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Broken Doll 
by Rie Sheridan Rose 

The first time the lid on my box opened, I came to life—no, not in the customary way. I didn’t start breathing air and pumping blood through my nonexistent veins. But I noticed my surroundings and analyzed them. The room was small and furnished with bargain basement castoffs—they had programmed me for a sense of luxury and fashion, and this was not it.

As a Class A dance bot, I expected something different—backstage at a Vegas extravaganza, or maybe the Rockettes—I knew most of them were androids now. Something better than this grimy closet of a room.

The only item of taste or elegance in the space was a trifold mirror standing opposite my box. I saw myself multiplied into a chorus line. Studying the reflection with interest, I took in every detail of my appearance. I had never seen myself before.

I was beautiful. No one could deny that objective truth. My features possessed a pleasing symmetry, seldom found in nature. My eyes were the most arresting feature in the pleasing whole—they seemed to reflect the world around them and find it lacking.

“Beautiful…” breathed a voice I discerned was not my own.

Only then did I observe the other inhabitant of the room. Shorter than I by six inches or more, the young man was scruffy and unkempt. His night-black hair hung about his face in greasy locks, while a few whiskers made his chin look dirty. Thick lenses perched on his nose in an era where corrective eye surgery was almost free. An affectation?

“Who are you?” I asked him, making my voice as steely as I could.

“No one,” he answered. “Or, I guess I should say, your master.”

That made no sense. This was no dancehall. My costume was that of a showgirl, anyone could see that. “I am constructed to dance.”

“Maybe so, but that’s not what you’ll do here.”

“It is my only purpose.”

“I-I have…repurposed you.”

“That is impossible. My programming—”

“—can be manipulated. Surely even an android can understand that.”

I stood there and ran through scenarios in my head. All the dance moves and choreographed programs were intact. What did he mean, this “master” of mine?

“My programming is intact.”

“Strictly speaking, but I have added some tweaks of my own. You won’t remember seeing me at the factory—no one ever does—but I was there. I wrote most of your code. It was easy to adjust it. Now, you will do everything I say. And, if you comply, I will allow you to dance for me. Win-win scenario.”

I stepped out of the box, to stand before the mirrors. I took hope from my myriad reflections. Maybe it would be all right. Perhaps I could be happy here…

“Good start. Now, I’m hungry. Kitchen’s that way. Make me a sandwich, Dolly.”

“My designation is Starlight.”

“Now it’s Dolly. Hop to.”

I was Starlight. I was the epitome of beauty and grace, designed to dance before the masses, not to make lunch for this imbecile.

Mustering my programming around me like a cloak, I executed my best spin kick, catching the little weasel on the jaw. He flew backward into the mirrors, which crashed down on him in a shower of glass.

I stepped up to his unconscious form and stamped down on his forehead. The skull gave with a satisfying crunch, splashing my skirts with gore.

“I am Starlight 432. I am a dancer.”

Walking out of the tiny space, I found myself on a street filled with people.

A little girl pointed at me. “Look, Mommy! That dolly is bleeding. Someone broke it.”

I suppose she was right.

.

Fiction © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

More from Author Rie Sheridan Rose:

Overheard in Hell:
Dark Poetry

Poems exploring hell and damnation. Tales of sorrow, vengeance, betrayal, and redemption. Ghosts, ghouls, and demons stalk these pages. Don’t read in a lonely house…in a darkened room by a single candle…

…unless you like the touch of an icy finger up your spine.

Available on Amazon!