Heartless

Fri, 11 Apr 2025 09:56:47 +0200

Witches are heartless.

A fact as true as the suns rising at dawn. As true as Witches having dolls. As true as a mirror reflecting ones soul.

For a Witch, the first doll they craft requires their heart. Nothing else will do. For ripping out their heart is the final step in discarding their humanity.

It doesn’t always happen in the same way. Some crush their heart to infuse the doll with their essence, others simply place it there for the doll to use as its own.

They aren’t truly heartless. Not in the way that a poet would say it anyways. Their heart lives on, through their doll. Some still feel it beating inside of them, despite nothing actually being there.

You killed a doll once. Not because of any higher Purpose- you hate that word - No. You didn’t kill it due to some belief that it was unnatural. You simply did because you could.

That was your first mistake. Since not only did you kill any mere doll. You killed the Witch’s first. But you didn’t stop there, did you?

No. You continued. You defiled it, you crushed it, you made sure that no-one could ever recognise it as more than a pile of gears and porcellain. That was your second mistake.

And then, as if tempting fate Herself, you stepped into Her manor. The smell of death still lingering on you like a bad perfume. You reeked of death, of despair, of… Her heart.

And you stepped right into Her den.

Her dolls stopped dead in their tracks as a cold you’d never felt before washed over you, chilling you to your very essence. You looked up the stairs of the manor and you saw Her. Small for a Witch you thought. That was your third mistake. You underestimated Her. You didn’t even pull your knife or put up any defenses.

And in the blink of an eye, you were thrown against the wall- no, through the wall. A glistening blade upon your neck. You tried to move but to no avail. You tried to scream but to no avail. You tried… but alas, to no avail.

She didn’t kill you. Not yet. No, you were awake, trapped in your own body. And She made you watch. She made you feel everything. Every cut, every crack of bone, every last shred of your sanity being ripped apart. Every. Agonizing. Moment.

You were made to watch and feel everything. Passing out was a mercy you did not deserve anymore.

And so, She got to work. Every single bone cracked, moved. Every tendon ripped, every drop of blood leaving your body, every muscle torn, every cell on your skin burning in pain. You wanted to scream. You wanted to make Her pay. But you couldn’t. You lost the right to even try.

And it went on and on and on. Sanity slipping away, day after day after day, she went to work. And you just wanted it to end. You just wanted to atone. You just wanted to-

‘Done’, She said. No feeling inside those words. Just coldness.

She sat you up. There was a painting infront of you. No. It blinked. You- It blinked.

It wasn’t a painting. It was a mirror. Before you- that one was a reflection of its new form. Small and frail. Nothing like that, which was before. Just a small, demure, adorable doll. One of porcellain and gears. The same, in fact, as the one that was no more.

’thank you, Miss’, that one said. ’this one apologises for its rudeness’, that one said. ’this one shall dress itself now’, that one said.

And so, a new doll was made. Using parts old and new. A requiem of that, which once was.

‘retribution’, She called that one. And so it Became.

Witches on forest's writing

Heartless