My Broken Doll

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My original idea was to write about a women who was completely broken inside, but outwardly stunning and perfect in every way, like a porcelain doll. In all her attempts to find happiness through love, they all ended bitterly until she finally found the man of her dreams only to lose him...

Chapter I
 
As a child, a flickering flame was my only comfort.  Full of pure, untainted life bubbling from the candle’s light, the lit, sputtering wick left molten wax to drip, blessing my frozen fingers. The subtle warmth enveloping me and the light wrapping around my soul.  Darkness once surrounded me; Darkness had led me astray, but the light led me to what I might call freedom.  I used to be alone.  Nobody was there for me. But, now, I wasn’t alone, I had a candle to keep me safe.
Growing up in the faint lights of the alleyways threatened me with an enlightening breath of slow death calling me to a life of pain and humility.  I wouldn’t let that happen.  A dim flame led me home, where I wasn’t alone anymore.  Then the painful reminder of rejection hit me like an unexpected bullet shattering my memories, once pleasant; and so the flame went out.
“Margarete!”  A high-pitched yelp sharply awakened me and I find myself lying on the bedroom floor, yet again.
 “Margarete,” Anne, my dearest friend yells again, “have you seen my shoes?” 
“Are you even-“ She sees me in a daze, “Bad dream again,” she asks in a comforting tone although  I know she can’t stand to see me this way. 
“Yes,” I reply slowly, “It was the same as the night before.”
“Dear,” Anne sighs, “does this mean we’re not going to the party tonight?”
“No, I know how much this means to you,” I sigh, “I’ll be ready in only a few minutes,”
 
~-~
‘Until death do we part’ tore at my heart
I looked at his peaceful face that tore me limb from limb
I held back my tears as I gently caressed his coffin
~-~
 
“The party will be good for you,” she smiled, “You have to get over him,”
 
Getting over him would be like pretending he was never a part of my life.  As if he were nothing.  He was the only thing that kept me from crying myself to sleep every night.  He introduced me to my best friend, him, and now he’s gone. 
“I’m over him,” I lie, I know she wants the best for me, “really, I am,”
The party was going to be “a smashing hit” have “tons of rocking cool bands” it’s going to be “at the big house that’s white and stuff” and they “hope you come, dude”.  At least that’s what the invitation read.  Whoever wrote that obviously didn’t know much about invitations, or writing skills.  I wasn’t much of a party-goer, but I dressed in my new black, white, and red satin dress and put on some make-up to cover the dark-circles of a restless night. 
A bow was clipped into my hopelessly knotted hair, “It compliments your baby blues,” Anne laughed in her beautiful sing-song laugh resembling that of an angel, “Now hurry up we haven’t got all day, the party’s at half-past three, remember?”
“Have I slept in that long?” I wined.
“By the looks of you, you haven’t slept at all,” Anne grinned, sympathetically, but almost laughing.
 
It was that time of year again when the crisp morning air bites at your nose and cheeks while the treetop covering is flaming with amber and gold, dancing in the wind like the annual bonfire every Christmas Eve.  I purposefully step on each leave only to hear the satisfying crunch beneath my feet.  Must autumn be so beautiful?  Isn’t it funny how the green, luscious leaved trees sacrifice their leaves to the cold winter air so that we may admire it in its final hours?  Is it just me, or are the trees prettier when they are slowly fading and aren’t they the prettiest at the brim of death?
 
Only a few blocks away was the party; ‘Walking distance’ Anne calls it, but in these heels it’s more like a death sentence.  Heavy metal music is blasting from a three-story mansion and I hear neighbors attempting to scream over the intense racket, “Quiet down you hoodlums!”
“Doesn’t this look fun,” Anne gasped,
“If going deaf is your idea of fun,” I start sarcastically, “then yeah, this will be a blast,”
The music quiets down to a much less deafening volume and then ends abruptly.
“Let’s hear it for Puppeteers!”
I could barely hear the scattered applause as we walk the pathway and near the double-doors of the oversized mansion. 
“Name,” barked the man at the door not even looking to see who had approached him.
“Sir Fredrick,” Anne bellowed in her attempt of a deep voice.
“Anne,” Jeffery, Anne’s lover, smiled, “Who’s this?”
He points at me, questioning, then places a quick but sweet kiss on Anne’s nose then waits for a reply.
“This is Margarete, she’s my friend from college,” Anne smiled at me.
“That’s me,” I return a nervous laugh.
“You’re not on the list,” the man looked at me apologetically, “but, I won’t tell,”
 
 
 
