The Doll-maker

               
                We are the puppets and fate the puppeteer
                This is not a metaphor, but a truth sincere
                On this stage, fate for sometime our moods steer
                Into the chest of non-existence, one by one disappear.
               
                Omar Khayyam


Thomas Williams, a 49-year-old doll-maker, sat in his chair, staring at his collection of dolls.

The house he lived I resembled a little theatre with more than 70 dolls in it. Each one was named by him and had its own story to tell.
Thomas Williams was single. Dolls replaced him a family. He didn’t have friends, in fact, he didn’t need them. People were too unreliable for him, as they were not perfect. Dolls were always the same: calm and peaceful. They could never hurt him. Nothing could make him happy, except carving and painting dolls to complete his collection.

The room in which he sat was large and box shaped with no windows and little furniture. A big chair adorned the far left corner and some long, wooden shelves were on the walls. There was not much light in the room, but Thomas could recognize every single shape and shadow. His little creations were resting on the shelves, watching their creator. He designed the room like this himself, so nothing could disturb him from observing his collection. It was HIS world. He was the creator of this little world, which nobody could enter. No one could take his power.

               

                ***

The Puppeteer opened his eyes and saw them, billions of strings making complicated patterns. One thought, and movement began-endless movement-endless, until the Puppeteer wanted it to cease.

               

                ***


Thomas Williams thought about his past…his childhood. He remembered kindergarten, where everyone teased him, the teacher, who never paid attention to the lonely boy playing in the corner with his little dolls. He also remembered his school, where he learned to lie and betray people, to pretend and fake his feelings and emotions. School was a real nightmare. Kids labeled him a “stick-man” and humiliated him all the time. They did their best to prove what a big loser he was. They never gave him a chance. They wrote his life story, by destroying his faith in love and friendship/ His freshman year one of the boys made him eat snow in the yard, which made him sick for two weeks after that incident.

Thomas could never understand why people were so cruel and made him a pariah for the rest of his life. He remembered every single tear, every cry caused by others. Soon, he found out he did not belong to THEIR world, so he made his own little world, where he was loved and admired.

               

                ***

The Puppeteer was walking between thousands of row of dolls. Scissors were slowly moving above them. One “click,” and a doll was falling down, down to the darkness, to the place, where nothing had a name.

He turned to the next row. Dolls were waiting for him. They always knew when the time came. Time to leave the stage.



                ***


Thomas remembered that night very well. He was twenty eight and Catherine just turned twenty six. They worked at the same theatre. She was a decorator. She fell in love with him, but he never did. He wasn’t able to feel love or compassion for anybody. He was a Doll-maker. He wasn’t a Lover. She should understand that. It was her fault.

“Thomas, you have to know somethin’.”

Catherine seemed nervous.

“I…I think…I think I love you.”

Thomas was painting a little clown with orange hair and a red nose.

“What? Sorry, I didn’t hear ya.”

“You would if you looked at me instead of that stupid doll! You are not a child Thomas!
Stop playin’ with your dolls! I said I love you!”

Her voice was shaking. Thomas raised his head and realized she was crying. Suddenly, he became very annoyed by her presence. He wanted her to go, and let him concentrate on the doll.

“Ok Cathy, thanks for tellin’ me. I like you too. Would you please close the door when you leave?”

Thomas didn’t realize what would happen the next moment. Catherine took the paint froom the table and spilled it on the doll. She went to the shelves and started breaking everything. She took a little princess doll from the shelf and broke its head. She kept ruining the dolls. KILLING them.

Thomas couldn’t believe his eyes. He started to shake. He lost control. The only thing he saw were five dolls laying on the floor, and Catherine who was crushing everything. He screamed. He had to protect his dolls. She was evil. She wanted to separate a “father” from his “kids.” He ran to Catherine, grabbed her arm and threw her on the floor. He tried to do it as hard as possible. He wanted her to get hurt. He wanted to break her bones, since she did it to his dolls, but Catherine sat on the floor and looked at him. She seemed surprised. She stood up, took her purse, and left the room.

She didn’t say anything.

The next day Thomas heard Catherine commited suicide.
      
               

                ***


The last row. The last doll. A little stick man, with a doll in his hand. Its time had come, too. It needed to complete the balance. It needed to be illuminated.

               

                ***


Suddenly, Thomas felt himself very bad. His legs were almost paralyzed, and he couldn’t catch his breath. He didn’t understand what was happening. He was in his room. He had to be safe, he was among his dolls. He tried to get up, and fell on the floor. He started to crawl. He tried to reach the bottom shelf and take the doll. He knew it would protect him. It would not let him die. No. He could not die. A Doll-maker couldn’t die like this.
Thomas cried. Tears came from his eyes, as he realized he would never complete his collection and never see his dolls again. Why? Why couldn’t they help him? He spent all his life making them, but they couldn’t stop death.

“Help me! Please, help me! Stop it!” he tried to scream, but he could only whisper. The dolls stayed calm. They always did. They stayed calm even after his heart stop beating. They watched.
 
                ***

The little stick man disappeared into the darkness. The Puppeteer was done with cleaning. He did not use scissors anymore.

Strings were slowly moving under the ceiling.