Welcome to Gaia! :: View User's Journal | Gaia Journals

I knew the moment I laid eyes on him that I had to have him. He was beautiful… sixteen years of age, with entrancing mismatch eyes: the right one a creamy pool of milk chocolate, and the left a torrent of sinuous blood. His hair was the perfect shade of blonde, and always set in flawless ringlets.

Always he wore the sweetest dresses—the definition of elegant Lolita†. My favorite was an earth-tone one he loved to wear. It was velour, with a layered skirt lined in lace, and long sleeves that bellowed out over his little hands—hands that were always hugged neatly in a pair of white lace gloves. It was covered in beautiful little bows, and wonderfully decorated with lace. I liked the skirt the most, though—sweet, and simple with ribbons hanging from it every few centimeters or so. The way it puffed out, and flounced when he walked fascinated me. I found myself reaching out to touch the sweet fabric more than once… just to see if it was as soft as I imagined.

It was. . .

His make up was always just enough. Black lined his wide, trusting eyes, and a sweet pink shimmer always glistened on those full, pouty lips. He was always smiling, as if he didn’t know that something was wrong with him. I couldn’t help but feel bad for him—such a sweet little child born into the wrong body.

Maybe, though, that wasn’t the case. Maybe he was normal as a child. I didn’t know him at that age, and I can hardly speak for it—but I know him now—at the tender age of sixteen, and still thinking as if he were merely six.

It was raining out the very first day I met him. I remember that well, for he was the first sight I laid my eyes upon as I took refuge into the Tavern his brother owned. There he was, as innocent as ever, on his knees on a chair that he’d pulled to the window, one hand on the windowsill, his ski-jump nose mashed ‘gainst the pane. I almost laughed when I saw him… but then, I saw that doll he held so lovingly in his arms. She was beautiful—the finest porcelain, with rosy cheeks, and curly blonde hair.

I must admit I thought him a girl at first—who wouldn’t? As I stepped closer, he looked up from watching the rain, and smiled at me. My heart fluttered.

“Hallo, sir,” what a perfect little accent. Only slight, though—he was German, and living in New York.

I started at first—as if I didn’t know he could speak. Dolls didn’t usually speak… and there I was, standing in front of a life-sized porcelain doll and speaking to ‘it.’ “Good evening, Miss.” At that, I took out the ribbon that held back my own back-length hair, and brushed off the raindrops I could. He looked fascinated. I wanted to speak to him longer, but the jarring voice of his brother interrupted my parting lips.

“Don’t treat him so formally,” he said. His accent was less obvious—hardly there. He must have practiced hiding it, though I didn’t know why. “Locke! Get to your room.”

I watched with a sunken heart as the child scrambled from his place on the seat, and headed for the stairs. He stopped on the landing to smile at me, and one gloved hand reached up to stifle a giggle before his brother’s sharp, amethyst gaze stole the beautiful mirth from his face, and sent him running up the stairs. A sigh escaped my lips.

I’m sure he heard it—for his watch lingered on my disappointed countenance for what could have been a full minute before I pulled myself back into reality, and cleared my throat. “You needn’t have sent him upstairs.” Him. It wasn’t until I said it myself that I realized that the sweet nymphet that had just pilfered my fascination was, in fact, a boy. I didn’t seem swayed—that surprised me.

“He only causes trouble when he’s down here,” the older man informed me, leaning against the pseudo-marble counter with the hopes of impressing me.

It didn’t work. I sat down at the bar politely, and tied my hair back once more. “Oh, I hardly think he would have been trouble for me at all. What did you say his name was? Locke? How lovely.”

“Lochlainn,” he corrected me with a critical look.

I only smiled, and leaned myself against the bar top, across from him. “Lochlainn…” I repeated softly. “He’s beautiful.”

“D’you wanna drink?”

I was startled by his sudden attempt to change the subject—but didn’t press any further. I nodded, though I wasn’t interested at all in a drink—at least not in anything he could give me. “Your finest wine,” I said without thinking. I heard him snort, but paid him no mind. The image of his charming brother was still loitering in the back of my mind.

I should have expected the flavor. I had allowed the Lolita’s charm to interfere with the reality of the Tavern I sat in—it was derelict, and lacking all appeal that I’m sure it once comprised. He didn’t catch the look on my face after the first sip, and I promised myself that I wouldn’t be forced to make such a face again. I placed the glass down, and reached into my jacket to place my money on the bar. “Keep the change,” I told him idly. “Treat young Lochlainn to an ice cream.” I rose, then, and left in a thoughtful silence.

I successfully convinced myself that I would soon forget the blonde child I had encountered on my leisurely walk home, but to no avail. His shy smile haunted my thoughts, and kept me from my reading in such a way that only my second bride had done before.

