Prologue (Part One)Mature

Amon's obsession with possessing his lover came at an early age when he was locked up in his room. He was alone in the world then. The only company he had was his mother's old dolls. He loved the way they didn't speak, didn't move, and couldn't leave him. After that he harbored a desire to turn his lovers into living dolls. His father was a surgeon and he grew up to be a surgeon too. He was one of the best in his field. Years after saving many people lives and suppressing his desires, he finally

Sometimes we find inspiration in the most tragic events in our life. For me it began shortly after my mother’s funeral when I was ten years old. She was a distinguished harlot on the back streets of London. She was known for her doll-like amber eyes, her olive skin and his rose-kissed lips, which she would sometimes twist into a wistful smile. Her hair was waterfall of black ringlets. My father was a rich doctor with a wife and a son, named Lucas. He was two years older my senior. So far I had been staying with my mother as to not soil my father’s reputation as a well-esteemed doctor. He did provide me with schooling however. On occasion he would visit, but usually those times were to be spent with mother. Things grew ugly when mother contracted a disease. She because sick after a while. She threw up often, was inflicted with severe fevers, headaches and weight loss.

After she died, my father took me in, even knowing the consequences. It was almost as if he wanted to protect me as his son, but it was only later that I realized his true intentions. He was going mad. He loved my mother more than he loved himself. He saw me in her. Sending my off to with a small bit of cash would be sending her away too. So he had to secure me within his house before I slipped away never to be found again. His wife was furious, passionately furious and justly so. I remember the look of sheer ire in her eyes as she descends the curved staircase to the foyer to see me. I was surprised at all the she would wish to look on me, an illegitimate child in whose veins laid the blood of the woman who seduced her husband. To her I was the incarnate of Satan himself, an imp sent from the bowels of hell to cause her own profound suffering.

Her footsteps were stressed as she approached me. She wore a long Isabella gown, her hair swept up in a neat bun. Her skin, I remember was smooth and pale, the only colour being the pale rose tint on her cheeks. Once she and I were face to face, I could a closer look into her almond shaped eyes, thick lashes and deep green colour. It was almost looking out onto a large lush green field. For a moment I wondered what it would be like to wander upon it.

Father was by my side when we entered their home. The foyer was darkly lit with large column, ornately sculpted to look like women were holding up the ceiling. Father held my hand tightly as to say that this was not going to be a pleasant introduction. The only thing that perplexed me was if his gripping my hand was to calm my fears or his own. If it was the latter, than I completely understand now, due to the way she acted.

“Cecilia, let’s go to the upstairs. I’d rather not cause a scene here.” Wordlessly she nodded walking off. Father guided me up the stairs down a few halls until we reached what seemed like their bedroom. Father closed the door behind us, and returned to my side. “Cecilia, I’d like you to meet—,” He began only to hit across the face by his wife.

“It’s that woman’s child! I know!” she shouted. “How dare you dare it into our home? You betray me, sleep with some filth off the street and then bring her child here. Does she intend to move in as well? I won’t stand for it. Even if you are my husband I won’t take this humiliation.” Then she turned her venom on me.

“You filth,” she spit at me. “Coming in here fancying you own place. Who do you think you are?” She raised her hand and went to hit me when father stopped her.

“Don’t you dare hit my child,” He breathed his voice utterly clear and dark. I couldn’t see what his eyes looked like but I could see hers. Tears ran down her cheeks. “He’s not at fault here. I am, take the blame on me. I commit the crime. If anything he’s the consequence of my selfishness, and because of that I will take care of him—love and protect him. As for his mother, she is dead. She died of an unknown illness.”

His wife turned her head away. “Good riddance,” father slapped her so quickly that I couldn’t even see it. All I saw was the shock in her eyes.

“Never say that! Never say that!” he yelled. “She was a good woman, a good mother and whole lot more to me than you could ever be!” he turned to me, his eyes shining with pride. “This is what we’ve created; a beautiful little boy.” His smile did something to me. I could feel my heart throbbing with pain. I did my best to hold back the tears I had inside of me. If he only knew what how long I’ve waited to be with him.

“How could you do this to me,” she cried. “You have everything you need—Lucas and I. Aren’t we good enough for you?”

“There’s something else I’d like to tell you,” he breathed. “Jessamine wasn’t my only lover. There were others,” his wife could only cry more, harder, I could feel her heart tearing. “Many of them were patients—young boys.”

“No more! No more! I can’t take it anymore!” she cried. “So I mean nothing to you. Why did you ask me to marry you then? Why you waste twelve years of our lives? Why did you make me love you?” I wanted to embrace her then. To assure her that everything would be okay. One thing that always made me weak was the sight of a person in pain. No matter what they did to me, I couldn’t hate them then because then they were so vulnerable that the slightest touch and they would crumble.

“Go downstairs and wait for me, I’ll be with you in a bit.” I do as he asks. I take a seat in the foyer on a chase longue. The servants seem to not see me as they go about their business. Perhaps they don’t want to see me. Perhaps they heard about father’s countless affairs and are trying not to get into trouble by noticing me.

I’m so used to being overlooked. Mother never had any time for me. She was always courted by the most handsome and richest of men. Many of times I would find myself in the attic, which was also my bedroom. None of the rooms downstairs were for my nosing about. Mother would scold me if I even contemplated touching any of her fine china, her silk gowns; her pearls. I was restricted to one space. The only things of hers I was able to touch were the dolls that were given to her by her many suitors. Even in that I could only touch the ones that she grew tired of. Out of them I grew an intense like for the doll called Georgiana. She had the most beautiful porcelain skin. Her hair was a dark auburn, cascading down her back in tight ringlets. Her eyes, oh they still haunt me to this day, were a shade of dark honey. They could be described as amber, but for me I could only picture sweet honey when I saw them.

The dolls were always kept on a shelf on the far side of the attic. Even though we lived in a small, townhouse the attic was fairly large. Sometimes I’d sit all day looking down at the street below, watching the carriages roll by. People would pass by, their minds focused on some distant thing I couldn’t reach. I would care for the dolls, cleaning their clothes, brushing their hair and watching over them lovingly. Sometimes I would talk to them about things as if they could hear me. Sometimes I fancied they could and would ponder what their responses would be. However I generally liked how quiet they were. I didn’t have to endure their rejection or distaste. I was able to talk as much as I pleased. Even though there was only me in the attic, I was never alone.

It’s about a half an hour later that father comes downstairs to join me. “Forgive me,” he sighs, running his fingers throw his hair. “I shouldn’t have put you through that.” He says, guilt sinking into his eyes.

“Father,” his eyes light up at the sound of my voice. “Does this mean I get to stay with you from now on?” he smiles warmly at me, bending down to kiss my cheek. Is this something fathers do? Before I got a chance to meet him, I thought that all men were like the ones that my mother brought home—lewd, drunk and loud. At one point I thought I would never like myself. I didn’t like my mother, so I knew that I didn’t want to be a woman either. I wanted to be nothing, feel nothing if both man and woman were cruel heartless and uncaring as were the people I knew. Then father came and changed that…at least in the beginning.

The End

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