering if ate enough. His mother would call almost daily, giving long messages that he'd half-listen to as he and the puppet watched a movie. His brother emailed him several times before giving up on him. He is the only one to do so.

At one time, he would have loved to receive this attention. He would have welcomed it and apologized; he didn't want to hurt his family.

Now the obsessed creator tried to get rid of them. He replied with rude letters, ignored calls, and when his sister appeared at his door, he quickly kicked her out.

It wasn't that he hated them now. No, it was more like he didn't really care about them. They were just there.

What he was worried about was the puppet. They could accidentally find out about her. Maybe they'd decide she wasn't healthy for him and get rid of her.

Worse, they might love her themselves and take her away from him. He could never let that happen.


His home slowly burned to the ground. As the red-yellow flames danced around him, he grinned into the scene, sitting down on the puppet's bed. His hands stoked the doll and he was holding her close as he kissed her everywhere. Gently, he pressed his lips on her forehead, her eyelids, her throat, her arm, her body.

"We're going to die," he laughed out, "Die. Think if I die I can finally talk with you, have you as mine?"

He laughed again, his voice hysterical and on edge.

As a rule, he never named the doll. No name was perfect enough for her, nothing matched her beauty and spirit. He felt this and so he gave up trying.

Now, as his body began to get consumed by the fire, he decided to name her.

"Puppet," he grins madly at her, "I'm going to give you a name. Later, when we meet again, I, and only I, can call you and you can respond to it. You can find me because I will be the only one to know your name."

He and the doll were nearly covered by the flames. Everything else in the room was slowly crumbling to dust and he could hear people running around in panic outside.

"I will name you Luna," he stroked her hair and laughed hysterically as he burned to death, his flesh blistering and searing off, the stench of it filling the room.

"My Luna."

Truly a madman to the end.


The beautiful doll is named Luna. Her skin is the same shimmering, translucent colour of it and her orange hair glints like a lunar eclipse. Her movements is the moon's glow a Just as the moon is an imitation of the sun, she is a pale reflection of a human.

There are many reasons why she is named Luna. These are but a few of them and they are all correct in their own way.

The main one, though, the reason her creator probably chose this name, is because of the full moon.

When the moon is full in the midnight sky, it is said to bring insanity.

A/N: …well, this is a darker fic than I normally write, but I'm quite happy with this one. Now, I need to find a beta reader…

Questions? Comments? Suggestions?