Your curiosity and your inner voyeur are calling. Will you be able to meet their gaze?
This week on the Drabblecast we bring you “China Doll,”by Kelsea Yu.
Our artists is Matt Driver. Sydney based artist. Instagram @mdriverart
Read by the Word Whore.
Kelsea Yu (she/her) is a Taiwanese Chinese American writer and mother living in the Pacific Northwest. Her debut novella, Bound Feet, was nominated for a Shirley Jackson Award, and her debut novel, It’s Only a Game, is out now!. Over a dozen of her short stories and essays are published in (or forthcoming from) magazines such as Clarkesworld, Apex, Nightmare, Fantasy, and PseudoPod, and in various anthologies. Find her on Instagram and Twitter as @anovelescape and at kelseayu.com.
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China Doll
by Kelsea Yu
Your limbs entwine themselves with his, creating a rhythm half familiar. This is our first encounter; I have yet to learn the pulse of you. His, I know intimately.
As you cry out, I study the shape of your mouth, your earthworm-pink lips parting. The way your fingernails, aqua polish chipped at the ends, dig into his flesh as he thrusts into you. The outline of your muscles as they grow rigid, your thighs tensing.
I watch, and I wonder.
Have you noticed hints of the spoil lurking beneath his milky skin? The way his eyes drink you in, yet always seem to be looking through you?
You gasp as he bites your shoulder a touch too hard. Tomorrow, you’ll inspect the purple claim his teeth will leave in the tender skin below your shoulder. You’ll wince at the thought of someone noticing, knowing. But, as you sit through your university lectures, you’ll remember, suddenly, why you’re wearing a high-collared blouse. A thrill will sear through your veins. The bruise will fade, but the memory will live on: little shivers of fear and ecstasy, inextricable.
Your thick black hair is matted with sweat, your damp bangs no longer falling across your forehead in a neat line. Your skin is a shade darker than mine; your eyes a shade lighter. You’re full of sharp angles, while I was all soft curves. Yet some would see us as identical. In their minds, we are yellow-skinned and almond-eyed. Interchangeable.
As he works his way down your body for the finale, your gaze flicks upward. For a moment, our eyes lock and you startle, but then his tongue slithers inside you, and you close your eyelids, savoring those last moments as you finish.
Later, you’ll wonder how you were lucky enough to find a lover who worships your body the way you’ve always dreamt someone would.
You’ll return, and we’ll be here, waiting.
#
You sit at the two-person table as he clatters around the kitchen, cooking the dish he makes to impress his lovers. From my vantage point, both he and you are distant shapes, but your voices carry through his studio apartment.
“What are you making?” Your voice is light, teasing.
“Fancy ramen,” he says.
You snort. “Like, ramen hacks?”
“Sorta.” I imagine him turning toward you, flashing a dazzling smile. “But it’s like, a legit ramen hack. No Top Ramen for my girl. I use Nongshim Shin as the base.”
You watch as he pan-fries veggies and soft boils two eggs, laying them gently atop each bowl of noodles. He sprinkles on sesame seeds and nori before presenting his concoction with a flourish. It’s not real ramen, but you’re a broke college student and you’re impressed, nonetheless.
As you sit together, blowing steam from the soup, you catch up on your respective days. He’s a graduate student. Last semester, he worked as teacher’s assistant for your English lit seminar. On the final day of class, he asked you out. This semester, he’s working for a new professor. He shares an anecdote about her, rolling his eyes at the ridiculous things she asks him to do. You tell him about a history lecture you attended today.
“I learned about Afong Moy,” you say.
“Who’s that?” he asks.
“She was the first known Chinese female immigrant to the US. In the 1830s.” You pause for a moment. When he doesn’t say anything, you continue. “They made her into an exhibit. Dressed her in Chinese clothing and seated her on a stage set with Chinese furnishings and decorations. The American public could pay 50 cents to gawk at her for eight hours a day. They’d watch her use chopsticks or show off her four-inch bound feet. Like an exotic carnival display.”
