A doll with its witch. She's applying an estradiol patch.
Her magic and alchemy can't do everything, unfortunately. Not yet at least.
Her expression is bitter.
Frustrated.
She shouldn't have been born this way. She shouldn't have to rely on medicines and potions to maintain the body she wants.
A thought runs through her head, loud enough for even her doll to hear:
'Maybe she should make herself a body like that of her doll's.'
Any further thought is interrupted by her doll hugging her.
It mumbles something into her chest.
"This one loves being able to squeeze you, how soft you feel beneath its touch."
Perhaps the doll can't squeeze out every ounce of her frustration.
But she squeezes it back as hard as she can, the doll's unyielding edges pressing into her, sinking into her skin.
When finally she releases it, there are lines left on her skin.
Proof of what her doll loves.
