Mr. Mortimer

By Katrina Michelle

The world jerks violently, snapping me out of my trance. At first, I’m too stunned to think.

The place I’ve woken in is dark. Enclosed. Unfamiliar.

Panic shoots through me, and I reach toward the walls shutting me in so tight I can barely move. The familiar fabric of my red sequined dress, tough and frilly, presses against my legs. But it’s a small relief.

The enclosed place—a large box of some sort?—bounces and shudders as if it’s as terrified as I am. I want to yell for Mr. Mortimer, but I don’t think he would be able to hear me even if I could.

I have a horrible feeling that he is far, far away.

The last thing I remember is gazing out the window until I fell into one of my trances. I was always safe and sound in the cozy house with Mr. Mortimer, and he was always faithful to return to the house, again and again, to make sure we were all right and to keep us company.

I haven’t forgotten what he whispered to me the first time he gently picked me up and smoothed my hair. “You’ll belong, precious. Maybe it’ll take a day, or maybe it’ll take a decade. But you’ll belong.”

Now I don’t know where he is or where I am. I’ve heard about enclosed places like this as nightmare stories—stories I never believed because I trusted Mr. Mortimer to keep me safe. But what should I believe now?

I will belong.

A promise I still don’t understand rattles in my head as I bounce inside my jittery prison. Time passes, but I can’t keep track of how much. My stiff hands roam the walls as best they can, but I feel nothing other than how smooth, flat, and hard they are.

Imprisoning.

At one point, I start to believe I will never leave this place, never see Mr. Mortimer’s crinkly smile again.

Finally, the rattling and jerking stops. I wait, staring into nothing as I try in vain to shift my position. I will belong. I will belong. I will belong.

Strange sounds, like muffled voices, reach my ears. More bouncing ensues, followed by different noises I can’t identify.

Suddenly, a young voice bursts through the walls, loud and unexpected. And far too close for comfort. “Mommy, Mommy, look! The box says ‘Mortimer’s Dolls’! She’s here!”

Another, older voice. “You’re right, sweetie. Let’s open it.”

As I try to process the words, a ripping sound cracks above my head. I stiffen, becoming very still. Light bursts in, and an adorable, rosy-cheeked face towers over me. I recognize it as the face of a young human girl who stared at me for a long time through the soundproof window several days ago. I always wondered why the younger females found me—and the others in the window with me—so fascinating.

Hands snatch me from the box and smush my face into a flowery shirt. “Oh, Mommy, Mr. Mortimer is the best! He said I could have this one if you let me, and he kept his promise ’cause she’s here and she’s mine and I love her! She is mine, right, Mommy? I saw her in the window, and Mr. Mortimer promised, and he’s such a nice old man!”

The older human laughs. “Yes, darling, she belongs to you now.”

The girl whoops and skips away, still pressing me against her chest. She holds me tight, but as if she intends to defend me fiercely should the need arise.

For so long, all the vague pieces had floated around within easy reach but without connection. It was difficult, spending my days in a soundproof display window. All I knew were the many things I saw and the few things I heard.

Now, though, the pieces click into place, dissipating my fear and replacing it with delighted shock. I would smile if my face would allow it.

Because the little girl is right. Mr. Mortimer has kept his promise.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Katrina Michelle is a university student doing her best to balance classes with her passion for storytelling. She spends her days studying in pursuit of a Spanish degree, inching through her most recent short story or novel WIP, and devouring books (such a sweet break from academic reading). Her Myers-Briggs type is INFP, and she can’t look at any BBC Merlin pins on Pinterest without feeling suddenly and extremely emotional.

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