You wait, and this time he graces your factoid with a response. “That’s fucked up,” he says. “But that was almost two centuries ago. Things are different now.”
You think of the time you downloaded a dating app. How it took less than a week for your inbox to fill up with messages from strange men. “I want to try my first Asian girl.” “Is your pussy as tight as they say?” “Come cure my yellow fever.”
You set down your chopsticks, a strain entering your voice. “Is it, though? What about all the guys who still obsess over Asian women?”
He shrugs. “Sure, there will always be some creeps. But I try not to judge. Everyone has a type, you know? Besides, it goes both ways. Asian girls who always date white guys obviously have a type too.”
You chew a bite of noodles and tell yourself he’s probably right. Silence sits between you for a moment. Then, you swallow your discomfort, worried it’s early in your relationship to admit your fears, but you need to know. Your voice lowers to a whisper. “Is that all we are? Two people drawn to one another because our types are compatible?”
He sets down his chopsticks and looks into your eyes with that intense gaze—the one that sees too much and nothing at all. “Of course not. I wasn’t talking about us! You’re beautiful, and it’s not just because you’re Chinese. I’ve dated girls of different races before, but none of them holds a candle to you. You’re special. In fact,” he smiles, showing his perfect, white teeth, “let me show you just how special you are.”
Your noodles grow cold as he leads you to his bed. I watch you tuck your conversation into the back of your mind. As he goes down on you, you grasp at the headboard. Your fingers brush something tiny and textured, smooth and cold.
You don’t remember to check what it is until the following morning, when sunlight filters through his cheap blinds.
“What’s locked in here?” you ask, tone teasing as you lift his finger to the tiny keyhole you discovered the night before. His headboard is thick and hollow; large enough to store books or tissues, but it’s only now that you wonder what might lie inside.
“Nothing,” he says too quickly. You raise an eyebrow, and he blushes. “Okay, I’ll tell you. But only if you promise not to laugh.”
You swear you won’t, curiosity piqued.
He traces circles in your bare skin. “I got some…toys for us to try out, but then I lost the key.” He pouts. “I feel like an idiot.”
You pull him in for a kiss, and the conversation is forgotten.
#
You’ve been more tired than usual, lately, but you figure it’s a natural product of spending so much energy on your new relationship. He wants to go everywhere together, and he’s affectionate in public, sliding an arm around your waist as you walk across campus. Pressing you against the wall of the bus shelter to make out as you wait for the 43. He loves having you on his arm, showing off his hot girlfriend. He tells you this, daily.
It’s flattering.
When you’re alone in his apartment, he grows bolder in what he shares.
“I thought of you while teaching this morning. The way you looked, last week, in those tight little shorts. I got hard. Had to dash behind the podium so no one would see.”
“I think of you in class too,” you tell him, but a hollowness rings in your voice. He doesn’t seem to notice.
This time, when you make love, you don’t move as much as before. You let him have anything he wants of you, wondering if he’ll tire of this—of you—soon.
But he wants and wants.
Afterward, your legs are sluggish as you make your way to the restroom. Your arms hang by your sides, swinging with each step. Your cheeks feel tight, the skin inexplicably taut. Though you’ve applied no blush, there’s a permanent rosiness to your cheeks. Your lips are coated in warm cinnabar—the hue of lipstick he likes to gift. When you climb back into his bed, he wraps an arm around you.
You stare up at me. This time, you don’t pull your gaze away.
#
Three months pass before you dare to ask him.
“So, um…what exactly is that?” You gesture in my direction, doing your best to sound nonchalant.
He looks up, eyes careful to follow the line your arm makes, as if he doesn’t remember I’m up here. As if he doesn’t pluck me off the shelf when you’re gone and run his hands along my body. As if he doesn’t bring me to bed, one hand clutching me tight, the other reaching to unzip his pants.
