You walk quickly, head tucked into your coat, eyes downcast. Flashes of grey and black pass your sullen form; you have no time to look at that which provides no interest. The slight jingle of the doorbell rattles you as you slide into the dark doorway. It is unexpected. The man behind the counter moves, as if to pull himself from his chair, and then settles once more with a grunt. Without a glance to the cashier, you turn to survey the store.
From the counter you can see the object of your hunt, the crowns peeking over the shelf-top. With a resolute nod you begin. As you walk down the first aisle the thick tangle of silk wraps around you, suffocating, enticing. The hundreds of dresses are lined carefully, but tightly, next to one another, pressing together. You wonder, vaguely, if any will be of use before continuing your fast pace around to the next aisle. Your gaze roams the shelved isle, flicking over each specimen as you stalk forward. You halt abruptly and turn your head slightly to the side. There she stands.
The pristine blue of her eyes shine, encased in the pale porcelain of her skin. Cold perfection stretches across her face, broken only briefly - by those eyes. Yet it is her mouth, those two shimmers of blushing ruby, which draw your gaze.
An urge hits, a sudden compulsion, to reach out and glide your fingers over the tangled auburn of her hair. Yet you feel, you know that if you hand comes in real contact with that beauty, you will taint it. Even as you think of this unforgivable sin, your body betrays you. Your hand reaches forward, brushing past the tip of her ear, only to have it retreat; hanging frozen in the air, never touching the glossy temptation. You are pleased with your restraint.
Grinning at yourself, jade eyes sparkling in bitter mirth, you look her over, roaming her petite form. She is but a child in looks, wide eyed and innocent as she stares out at you. The small cherub pout smiles outward, leading you closer. She will be the prize. Your grin slips, suddenly transforming into the half-formed twitch of a well-used smirk, both sensual and dangerous on your shadowed lips.
Your hand slips back, grazing down the silky yellow of her dress. It is a stunning yellow – one might take it for the essence of a pure sunflower – it is not the hue you would chose for this immaculate figure. You feel that blue, the blue of a cloudless sky, would be more suited to rival that of her haunted eyes. It is of no consequence; there are many suitable outfits that you can have made, or bought, for her. She will be all the more precious for it.
She is, of course, an imperfect specimen. Others in the room can easily surpass her. The beauty behind you, in particular, has eyes a solid green that challenge your own. You are attracted to those tumbling blonde tresses that fall, swiftly twisting, to her waist. She has a milkmaids complexion; cheeks rouged by exhaustion, lips pouting in pink seriousness. Her crimson dress contrasts brilliantly, throwing her pale skin into the forefront, and highlighting those features she commands with grace.
Yet, you feel your smirking Madonna to be superior. She holds a grace, a secret glimmer that makes her unique, separate from all the others. You know it is not perfection that you seek, that has been achieved time over; it is the experience you crave. You barter for voice, pay for shape, steal for personality, for intellect. For this feeling, you will do more; you will travel to the world’s ends.
This is why you stand here, in the corner of this poorly lit room, surrounded by the glassy eyes of hundreds of dolls, identical in make and separate in looks. Beneath your feet the floor shrieks at your every move, rubber on linoleum. You wonder, just a second, why you are here. Then you look up, your hand jerking a moment, lifting from your side as if moving to touch her once more. You still it, and know. Hard blue eyes stare back at you and she watches your dark complexion from her stand, above you. She is what holds you here. They flicker now, your eyes, as they are caught in the empty expanse of her solidity and you flinch back.
As if moving in a separate sphere to the rest of your body, your hand lifts once more. You eyes widen in horror, following your wayward limb, while your mouth moves without sound. Quietly a small puff of air slips from the tight lines of your lips, and you squeak. Your hand lands behind you, hard.
The crash is shocking, and you step forward as if to distance yourself from this new destruction. Standing without motion she stares out at you, eyes locked with your own, whispering silent curses as the tumbling continues, the smash of glass mingling with the dull hush of silk.
The milkmaid is dead, lying broken at your feet, and her sisters, all of whom had stood regal beside her, now lie at her side, torn. Crumbling faces from countless bodies glare up at you. Small hands reach upward, towards your stunned face, brushing against the simple fabric of your pants leg. Horrified, you step back again, trying to outrun the sightless eyes that pierce you. Your smirk is gone, with it the beauty of your face.
You are just a scared child, watching as your toys fly from the shelves to break on the hard floor. As you watch the fear creeps back, “mother will hear, father will know.” That was when the trouble did begin, and you remember their faces, the anger and the disappointment. A guilty face for a guilty conscious, your skin loses all natural colours, dulling to a bleak grey as your fingers beat a tattoo on your right thigh.
Even as you stand amongst the wreckage, she watches you, and you watch her. Those fierce sapphire orbs, the tangled fire that is her hair, and most of all; the half-formed smirk of blooming ruby that inexplicably draws your gaze. These features that make her, that draw you, define the utopia that comes with sight. Without her he would be blind to the fading beauty of the world. For this sensation, this overwhelming feeling of peace, of being undeniably right, you would go to the end of your restraint.
You look down, once, fixing the memory of those emotionless glares and ripped colours into your mind. As you do, you realise, raising your bent neck ever-so slightly so that you can see the fraying threads of her skirt, for her, you would do the most you ever could. For her, you would kill.
Conscious means you're awake or unconscious [sleep]. Conscience is what you're going for, I'm pretty sure. ^_^