I decided then that I had to go back.

I waited sleeplessly for the next moon rising, and dressed myself in my finest ensemble. Tonight, I wouldn’t let the boy’s brother intimidate me. I thought of bringing him flowers, but quickly pushed the thought from my head. I didn’t want to frighten him.

I was both shocked, and appalled to find the object of my affection in the state that he was in upon my return. There he was: the very meaning of perfection, sprawled out upon the floor in a fit of tears. Without thinking, I was at his side in an instant. I took his little form into my arms, and lifted him gently. He was lighter than I expected—much lighter, in fact. “Oh, my…” I spoke softly. “What is a lovely young lady such as yourself doing on the floor? That won’t do. Come, now. Tell me what ails you so.”

His face lifted from its position—buried in my neck—and I felt my heart stop. Even crying, he was beautiful. His lips were swollen from being bitten down upon ruthlessly in his fit—I could see the marks where his teeth assaulted them. His make-up was running just a bit. I set him delicately upon the sofa before the hearth, and brought my hand-kerchief to his face, and wiped his tears away gently. Again, his voice startled me.

“I’m not a Lady, I’m—”

“Sex does not discriminate, my dear,” I found myself saying as I sat by him carefully. “You are very much a lady.”

There it was—that beautiful smile was back. I smiled as well—how could I help myself? His emotions were contagious. As he wiped away his tears, and calmed himself down, I was able to drink in the elegant sight before me. His dress was white today—how fitting for such a guiltless being. I felt unworthy to sit beside him. I couldn’t have stopped my hand if I had wanted to—I reached out slowly and touched the skirt of that knee-length dress. As I expected: satin. He didn’t seem to notice; I took the opportunity to run my fingers over the lace lining the bottom of dress.

His eyes were on my hand now, and then rose slowly to my face. He didn’t seem uncomfortable. I retracted my hand immediately, nevertheless, and I’m sure I would have blushed had I been still a schoolboy. “Forgive me. Your dress is lovely.”

He smiled at that—a smile more radiant than the one before, though I’m sure it was no different to anyone else. He crawled a bit closer to me, and planted his small body in my lap, ankles crossing in such a ladylike manner. I held my breath for only a moment… before putting my arms around him, and allowing him to lean ‘gainst my chest.

“You were here yesterday,” he observed in that innocent tone—his voice muffled slightly against my poet’s shirt.

My response was a brainless nod as my fingers danced over his curls indolently. “I was. My name is Julian.”

“Julian…” he repeated, and smiled up at me. “I’m Locke.”

Locke. I felt honoured to be given such a privilege as to be allowed to be allowed to speak to him so informally. I wouldn’t have it, though. “That is short for Lochlainn, as I’m told.”

“Ja,” he murmured gently in his native tongue. “But Laures only calls me that when he’s mad at me.” He lowered his head, and toyed with that skirt.

“Laures?” I asked, though I already assumed it was the man I had met only the night before.

“My big brother,” he murmured, glancing up to my face once more—to watch my reaction, I can only assume.

“Ah,” I said. I wouldn’t allow myself to look shocked—though I was a bit surprised. I had expected that man to be his father, not his brother. “Where is your father?”

He frowned immediately, and I wished I hadn’t asked. “Ingolstadt,” he pronounced perfectly, with a surprising harshness to his voice. I understood not to ask anymore questions. He stared down at his skirt a bit longer, before lying against my chest once more, and closing his eyes. “You smell real nice,” he said, finally.

I laughed aloud… and tangled my fingers in his hair. “Thank you.”

He looked up at me with puckered eyebrows and an engaging pout on his full, bitten lips. “D’I say something wrong?” he asked—I can only presume that my laughing had startled him.

I simply shook my head, and held him in a lingering embrace. “No,” I told him softly, my chin resting on his head. “You said nothing wrong.”

I never did find out what had upset him so—though knowing what I know now, I can only assume what had happened. I didn’t stay much longer after our conversation. The beautiful doll fell asleep in my hold after only half of an hour, so I laid him out on the sofa, and covered him with the earth-tone blanket that had been tossed over the armrest. I didn’t dare kiss him farewell, but I promised with my thoughts that I’d return the next evening.

I kept my promise—though he had no knowledge of it in the first place, and I’m sure he wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t come at all. I was disappointed to see sweet Lochlainn’s brother back in the tavern when I returned. To this day, I know not where Laures constantly vanished to, nor why; all I know is that he did it often, leaving his poor brother to fend for himself more often than not.

