Melinda

John Barnes

Gert was out for his midday hike in the woods four miles from his home, a postluncheon ritual he claimed kept him regular. His flannel stuck to his clammy skin,
pressing his patience, and his boots were lathered in mud. The weather was mild. The
ground still soft from the morning rains, the air still breezy and damp, the bark of the
trees were stained dark with saturation. He regretted the decision to decline wearing a
jacket, instead thinking, it wont be bad once I get my blood flowing. Hed been
wrong; the weather felt as if it dropped ten degrees since entering the woods.
Odd for the end of July.
Still, it was bearable, all things considered, and he needed his walks. For mental
leverage, if anything -- as if some ancient spiritual connection which existed solely
between man and nature had been rekindled.
He crested a small hill in the path, eyes fixed firmly to his right where a Jay had just
taken wing, shaking the flimsy branch, upon which it had perched and sending a
scatter of needles plummeting to the forest floor. He smiled, looked ahead, and there,
not fifty feet in front of him, stood a phantom terror of his past. All two-feet of it; its
posture as straight and square as a nutcrackers. Something that shouldnt and
couldnt have been there. His smile quickly faded and a swarm of memories he
thought hed lost hit him all at once like a camera on speed flash.

Melinda: Born by the hands of some unknown Korean who probably didnt realize he
or she was in fact giving birth to the Devils Imp, made her way to the United States
by way of boat, adopted by the Richmonds in 1997, put to death under pain of fire
soon after.
Gert froze mid-step, mentally struggling to accept the charred and flaked China doll in
front of him was actually her and not just some random hallucination conjured from
memories he no longer cared to incur.
What are you doing here? he whispered, feeling his ham on wheat curdle in his
stomach.
Melinda remained silent and still, just as he had remembered. Never any talk, never
any movement. Always the way she did it. And why should there be? She was simply
a doll. Only in fiction did dolls ever come to life. And he knew that she knew this
simple fact. In reality, a doll cannot win by force of arm alone.
It needed leverage. An advantage.
Gerts lip lifted on one side in a smug, half-cocked grin as he stared into her bright
blue glass eye -- the other was but a black hole in her face. The image of what he had
seen in the window of the department store in comparison with the pitiful and
blackened thing in front him brought a twinge of satisfaction. What had once been
smooth and pure and unaltered was now a physical representation of the malice
within. Her hair, which was once blond and flowing, sat in matted black clumps atop
her melted scalp. Her porcelain exterior, formerly like painted glass, was now cracked
and stained gray with soot. Her flowered dress and red galoshes resembled tattered
death shrouds.

Bad place for you to be, Melinda.

Blank stare.
Dont you know the animals could get you out here?
Blank stare. Stare. Stare. Stare.
In her silence, Gert found the satisfaction of seeing what his handy work had done to
her to be short-lived. His grin turned to a frown. The fear it masked crept out from
hidingold fear, a special brand only Melinda could seem to conjure.
Gert sprinted toward the doll, intent on bunting it into the next county. He stopped
inches from contact, skidding and hobbling in the loose mud like a base runner who
had thought about sliding but suddenly changed his mind. The memories came
swarming back in due time: The hair, the Rotty, the pinholes the book.
Oh, you, he said, tittering under his breath. You would love for me to do that,
wouldnt you? I figured you out before, Melinda. Ill do it again. He eased his
posture, thinking whose hair she might have on her now. Clarice? His children, Orin
and Gaby? His own? Could she have snuck in at night while they were still sleeping?
You want revenge now. I know you do, but youre not going to have it. Not while
Im breathing, he continued.
Gert picked her up, straddling her with his hands beneath the armpits the way he had
his own kids. He thought he saw her arms lift for him, but he couldnt be sureif
Melinda ever did move, it was too subtle and too fast to be certain. He looked closer
into her one eye. It was shiny and wet like a living thing.

Gert proceeded to check all her extremities for anything that did not belong on a 19thcentury China doll. He opened her palms, sifted through her dress and crusty black
hair, opened her mouth to finger-sweep inside, and dropped her, gasping when he saw
her teeth. They werent dolls teeth but rather pea-sized stumps which came to points.
A chill ran through himMelindas brand. Those are new. He tried to mask his
terror with a smile, but it came up awkward and shaky. What does a doll need a pair
of choppers like that for?
He reached down again, more cautiously this time and pushed back her lips. The teeth
were straight again, a few missing from past quarrels, but otherwise just as he
remembered them.
I thought so. He looked at her suspiciously and thought, who knows what she has
up her sleeve now? After all, shed had plenty of time for planning. Just in case . . .
Gert untwined the shoelace from his right boot and hogtied Melinda. He carried her
home, holding her away from his body like a diseased toad.
He locked her in Orins old hamster cage in the basement, using the padlock from
Clarices chest of personal treasures (he knew she kept the key in her sock drawer just
as he knew he would be in the dog house if she found out), covered it with an old
lawnmower tarp, and slid it under his work bench.
He went to bed early that night. Sleep didnt come easy.
*
Gert? Gert will you come down here?

