Cora Blackheart, international ɱeṅẵçɇ

Cora Blackheart, international ɱeṅẵçɇ



The arm was still broken. The doll's Witch said she'd get to it when she wasn't so tired. That was a week ago. The doll had left the broken arm up on a shelf. It had gotten good at doing its' chores one handed. Sweeping, brewing tea for witch and it, loading the dishwasher.

It was tiring out. Being one handed was hard. It sometimes forgot it was one handed and reached to lean against something only for its heavy form to fall to the floor. The first time it happened the Witch came running in. The doll told its owner to rest. It can handle itself

Soon the Witch grew more and more tired, more and more distant. There seemed to be too much on her mind, and the doll kept serving. It loved the Witch, and even with it missing its arm, the Witch loved the doll. The arm still collected dust as weeks turned to months.

The doll found quiet places to hide and to cry. It didn't want the witch to worry. The Witch had a lot on her mind anyway. The doll could handle itself. Then days came where the crying time lasted longer than the doing chores time. And the doll was frightened.

The home fell into disarray. The doll was staying hidden for days at a time crying. The Witch wondered where her doll was, but was too tired to look. The doll wanted to be found, but did not want to disturb the Witch. And both suffered, tired and wanting the other.

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