Doll Master
My little doll has turned into a woman.
The way her body contracted and her blood trickled down her thighs mixed with cum is a sight I’ll never forget.
It’s art at its truest form.
It’s a masterpiece.
And I’ll have it unfold over and over again.
Blood looks exquisite on her porcelain skin. Almost like it’s made to smother her flesh, bathe it, creep over it instead of underneath it.
My Barbie doll doesn’t realise how beautiful she is. How exquisite. She has a smile to die for, lips to devour, and eyes to stare at for eternity.
People at school call her a bitch, but they’re just jealous of her beauty, her grace, and her mind. Her intelligent, bright mind. It’s the reason why her beauty is enhanced. She’s not one of those bimbo dolls I get tired of after one glance.
She’s not shallow like them, stupid like them, hollow like them.
She’s the whole package.
She’s what I’ve been searching for my entire life while I kept myself busy with their forgettable bodies.
I spent years being patient, slowly creeping under her skin, but not too obviously.
You can’t be obvious with dolls. People say they don’t see, but they have eyes. They say they don’t feel, but they have skin. They can bleed too if you run a knife over their bodies.
Dolls need to be treated carefully, dressed carefully, washed carefully.
Watchedcarefully.
You can’t let them suspect you. Instead, you have to be the most important part of their lives. Their doll master.
The one who dresses them, washes them, does their hair.
I stare at a picture of her asleep on her side in only her T-shirt and no underwear. I groan as my release comes in waves.
I retrieve my spare phone, coat her pictures with my release, then type with the same fingers.
Unknown Number:You look beautiful today, like a rose finally deflowered. Happy eighteenth birthday. You’re a woman now.
My doll.
My masterpiece.
Now, she’ll never get away from me.
PART 2
Silver
When I go to school the following day, I’m not focused.
Everything seems to be out of control. Everything.
One, Mum got drunk at the end of the reception and she kept asking what Papa sees in Helen anyway. Is she prettier than her? Better accomplished? She said even her books seem like they’re written by a psychopath.
I told her that all crime thriller books need to be frightening in some way. Helen’s books always give me a chill and that’s why they’re so successful.
I had to ask Derek to help me drive her home. We’d barely gotten her in the car and she had a fight with Papa — again. Thankfully, it was away from the reporters or their other party members.
They screamed at each other and it was like a flashback from the divorce time.
After I tucked Mum safely in her bed, she hugged me, kissed me, and told me she was sad and that she didn’t want to be sad. So I stayed with her until she drifted off to sleep.
By the time I returned home, the reception was over. Papa and Helen had already retreated to their room. They decided against a honeymoon because of how busy they both are.
I was all alone with the catering staff, and Ronan and Xander, who didn’t leave my side. I was thankful to them in a way words can’t express, so I let them have all the food and alcohol they liked.
Cole just sat there, reading from his book as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t broken my world to pieces and made me walk unevenly all night. I had to feign spraining my ankle — to which he smirked at, the bastard.
This morning, Papa’s party friends and political life has returned at full force. Helen prepared them tea and told me to go ahead to school and not worry about anything.
Then there’s the damn text I received yesterday from the unknown number.
A rose deflowered.
He watched me. He saw me do it with Cole.
What if he tells Papa, or worse, the media? That would screw up everything.
Everything.