Dolls are rather odd things.
It can't exactly be explained, why dolls strike me so. Perhaps the answer rests in their deep, unblinking eyes. Or perhaps their perfectly aligned face that harbors not a single flaw. Perhaps it's the way they sit upon the shelf, day after day without a single trace of movement.
Perhaps, though, it's really because of their human-like qualities, that still keep a respectable distance from the real thing. Quite odd that is indeed. With their human-like nature, I can't help but wonder what sort of thoughts float about within their small glass heads. Nor can I help but wonder whether they sneak from the shelf in the midst of the night to perform a dance, then once finished with their dance, seat themselves exactly where they were before I am given a chance to watch.
When a doll becomes broken, its face shattering against the wooden floor, does it feel the same sort of pain a human would? Does it long to cry out for help through its forever-closed lips? Does it silently beg for mercy when the shards are tossed into the garbage, the doll itself following after?
When a doll sits on it's shelf, it's wide shining eyes staring off in whatever direction, does it sometimes glance toward the other dolls? Does it wish it could laugh and play like the children in the other room? Does it glance toward me while my back is turned, wondering why I never spare it another glance anymore?
When a doll is ignored by it's owner, does it feel hurt or saddened? Does it long to be played with, just once more? Or does it instead reek of anger, betrayal? Does it bear unkind thoughts toward my averted eyes? Does it think'if only I could move...'?
When the doll is the only one awake at night, does it push itself upright? Does it weakly wander from the shelf, trekking across the room and over to my slumbering figure? Does it poke at my nose, calling "Play with me! Play with me!" even when I am clearly incapable at the moment to do so?
When the doll is wrought with feelings of betrayal, does it wander then into the kitchen? Do its feeble hands clasp around the knife earlier used for slicing vegetables? Does a low hum, so low that no slumbering being can hear, echo throughout the house as it drags the kitchen knife back through the hallways?
Of course not. How utterly ridiculous that would be. The doll's distorted echo of the human figure is merely that. They cannot think, cannot move, cannot breath and cannot sleep. They can, however, sit upon a shelf with unblinking eyes and a perfectly-aligned face. And as odd as the dolls may be, they do no more than that.
At least, while we're awake.