His eyes land on me. “Oh, that? Just a family heirloom.”
You bite your lip. “That’s, uh, an odd thing to pass down. Is there a story behind it?”
He grimaces, wrinkling his nose. “I know, I know. It’s a bit unusual. Family lore says my grandfather was in love with a Chinese girl when he was young. Before he met my grandmother. The Chinese girl loved him too, but she died before they could get married. He had a doll made in her likeness as a commemoration of sorts.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t that have bothered your grandmother?”
He shrugs. “I assume he kept it hidden from her. But I don’t really know. She died when I was four.” He turns toward you, taking both of your hands in his. “I know it’s a little weird, but my grandfather passed away last year, and for some reason he left it to me. It reminds me of him.”
Your mouth and the outer corners of your eyes turn down in sympathy. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“It’s not too strange, is it?” The hope on his face pulls at your heart. He’s never looked this raw before, this exposed.
“Of course not,” you assure him.
“I knew you’d understand, my love.”
He leans forward, pressing his mouth against yours, and pushes you back against the bed. As he sucks on your neck, you glance at me once more. Your lips tighten, but you make no further mention of me as you surrender to his touch.
Later, though, when he’s worked himself into depletion, you lie awake. You peel away the covers, careful not to disturb him, and slip out of bed. You check that his breathing is even. Then you stand on your tiptoes and pull me down from the top shelf.
In the light of the bathroom, you inspect me. You take in my porcelain skin and long, black braids. My rounded nose, and the short lashes framing my brown eyes. You straighten my red sundress, frowning as you notice the style seems too recent, given what he’s told you of my history. But maybe my original clothes grew stained and moth-eaten. Maybe he had to replace my outfit. There’s an explanation; there has to be. He is your boyfriend, after all, and he’s been good to you. He deserves the benefit of the doubt.
Still, it’s odd that our lips match in hue. That our fingernails are both painted the same sparkly gold; the polish another gift he’s given you. Maybe he’s re-enacting a love story, passed down through his family. You think of the woman his grandfather loved; the woman he told you I resemble. You wonder what it would be like to be me. Wonder if you are just like me.
Maybe you’re his china doll.
You shiver. Then you shake the thought away. It’s late, and you’re letting your imagination get carried away. I’m just a strange heirloom. No reason to grow paranoid now, to raise a fuss and throw away what you have with him.
Besides, your limbs feel heavy again, exhaustion kicking in. You really need to see a doctor, soon. You’ve looked online; scared yourself reading all the numerous potential causes for your growing fatigue, the stiffness in your arms and legs. The way it sometimes hurts to bend your knees and elbows.
Tomorrow, you promise yourself you’ll make an appointment.
Careful not to wake him, you set me back on the shelf and tuck yourself back into bed.
#
“He leered at me all night and called me a slut under his breath!” You stomp inside, slamming the door shut behind you. Usually, you’re careful. Guarded. But anger has turned you.
“He’s a jerk. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.” His words come out slightly slurred.
“Tomorrow?” Your voice carries a note of betrayal, piercing the cloud of discontent radiating through the apartment. “I should just go home.”
“No, don’t,” he says, a hint of wheedling entering his tone. “Stay, my love. I’m sorry. Want me to call him now and tell him what a douchebag he is? I’ll make him apologize.”
“It’s too late. You didn’t defend me then. Why the fuck didn’t you defend me then?” You look away, voice lowering in volume. “Sometimes I’m not sure about us.” You look back at him, gauging his reaction.
His lips tighten, like he’s holding something back. His eyes narrow. For a moment, you can feel the rage pumping through him. You shrink back. But then you blink, and whatever you saw is gone again.
You want to sleep in your own home tonight, but the thought of catching a bus this late in the evening exhausts you. Everything does these days. You sigh, plopping yourself onto his bed, the fight draining out. “I didn’t mean that. Don’t bother calling him. He’s probably passed out drunk somewhere.”
