*artwork done by me. Needlwork takes up more time than I thought but I enjoy doing it. I guess, horror stepped out of the written form.
An unplanned horror story to start off your monday on a cheerful note. Caution: gore ahead.
He said I was broken, so he fixed me. He picked my torn limbs off the floor, and connected all the broken parts, like a big puzzle. He took a tiny needle with a black thread, stitched the torn fabric of my pale skin, and made me whole again. He wasn’t lying when he said it’ll sting a bit. It stung. Quite a bit. The sharp needle pricked my skin a thousand times, the thread whistled a crooked tune as it slid through the pricks made by the needle. My skin became a symphony of thousand needle pricks, a darkly-whispering cacophony of pain.
I laid on the plastic surface, my eyes lolling back and forth, a naked body with no name. Pale skin covered in the most ingenious patterns of black stiches. My limbs were fixed but stiff, my mind was blank, I had no desires or needs, I felt no pain. I felt nothing. He called me Dolly.
He pumped me full of chemicals. He said I’d never feel fear or pain after he’d work his magic on me. His syringe was an artist’s tool, a brush painting my blood vessels in bold colours. I felt the strength reviving my limbs. It came with a cost. I had become beautifully numb, oblivious of pain and suffering. First my own, then the suffering of others. What is suffering anyway? One’s suffering is someone else’s bliss, he said. All is relative, Dolly, he added.
I loved bright colours. After he fixed me, nothing brought more joy to me than a bright hue of red. Well, if you can call it joy. I would stare at the red lights on the streets when he drove me somewhere at night. The contrast was fascinating. I never knew where he’d take me, nor did I care. I was his Dolly now.
I never cared for their screams, or their pain, or their suffering. My knife drew the most beautiful patterns when I cut into their skin. But the best part was the blood. Nothing is more beautiful than blood flowing into a white bathtub filled with clear water. A crimson veil dancing, warping, dissolving into the white nothingness.
He observed me working, cutting, and stabbing to get all the lovely blood out of them. He drove me to them. He said they don’t deserve to live; therefore, they would die. He gave me a knife, and said, Dolly, get him! I felt no pain, so nothing they did could stop me and my knife. I never got tired from the sight of blood.
I was a good Dolly. I never disobeyed. He was pleased with me.
He kept me in a huge box, and locked it shut whenever I laid in it. Although there was no need for it, without the chemicals, stiffness overtook my limbs, and I laid completely still, while my eyes wondered watching him through the gap in the box.
I worked at nights and observed him in the lab at daytime. How he stitched together shaved lab rats while they squealed. How he counted stacks of money. How he polished his syringes. His little delights were colourless and dull.
Sometimes I dreamed with my eyes open. And all my dreams were about blood.
When he needed me and my knife, he revived me with his magical syringe, and I was his Dolly again.
When he first made me his Dolly, I worked almost every night. Red lights flashing in the streets, red dots of the city, nearly as beautiful as blood sprinkled across white marble tiles. I stabbed, and I stabbed. They screamed, he laughed. He said, I was a good Dolly. He never forgot to say it.
Until one day he forgot about me altogether. I laid in his silent lab. No syringes danced through the air to prick my numb skin and bring my stiff limbs back to life. No red lights flashed in the nighttime streets. No bright crimson blood splattered on their designer tiles. He was gone. I didn’t miss him, but I missed the sight of blood. I laid awake for days, dreams of red pools carried me away from reality of the silent lab.
He came back one last time. Never looked at me, ignored my box. He killed all the lab rats and threw them into the trash. He picked up his stuff, money, passport, papers, clothes. He stuffed a bag full of his selfish little needs. He didn’t call me Dolly. I didn’t care much. I never missed him. I didn’t miss anything but the sight of blood.
He was at the door when he looked back at my box. It was brought daylight. The lab shone in white, the day was unbearably sunny. He came back. Unlocked the box. He dug through his bag, found the syringe, filled it up with bright chemicals, and made me a living doll again. I got up. He shoved the knife into my pale hands. Pale skin, black stiches, and the sharp blade. He said, be a good Dolly, and stab yourself many many times. I promise it won’t hurt.
I knew it wouldn’t. I was a good Dolly. I felt nothing. I wanted nothing. Nothing except the sight of blood.
I would listen but first I had to see the beautiful hue of red. It’s all I could think of, after so many days in the box. So, before he even made a sound, my knife found his throat. Then his chest. Then his stomach. Maybe he screamed, I don’t know. All I saw was pools and splatters of blood shining in the sunlight like gemstones. I cut into his wrists while he shook. Beautiful red rivers flowing onto the white lab floor. I painted the whole place in red patterns, rivers, and clouds, and marvelled at my creation.
When no blood oozed from his body, I did what I was told. I stabbed myself again and again, until I fell. No blood flowed from me. After all, I was just a dolly.
One of your best. I can see the movie in my mind. I'd happily buy a copy of the image too.
Oh my! Well, “Hello, Dolly.” I am creeped out. This has undoubtedly shaken me a bit. You are a master storyteller of the macabre.
Take care!