I took it upon myself to care for Lochlainn. He was quite capable of cooking and cleaning for himself, but I promptly discovered the innocent’s lingering trepidations. The dark frightened him, and the cold loneliness of the Phoenix only fed his qualms. I did my best to comfort the child, and in my efforts, found that there was far more to him than I had imagined at first.

The happy smile that I had grown so fond of, I soon realized, was bereft of sincerity. His eyes were poignant even in laughter, and—somehow, in all their innocence—held more wisdom than a child’s eyes should hold. The only time I ever saw him truly happy was when he had that beautiful blonde doll in his arms. Reilly, he called her… though I’m sure his Germanic enunciation made her name sound much more wonderful than I could ever imagine to.

He had other dolls, I soon learned. The first time I dared to venture upstairs—carrying the sleeping boy in my arms—I saw his cherished collection set up neatly on his delicately made bed. It must be said, however, that the sight of his room made me pity him even more. His bed was a mattress on the floor, though he’d done well to make it look as exotic as a Maharaja’s bedchamber. I smiled at the thought of that as I laid him gently upon the home-made blankets. I touched his forehead once more, and a light sigh escaped me. His fever had yet to go down.

I took his dolls one by one, and began to place them on the floor. His eyes opened at the sound of my rushed movements, and whimpered softly. “Nein,” he protested weakly, reaching out to touch the red-haired doll in my hand.

“You must rest,” I told him gently, and placed the doll beside one other. He had three in total. I wondered silently where he got them, but dared not ask.

“They sleep with me,” he said. His voice was louder than it had been before. I jumped, and glanced to his pillows. He wasn’t there anymore, so I lifted my eyes further, and found him sitting up and watching me with pleading eyes.

I could only smile at that, and laugh softly. “Of course,” I said. “I’ll tuck them in with you, then… Lie down.” I was surprised by my own ability to speak civilly with him without apprehension—and even more at his willingness to obey. He pulled his dress up over his head sans even the slightest introversion, and laid it at the foot of his bed.

I watched attentively as he smoothed out his silky white slip, and crawled under the covers. I smiled slightly at the absolute virtuousness of it, and pulled the sheets and blanket up over him, before reaching for those dolls once more.

“That’s Molly,” he said gently as I picked up that redheaded doll once again.

“You named them all?”

“I didn’t name them,” he told me without the slightest hesitation.

I looked down at the doll’s face, tracing her lips, and the painted lashes on her eyes. “Then who did?”

“They named themselves, silly!” he said with a giggle that sent blissful shivers down my spine. I sat in the bed with him without a word, and he rested his head on my stomach as I held that redheaded doll. He spent the remainder of his time awake introducing me to each doll formally. One of them, I found, however, left a certain distaste in his mouth as he spoke of her.

There was, of course, Reilly—his obvious favorite. Her hair was long and curled—blonde to match Lochlainn’s own. Her eyes were that of a cat—green and watchful. I felt almost unworthy under her protective stare. Her favorite colour was pink (but she looked best in black) and she was afraid of dogs. She liked to read, and was especially fond of me, I learned. I noted the similarities between Locke and Reilly with a lightheartedness I hadn’t felt since my second wife’s death.

Next, there was Molly. She had red, curly hair that he tied back affectionately in pigtails. She wore round, brass spectacles, and had a few freckles flowered about her porcelain cheeks. Her favorite colour was green, and she, indeed, looked rather beautiful in it. Molly didn’t like to read—I must say, that surprised me!—and was quite the shy one (as opposed to sweet Reilly, who was very much a raconteur).

Lastly, I lifted a black-haired, blue-eyed doll. “That’s Halle…” my sweet Lolita explained; a slight edge to his weakening voice. “Halle is bad. She’s always getting into trouble. No one likes her.” My heart sank as the child spoke. I watched as he took the doll, and pointed at her face. “Bad!”

I took the doll from his accusing hold, and cradled her to my chest. “Perhaps she is misunderstood, dear Lochlainn.” He shook his head, but I made no attempt to defend the doll again. Instead, I gently put pitiable Halle beside Molly, and rested my arm about Lochlainn’s tiny waist. “Lochlainn…” I began tenderly. “Are you Halle?” I had known since the first time I spoke to my Lolita that he’d lacked faith and confidence in himself. I couldn’t begin to fathom why; he was perfect. I wanted so desperately to tell him that—to tell him how I felt. It would have hurt him more than helped him in the end, I realize now—but I regretted not telling him that for too long.

“…sometimes.”

His whispered answer brought me back to his side so suddenly that I’d forgotten what I had asked. I dropped the conversation, and allowed my fidgeting hands to run over silk-covered flesh silently—caressing from shoulder blade to the small of his back in slow, tranquil strokes. I was soon rewarded with his heavy, indolent breathing and a darkening sky.

