Chapter 1
This story is based on real events, but the names have been changed to protect the innocent, and it's been dramatized for the reader's enjoyment. Not that you would believe any of this anyway. My name is Samuel Marston. My nickname should be Sam, but my father always called me William or Will. I always teased him about why he didn’t just name me that. It's been one year since the anniversary of my wife, Caitlin Holister's, death. I hated what her death did to me. I swore I would do better. So I started dating with the understanding that this is going to be an ongoing process and not a quick fix for my depression. Something healthy, alternative distraction.
I first tried to go back to what I knew from my youth, hollering at girls in bars. Not that I actually did any of that. I married Caitlin straight out of high school. But I'm pushing up in age. I'm in my late thirties. The girls at the bar called a creep. Admittedly, some of them were out of my league or much younger than me. But can you really blame me for trying? Icarus flew too close to the sun. I can’t say that I understood their sentiments, but it made me understand accurately what Roland Deschain said in that Steven King novel: the world moved on. I had become a fossil, a relic of a bygone era.
This fossil of human connection tried dating in the digital world but couldn’t understand it. My life had reached rock bottom, and it kept falling straight to hell. Even the devil called me mid and let me keep falling straight through hell’s basement. I found out the universe is quite bottomless. So I did the most cringy thing possible.
One day early in September, in my cramped office converted from the back bedroom of my two-bedroom home, I went looking for a sex doll. My fragile ego would not allow me to slight my wallet. Pinch a penny to save a penny. An old man might have once said. So I looked for a used one. I’m sure you're balking at me. Revolted by the very notion of a used sex doll.
But that is not quite accurate. I found a like-new sex doll. Never been out of the packaging. The man, Matt Bradford, didn’t have any bids, and the doll had been on the market for quite some time. You can fill in the blanks.
The bid had a message that asked me to send a message on his social media. I sent a message to Matt. The owner agreed to sell it and provided his address. The man lived outside of town, an hour, at the end of a well-to-do cul-de-sac. I pulled outside of his driveway in my dark blue Nissan Sentra, making sure not to block his driveway, and stepped out. The summer air is fighting against the oncoming autumn. You could feel it on your bare skin. The sky is clear and the brightest blue. Those prefall days are the best.
I walked up the driveway. Matt comes out of the house carrying a large box. The box is meant to hide my embarrassment. Matt was on the threshold of being forty. His hair ran away from his age. It created a receding hairline like the shore of the ocean. He was wearing a worn button-down shirt and a pair of beige kakis. His shirt's original color was completely lost. It had faded into a completely different color. I feign a smile to hide how awkward I felt in that moment. But I could tell the man is also awkward.
"The doll has never been used before," the man says confidently. It was an awkward burst of nervous chatter. I looked down to see the porcelain doll still in its original packaging and with the price tag still attached. The numbers faded, but were legible enough so that I could still read them. Underneath it read in big red letters Eve.
Eve was mostly made of porcelain except for her breasts and her groin. She had a centered face with lush red lips. The thing that struck me the most was how life-like it looked. It looked like he had a body in the box. The man continues to speak as I look down at the doll.
"My wife bought it as a joke," Matt told me in that awkward sort of way. There is pain between the man’s words. Something ethereal and tangible. Something I intimately recognized.
I met his gaze. For one moment, not feeling so awkward. "That’s an expensive joke," I told him.
"My wife never gave much thought to money. She thought I could use a companion."
"That’s thoughtful of her. Is your wife still with us?" I already suspected by the finality in his words that his wife had passed.
The man looked at me in surprise
"My wife passed as well." My words are hollow and robotic. Attaching meaning to those words makes them too painful. "She died a little over a year ago."
The man nodded. "A little over five years. I kept the doll as a reminder of her. Then I felt that keeping the doll was kind of creepy."
"Nothing you keep that reminds you of your loved ones is creepy; all that matters is they anchor the memories to the present. You sure you want to sell it?"
"Yeah, I have held onto her long enough." The man says, feigning strength. Tears were forming at the corners of his eyes.
"It's a reminder of your wife. You should hold onto it." I insisted. In my head, I had already written the doll off. I wasn't going to cause undue pain.
Matt nodded again, trying to hold back tears. I pulled out an envelope full of cash and handed it over.
The man pushed it away. "Just take it," he says. "I don’t need the money."
"I would be a bad person if I did," I told him. "This doll has a lot more value than just money. I got to give you something for it."
"You're fine," Matt said, wiping away his tear-stained cheeks. "Hope she keeps you company."
"You sure?" I asked one last time. He nodded. I put the envelope in my pocket and carry the box to my car.
I got home, set the box down by the door, and put the keys on the stand by the door. Then I took my first step onto the living room carpet that is somewhere between royal blue and navy blue. My eyes drifted between the various pictures of my wife suspended in the air on the wall. Her smile is warm and inviting, as the day we met. Yet in the oppressive darkness of the living room, I felt hollow. Nothing eventful happened that Sunday night, and I enjoyed my day off from work.
