The evening air was chill, sending waves of terror up the spines of anyone who entered. Dark clouds hung over the motherland, threatening the poverty-stricken townspeople with snow; as if they needed any more problems. The sleuth of the beautiful Soviet Doll hung around, a long tipped cigarette hanging from a loose hand. The appearance of another terrible night, frigid and cold as the Russian b***h herself, dangled, whispering fears, promises of another haunting winter.
Yes, yes, most of the citizens clasped deep within the Union’s control had become used to such foul living situations. All but a few.
These lucky few, had but one duty: Forget the fact you have a brain, and do the government’s cloudy, filthy, deadly little deeds. No matter the cost.
Standing unaccompanied, a sixteen year old vigor splendor, stitched up to the tee. Vivid Verdi eyes, heart-shaped face, a body to make a pear jealous, and of course, a wide innocence about the work she did, but a smile that could start a war. Doll.
The memory faded quickly, to a few hours later, blotto German worriers, pressing themselves against the innocent little puppet’s warm fleshy body, trying to fit like an unmatched puzzle piece. Ignoring deep nasty smelling breathing, the weight of a human no longer trying pressed against her, the puppet reached for a bottle, one barely opened, only to find that her cute little arm, stuck to the wall, with the pressure of another Eastern solider on top.
”Now, Now, Dolly. Play Nice.”
Gasping suddenly, before her bright emerald eyes, the German soldiers disappeared, leaving an attractive, Greek man in their wake. A dream? No. A nightmare? Laughable. Even Stalin couldn’t have terrorized this. A Flashback?
It took mere moments for the cute puppet to remember, smoking a cigarette, playing coy, with a stranger, and starting a battle that he had unfortunately won. The hand, stroking her shoulders, caressing her neck, gripping her chin, was indeed not the same hands who had harmed her many eons ago. It belonged to her new friend, not the three soldiers who turned her away from men forever. The intensity hadn’t changed though, and Doll was almost positive her racing heartbeat through her chest would give away the impression of fear. This was freighting. She knew if it could be smelled, her fate was sealed.
Icarus’s hand was gripping her wrist, holding her against the brick wall. The puppet knew that her back would leave marks of her loss, a game she should have walked away from. Green eyes instantly shut, terrified to open again, until the weight of her artificial body hit the ground; and left her trembling under the moonlight.
Taking one deep breath; for now was the time to regain her composure, the tiny Doll shook, from what could only be perceived as fear, but to an untrained eye, easily mistaken from the cold. She was petrified, cursing herself for not having a weapon on her, after she swore it would never happen again. But, it didn’t. And as many moments passed, the young marionette lifted herself from her knees, lifelessly, as the puppet master above controlled her little strings. She brushed off her dress, thankful it had stayed down, and stood on her own two feet.
Wobbly, the Russian turned to her new Greek friend. As much as she hated being touched, she could do not a goddamn thing. His smile rang in her vision, unaware of what that grab and throw had triggered. But, she had started the fight, so backing down now, would only mean an instant win. Icarus had proven to be a witty, gorgeous, demanding man, the only type that could even catch her eye, if only for a moment. A touchy one, which spooked her, but, in the fairness of the world, he didn’t know what it would cause. Her heart-shaped face finally looked up, expecting to be alone. But her look of remembrance was certainly startled off her face when her new friend was seen holding the door open. Waiting.
At least he had manners.
The young Russian scoffed, chuckling at her own sick joke. Her smile stretched wide, attempting to erase any presence of discomfort, and the forbidding trip down the wrong street in memory lane. She was good at hiding things, though it had not been such a strong suit. Shaking off the feeling of uneasiness, she began walking to the door, where Icarus stood, waiting. Her gait was wobbly, but after a few hesitant seconds, she regained her confidence, and quickly thought of an excuse. ”Heel Got stuck. Worthless cobblestone.” The accent was high, and it was back. Doll’s stitched lips pulled into a wicked smile, as she felt her hand touch his cheek once more. ”You Flourish. You foolish. A few letters off, but I not sure there is difference with you. Regardless, I owe you drink.”
The closest thing to a compliment the Russian could spit out, she removed her hand and placed it on her hip, waiting for a reply. She hoped he had not seen the commotion that went through her mind when he grabbed her, but in the moment, only worried that her body language had given her away. For now, she couldn’t stay mad. Many people knew that touching a woman who seemed dangerous, was a catalytic event, one that often would lead in death. But this man seemed to be raised above the law. For now, she’d see where things go. At least he wasn’t scared.
”Shall we?”
That’s right. Be a good Puppet. Russian’s don’t cry.