We all laugh and Anne and I step into the overly decked-out room full of random people I’ve never met before and a band preforming a song from the 80’s on a raised platform.  By random people, I mean a woman with a pink Mohawk and a man in a skirt with untied shoe laces.  I have a feeling that the man in the skirt dancing the way he is will not end the night in a pleasant fashion…
On the dance floor, Anne is dancing as crazy as she possibly could and invites me to dance with her.  Being as stubborn as I am, I refused politely.  Instead I decide to find something edible after I was reminded by a painful growl that I hadn’t eaten all day and was dying slowly of starvation. I decide to search each room carefully in hopes of finding something to hold me over for a little while at least.
I devour each room, taking in each and every thousand-dollar, abstract painting and crystal chandelier.  I realize now, after looking through about ten, random rooms, that whoever decorated this house had a strange addiction to the color white.  The walls, chairs, and basically everything was a bland white color ruining the beauty of the expensive dwelling.  All the rooms were painfully clean and were as if no one had even lived here to begin with.  I feel sorry for the owner in knowing the horrid cleanliness would become trashed and the bland white carpets would be stained with unknown substances that would likely never come out. 
“How do you like it?’  A tall, man with a mop of unruly brown curls topping his head approached me from behind.
“Huh,” I jumped, startled by his presence.
“The party,” He tells me, showing off his perfect white teeth and speaking in a brilliant foreign accent.  My heart fluttered.
“Oh,” I realize that he is actually speaking to me, “It’s, very, interesting…” speaking slowly and laughing nervously I add, “I don’t really go to parties, there just not my thing,”
“Oh,” he replies understanding, “I quite hate it myself, the party that is.  At least that’s my opinion,”
“Oh, really,” I laugh softly.
“In fact, this is my house,” he shows his perfect teeth again while sweeping a curl that fell loosely from his head.
“This is your house?!” I ask, unbelieving.
“Oh, yes,” he explains, “I told my younger brother I’d be out of town for a week just to see what he does, and this,” he pauses for dramatic flair, “he goes and destroys my father’s inheritance for a party that is painfully awful,”
“Oh,” I chuckle with an heir of shyness that I had been cursed with from birth,
“The party is truly awful,” I agree, “But at least people are having fun,”
My stomach rumbled.  Embarrassed, I wrapped my arms around myself attempting to quiet the noise.
“Oh, dear,” the man tells me as he leads me through a long, bare corridor, “You sound completely famished,”
“Oh,” Did he really just say famished? “By the way, I didn’t catch your name,”
“My name,” he smiles, “What is your name,”
“My name is Margarete,” I tell him, “Now, tell me yours,”
“My name will remain a mystery,” he said in a humorously, then laughed simply.
“Come on, now,” I begged, “I told you my name,”
We were presently met with a gorgeous kitchen with stainless steel counter tops and a chandelier.  I was awestruck at this display of beauty. 
“This is the one room in this entire house that I can truly have all to myself,” he lovingly smoothed the tabletops and counters adding, “My brother doesn’t know how to cook,”
I laughed at this, “A grown man who can’t cook, I don’t believe it,”
“Daniel,” He sounded angry at this point, “is not a grown man, he is poor excuse for a human being,”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, unsure of what I had just said to make him act this way.
“No,” he now was calm and collected after his recent display of built-up anger, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have acted the way I did,”
At this point, I don’t know what to think.  I am talking to someone whose name I don’t even know and who is making something that smells insanely delicious after he just yelled at me for calling his brother a man.  I am either deeply confused, or insanely in love. No, I’m just really hungry, that’s all that matters right now.
“What is that amazing smell?” I hummed.
“I call it, grilled cheese dipped in chocolate,” he continued his baking as I stood in disgust.
“That sounds delicious,” I lie, deeply disgusted, but desperate for anything that won’t kill me.
“Are you serious,” he laughs, “I’m making chicken pot pie, and you, my dear, must have a strange taste to enjoy anything like that?”
“I’m rather desperate right now,” I say in a wining tone,
Wait, did he just call me “dear”, I must be dreaming.
“Good,” he places his masterpiece into the attractive oven, “then you will love my cooking,”
 
We laughed, and after we both sat down in the bar stools, we discussed various topics such as why aliens haven’t taken over earth yet and how cows should be fed a steady diet of chocolate in order to create chocolate milk (with this we were feeling quite brilliant).  After a good laugh, he smiled at me and paused for a good long while, while looking deep into my eyes, my baby blues.
“You, Margarete, are an interesting person,” he said honestly.
We just stared at each other for what seemed like years.  I couldn’t help but lean in a bit closer to him.  He looked at me, just as John, my husband, used to. He leaned in a bit closer too just when—
 
A distressed scream followed an intense bang of a door leaving a horrid dent in the precious counter-tops which this man truly treasured.
“Johnathan!”  A high-maintenance woman, slightly skinnier than me and slightly more gorgeous than I could ever be, screamed at the top of her lungs, “How dare you scoundrel, I should have known you were cheating on me!!
“So, are you Cindy, or Beatrice?” the aggravated woman continued,
“Excuse me?” I breathe, hopelessly.
“It doesn’t matter at this point,” The woman spat, “I’m filing for divorce. And you,”
She obviously was at her wits’ end, and I was too.  I’m officially over with men, forever.
“You are the scum of the earth, you filth, you-“
I feel a sharp pain as her hand whips sharply and painfully across my confused face, snapping back with the force of her blow and causing my head to reel sickeningly as it slams into the wall behind me.  A minuscule cut was left beneath my eye where the woman’s wedding ring snagged me.  Small black dots flooded my vision as I blacked-out and lay unconscious on the floor.
 
 
I know it kinda sucks, I just threw a bunch of random ideas together.  I just want you to give your brutally honest opinions.
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