The inauguration of the falling of the leaves had transpired I finally asked Lochlainn to reside in my home. His brother hadn’t made his presence known since the second week of my dearest’s sixteenth year; over four months had passed. While I pitied my distressed Lolita, I cherished the time his desertion permitted me to decipher my feelings toward him.

I took him in to raise him as my own child. He took to calling me ‘Papa’ quickly (I’m sure I grin like an idiot every time I heard him say it). He stayed in his own bedroom (just next to my own)—and his dolls have a lovely shelf of their own just above his bed. On the hour of every sundown, I took two hours from my scheduled reading to run a hot bath for him, with bubbles, and his favorite Strawberry-scented shampoo and conditioner.

I bathed him, then combed his long hair, and read to him as he tied it up in cloth. After he pulled on a silken nightdress, I would get into the bed with him, and allow him to fall asleep on my chest as I continued to read from the book of my choice. He fell asleep each night in that exact manner: his doll lying on my stomach with his little arm tossed over both of us, and his pretty blonde head resting against my chest. He fell asleep after thirty minutes each time, but I read for an hour nonetheless, and simply repeated the reading the next night for him. Perhaps I thought the sound of my voice as he slumbered would keep his dreams pleasant.

It never did.

I would awaken almost nightly to his broken screams. I shall never forget the foremost occasion I heard him. It horrified me. At first, I knew not whether it was, in fact, my sweet child… or the prince of Tyrus† tormenting a screaming banshee. I rose immediately from my bed, and ran to his room to find my little princess on the floor—the mirror over his vanity smashed by the small stool beside it. His feet kicked fruitlessly at the plush rug, and I ran to catch his fist before it, too, hit the floor.

I pulled him to his feet, even through his struggling, and held him tight to my chest. “Lochlainn!” I hollered, holding him still even as he struggled. “Stop this nonsense! What is it??”

He never did answer me when I asked… he acted as though he couldn’t recognize me—as if he weren’t himself, but another person entirely. Sometimes, it took hours to still him… and still more to put him to sleep. I mourned him as he slept, stroking his now-serene face with the backs of strained knuckles. I was growing too old too quickly… but cared not to notice it. All I allowed myself to care about was my sweet Lochlainn, and his happiness.

I bought him a new dress every Sunday, and took him to an exquisite Italian café, affectionately entitled Libertà Sorgendo—The Rising Freedom. I took him on leisurely walks to show off my wonderful child, and brought him to museums of art and invention.

Still, my Lolita wasn’t happy.

Convinced that I was plainly contemptible, I took it upon myself to give the light of my life something to truly make him smile. I knew the ache of abandonment would never wholly lift from his marred heart, but I hoped dearly that I could give him something to ease his pain.

I spent the entire day looking for it—the perfect one. I’m sure I looked over dozens that he would have been perfectly happy with… but that wasn’t enough. I searched from noon ‘til eight when I found the perfect gift for him. I watched diligently and breathlessly as the clerk placed it delicately into a box, and wrapped it with care.

When I returned home, I felt a certain pride that I hadn’t felt in years. The smile I desired to see on Lochlainn’s beautiful face consumed my thoughts as I burst through the doors, and headed toward his bedroom gaily.

“Lochlainn, my child!” I called to him, knocking politely on his door. There was no answer; I tenderly assumed he had fallen into slumber… so the door was pushed slowly open.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw then.

I dropped the box onto the armchair by the door, and went to his side devoid of delay. My hair fell loose from its tail as I threw myself over him, and grasped him by the shoulders. “Lochlainn!” I cried out desperately.

He was in that brown dress… the one I loved so dearly. I pulled my trembling hands away from him—horror-struck by the sight before me. To my feet I went, and backed away a few steps, my own breath caught in my chest.

My Lolita was dead.

His face looked more peaceful than it ever had before… and his life still dripped from the arm tossed o’er the side of the bed. His other hand held the wicked knife loosely in those gloved fingers, resting calmly ‘gainst his stomach.

I fell to my knees before him, and brought his hand slowly to my face—pressing his blood-stained palm to my cheek. I didn’t care that the wine of my beloved’s existence was dribbling down my face, and neck… I could only watch his breathless lips, and regret everything I had ever done that wasn’t good enough for him.

“You deserved more, Lolita…” I whispered finally—my voice sinfully composed, and my dark lashes sprinkled with tears.

† reference to the Japanese clothing style “elegant gothic Lolita” in which girls and boys dress as Victorian dolls—inspired by the book Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov


† reference to Satan in Ezekiel 28:2; a rock; Tsor, a place in Palestine. Satan is the false rock. Christ is the true Rock.