?Give in Rose, lay away your thorns sweet Briar Patch and know of the Dawn again. Come child? let me touch you. Let me know of your ways and what your soul wishes to be.?
?My soul? wishes nothing more then to be free.?
The girl was radiant as the morning sun, her eyes twin mirrors of a cloudless sky on a summer?s day. She was the Solstice and the Morning Light given its awakening at the age of fifteen a child could learn to cross the horizon of child to trespass the threshold of womanhood.
The Doll Maker wished for nothing more to possess that womanhood, to claim her and deflower the Rose of the Dawn for she was his like they all had been. She belonged to him.
?It is a pity child, there are no women to look for you? no prince that will come to save you. That?s not the story to write for you. Your mind is? magnificent. Such a priceless jewel I wish to use? and will use? once I take of your flesh.?
?There is nothing you can do, I will find a way? no matter what you do.?
The Doll Maker smiled then.
?Oh child? you would think so but I will prove you wrong.?
She would hear the sounds of dull metal and leather in motion and release, the crisp whisper of clothes falling to the floor as he approached her with a hunger that she could not fight.
Powerless in those binding binds of bramble and thorns they would cut into her skin as he took her in every way the Doll Maker wished till the pure blood would paint polished marble like scarlet drops of lamentation for innocence lost.
He would not bend or break her mind but somewhere? so far away? she would escape within herself until she found away to be free. All of his enhancements and alters to the little doll had awakened Rosalba into enlightenment.
For a moment she believed she had passed on and found the other side but this? was not heaven? as she watched beneath her the savage rutting of the Doll Maker to her limp, helpless form. She watched it all happen like she was nothing more then a voyeur, an observer passing through powerless to the event but able to see.
There then she understood as she watched him finish and leave her in disgust as her body was unresponsive and no longer would she weep or whimper as the girl found a way to womanhood and found herself a point in slumber, the Doll Maker?s destruction was horrible to watch when he realized that his newest desire of a Doll was not broken? but in a coma from his offerings to her delicate body. She could not take his pleasure?
From above in her watch Rosalba would laugh with radiant glee at this defiance. Where her body was lost to him, her mind an unreachable snare of thorns that he could not break through? her spirit was free.
No longer would he be hers to possess. She would ever be her own.
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The other dolls had taken pity on her. The Little Queen that was a beauty of snow and blood, ebon and sapphire had carried her away from the lab and rested her on a stone altar out in the forest that Rose had ever loved.
Where the sunlight would gleam and ever caress her and the trees would whisper their secrets to her ears. There she would sleep, that golden beauty. Never would she be awaiting for a prince to come for like her mind the brambles and thorns would grow around the circle of trees to ensnare her in permanent safety.
Rose?s spirit would watch on as the pricking of the thorns would never mark her flesh or draw a drop of blood as she stepped through them.
One look back as she looked down upon herself and her new glistening form. This was what it was to be separate and to carry the free will of an unconquered spirit.
There was still a life she had to lead? and even the Doll Maker could not stop the desire of a sleeping Beauty.
?My soul? wishes nothing more then to be free.?
The girl was radiant as the morning sun, her eyes twin mirrors of a cloudless sky on a summer?s day. She was the Solstice and the Morning Light given its awakening at the age of fifteen a child could learn to cross the horizon of child to trespass the threshold of womanhood.
The Doll Maker wished for nothing more to possess that womanhood, to claim her and deflower the Rose of the Dawn for she was his like they all had been. She belonged to him.
?It is a pity child, there are no women to look for you? no prince that will come to save you. That?s not the story to write for you. Your mind is? magnificent. Such a priceless jewel I wish to use? and will use? once I take of your flesh.?
?There is nothing you can do, I will find a way? no matter what you do.?
The Doll Maker smiled then.
?Oh child? you would think so but I will prove you wrong.?
She would hear the sounds of dull metal and leather in motion and release, the crisp whisper of clothes falling to the floor as he approached her with a hunger that she could not fight.
Powerless in those binding binds of bramble and thorns they would cut into her skin as he took her in every way the Doll Maker wished till the pure blood would paint polished marble like scarlet drops of lamentation for innocence lost.
He would not bend or break her mind but somewhere? so far away? she would escape within herself until she found away to be free. All of his enhancements and alters to the little doll had awakened Rosalba into enlightenment.
For a moment she believed she had passed on and found the other side but this? was not heaven? as she watched beneath her the savage rutting of the Doll Maker to her limp, helpless form. She watched it all happen like she was nothing more then a voyeur, an observer passing through powerless to the event but able to see.
There then she understood as she watched him finish and leave her in disgust as her body was unresponsive and no longer would she weep or whimper as the girl found a way to womanhood and found herself a point in slumber, the Doll Maker?s destruction was horrible to watch when he realized that his newest desire of a Doll was not broken? but in a coma from his offerings to her delicate body. She could not take his pleasure?
From above in her watch Rosalba would laugh with radiant glee at this defiance. Where her body was lost to him, her mind an unreachable snare of thorns that he could not break through? her spirit was free.
No longer would he be hers to possess. She would ever be her own.
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The other dolls had taken pity on her. The Little Queen that was a beauty of snow and blood, ebon and sapphire had carried her away from the lab and rested her on a stone altar out in the forest that Rose had ever loved.
Where the sunlight would gleam and ever caress her and the trees would whisper their secrets to her ears. There she would sleep, that golden beauty. Never would she be awaiting for a prince to come for like her mind the brambles and thorns would grow around the circle of trees to ensnare her in permanent safety.
Rose?s spirit would watch on as the pricking of the thorns would never mark her flesh or draw a drop of blood as she stepped through them.
One look back as she looked down upon herself and her new glistening form. This was what it was to be separate and to carry the free will of an unconquered spirit.
There was still a life she had to lead? and even the Doll Maker could not stop the desire of a sleeping Beauty.