My peers shunned me for my unorthodox methods in art. They were passionate about their work--but so was I! Yet, I was singled out, berated, and ridiculed.

I was labeled as a creep and as a fool. 'A grown man playing with dolls?' is what they would always ask to belittle me. My work is still art, and never did these so-called 'artists,' with their canvas, clay, and marble, consider my craft as equal, simply because I create dolls.

There would be people too, strangers or otherwise, that would praise me. 'Great attention to detail,' but it would always trail off with 'a little creepy though.'

Not a single one out there appreciates my dolls one bit.

I had driven myself to a reclusive life. I eventually began to carve my dolls through the wood I had taken from the trees where I resided. It was a lonely life. It was a maddening life. But eventually, I would meet...what you would say, was my light.

Shirley was the name she had introduced herself with. A lithe woman whose platinum hair flew along with the wind. Her arms were decorated with small tattoos; hearts, flowers, numbers, words. They trailed along all the way up to her shoulder, before her sleeveless top began to obscure the rest. I was scared but there was something different about her. It turns out that she was an artist as well. She carries her sketchpad with her, looking for a nice piece of scenery to draw.

We eventually began to talk, and the hours of that day flew by as if it were seconds. She found out that I made dolls, and for the first time...someone, with all their heart, truly and genuinely appreciated the amount of effort I put into them. The details, the edges, all of it...Shirley loved.

She would begin to buy them off me as well, but I decided to reveal to her my secret first. It was terrifying; I knew there was a chance she would shun me. But she deserved to know. I had based my dolls off of the people I remember, recalling each detail of their face, inscribing it onto the doll. Sadly, hatred is a strong foundation of memory, and thus most of the dolls I had made while in solitude bore the faces of the people who mocked me.

All of this Shirley paid no mind to; she only gave me empathy. She preferred to buy dolls that were made without the burden of disdain, to which I understood and agreed to provide.

I managed to buy myself a few nice things because of Shirley, as well as with her sharing to other people the work that I create. I was no millionaire, but as an artist, it was a big deal.

Things were finally looking up for me.

Then, one day, Shirley brought with her a man. Tall, muscular, and as painful as it is to admit, far more attractive than I am. But surely, he was just someone interested in what I do--sadly, as soon as Shirley mentioned the word fiancé, my heart dropped.

I had no words. Everything went blank and I had gone deaf. I stared at the man, looked into his eyes as deep as I could. Everything about his face just burned into my mind.

Then, I walked back to my house and ignored the banging. The noise of a man and woman who had decided it was finally time to burst the happy little bubble I was in during the last couple of months. Just white noise to me at this point.

I spent the rest of the night carving that man's face on my doll. Then Shirley. Then me. My ears felt hot as I continued my work, my hands shivered, and my teeth clenched. Yet I made sure that the details were there, all of it. I hated that man for taking Shirley away from me. I desired to hurt him, and so I took a stab at my own doll, but the release was far from cathartic. I began to hate Shirley as well; she had led me on and made me believe that this worthless life of mine actually had meaning. And me--the fool, the grand fool, who believed.

At this point, I had lost it. I was so engrossed in my work and hatred that I had forgotten just about everything else around me.

The next day, Shirley and his fiancé came by. We greeted each other and I apologized. I even let them in, although the mess I made last night was still there. The emotions I had that night were still there, too.

And it only grew when they mentioned it again. Then before I knew it, I had struck Shirley's fiancé with one of my carving tools. His face bled all over until he collapsed; Shirley could not do anything but scream. Then, out of a fit of my own anger, she was next.

I stared at the both of them on the ground, collapsed. I soon followed.

A few days later, Shirley, her fiancé and I stood atop the chair where I had left my dolls. We watched the news, all three of us, seeing our bodies on the floor.

For the first time in my life, I was famous. It only took my death to make it happen.