“Probably,” he says. He sits next to you, resting his head on your shoulder. “He’s jealous, you know.”
A bitter laugh escapes your throat. “What?”
He sits up, turning toward you, and you reciprocate, doing your best to ignore his beer-stained breath. As you’re facing one another, he cups his hands around your cheeks. “All of my friends are jealous of me. Him, especially. And can you blame them? If he’s a jerk, it’s only because he wishes he had a girl just like you.”
His words are meant to put you back at ease. Instead, discontent roils through you. What does just like you mean, exactly? Someone smart? Someone empathetic? Someone who wants to travel the world? Your gaze leaves his face, traveling up to me. You know exactly what he means. Someone like us.
You look back down at him, accusation in your eyes. You don’t want to stay here tonight. Don’t want to give in to his piercing gaze. When he looks at you, it always leads to the same place.
But you feel empty. Shrunken. Heavy. Your body makes the decision for you as you slump back. You can deal with your feelings once you’ve had rest.
The doctor wasn’t sure what was wrong with you, so he scheduled several follow up tests. The first is tomorrow. It’s been a long night.
You close your eyes.
Just for a moment.
When you wake, there’s something pressing down on you.
Not something—someone.
Oh God, you think, remembering the look in his eyes. He wouldn’t, would he? Not while you were asleep? You’ve let him in so many times before, but this time, you try to shove him away.
Your arms won’t move.
But no. It’s not what you thought. He’s propped over you, leaning on elbows and knees, but he’s fully clothed. He’s looking intently at you, and this time, something is different about his gaze.
Why won’t your arms move?
You try your legs next with the same results. Then you open your mouth to scream.
Nothing but a weak gurgle escapes.
“Sh.” He lifts his hands to press your lips together, and the sound cuts off. He brushes your bangs out of your face, the movement tender. “Quiet, my love. I won’t hurt you. I promise.”
There’s a click as he pops open the tube of lipstick from your purse.
“You need a touch-up and a wardrobe change, but otherwise, you’re perfect as you are.”
He brushes cinnabar onto your lips.
“You have to understand,” he says, sitting back on his knees. “I didn’t want this any more than you did.” He blinks back a tear. “I really thought we could have a future. When we met, you were so quiet. So shy.” He smiles, lost in the memory. “I let myself believe you would be different. This wouldn’t have happened if only you’d stayed the way you were supposed to. But then…” He shakes his head, and regret fills his voice again. “You turned out just like the others.”
He touches up your nail polish and sweeps your eyelashes with mascara. You feel the touch of his fingertips against your skin as he sits you up, lifting each arm and pulling off your sweater. He changes you into a push-up bra and matching underwear before dressing you in a lacy black nightgown.
“I’ll have to put you in a more modest outfit before I find the next girl. But for now, I like you like this.” He looks down at you with sorrowful eyes.
At first, you think the room is growing larger; everything—including him—expanding to monstrous proportions. It takes you a moment to understand what’s really happening; you’re shrinking down, down, down, until you’re the same size I am. He strokes your hair as your limbs harden to porcelain, your eyes to glass.
You realize, now, that what he’s told you about me is a lie.
“Don’t worry. You won’t be alone,” he assures you.
He opens his nightstand. Pops open an old Altoids tin and pulls out a hidden key. He presses it into the lock and turns. Slides open the secret compartment in the headboard. One by one, he pulls out his china dolls. We wear different outfits, and our bodies and faces differ, but our lips and nails are identical.
He lines us up on the shelf, giving you a glimpse of his entire collection before he picks you up and plants a kiss on your cold lips. He places you besides me before stripping and turning down the lights. The sheets crinkle as he reaches a hand down below the covers. In the darkness, he moans and pants. The perpetual soundtrack to our lives.
When he’s done, he whispers. Hand sticky, words tender.
“Goodnight, my loves.”
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