His eyes fluttered open. The voice eased him into waking, so soft in its coming that he
thought it was part of a dream. He lifted himself from the bed, taking notice to a large
circle of drool on his pillow and smiled. Had he slept that good?
Gert, are you awake?
Now I am!
Will you come down here? Her voice sounded distant and echoed, as if it were
coming from the...
Basement.
He threw the sheets off to the side, grabbed the brass key off the nightstand, and ran
downstairs in his boxers and a T-shirt. He cut through the kitchen and down the
basement steps; the clunk of his feet sounded three times louder in the cavernous
underground space. The room was lit by a single naked bulb which cast a sickly
yellow glow over the room. Clarice was still in her silk nighty, her hair sinewy and
lacking volume.
Will you look at this shit? she said, pointing at a litter of dead mice on the floor.
Theyd been thrashed to bloody pulp. I was fixing the kids breakfast and heard
squealing. Then, when they left, I came down and saw this. What in Gods name do
you think did this?
Gert froze at the foot of the steps and followed with his eyes the trail of little gray
bodies leading up to the bench.
My God, she eats.

Cat? he said, staring at the tarp underneath.

What cat? The one we dont own?
Gert shook his head. I dont know, maybe the neighbors have one
Gert, our closest neighbor is
Oh For Christs sake, Melinda. He clammed up as soon as he realized what hed
said. His mind was wandering. I mean
Who the hell is Melinda? Her tone emitted jealousy.
Gert searched his mind for an answer, or his best instant lie.
An old friend.
Really, she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
Gert nodded and opened his palm, revealing the brass key.
What is that for? Jealousy turned to curiosity.
I have something you need to see.
Gert strolled idly to his workbench, slid the cage out, and pulled the tarp off,
carelessly discarding it over his shoulder. Melinda sat idly with her back resting
against the crosshatching metal bars of the cage. When hed last left her, shed been
flat on her face.
Clarices jaw dropped. What is it? she inquired, seemingly interested and disgusted
at the same time.

This is Melinda. Under the pale lighting he noticed traces of dried blood around her
mouth.
Had a little snack, did we darling?
Gert opened the padlock and brought her out, holding her in his palm by the torso. He
sat her upright on top of the cage, letting her look on like an inquisitive child at story
time. He then went through a pile of clutter in the corner and found an upturned
folding chair. He placed it upright and offered it to Clarice. She took it without
removing her eyes from the doll.
Its hideous. Why on earth do you have something like this?
Gert took a seat on the stairs, rubbing his arms as he did. Cool summer indeed.
Im your husband, right?
This made her turn from the doll. She giggled and said: Last time I checked.
And you would believe your husband, no matter what, under any circumstances?
Sure, its called being faithful.
Well, I have to admit, I havent been altogether faithful with you and the kids.
She cocked her head to one side.
Ive been keeping something from you. He looked down at his hands; they were
coarse and rough, not like theyd been ten years ago. I had another life before I met
you. I never told you I was married once before. Did I?

Clarice shook her head.

Well, I was. Her name was Lilly. I had a child, too. Jenny. And it all ended because
of her. He tipped his head toward Melinda.
The dollClarice asked, her voice almost a whisper.
Yes, the doll. I found her on a Saturday afternoon. Id just been fired from my job
curator at the art museum in city square. Lilly still had her gig at the coffee shop in
the city, so we werent necessarily hurting. But I knew that if I didnt do something
fast, we would be. So I walked past my usual point just before reaching White Rose
River, and the four miles on the stretch of highway into the city. The weather was hot,
hotter than any day I can recall. The day I found Melinda was just a week before
Jennys tenth birthday, about
*
Ten years earlier...
Gert rounded the corner of Lexington and 3rd Ave, his forehead gleaming with
perspiration, wearing slacks and a casual canary button-down shirt which had dark
circles formed at the neckline and under the armpits The weatherman had claimed the
temperature to be a moist 86. But really, it felt closer to a sweltering 96 degrees,
with zero cloud coverage overhead.
He ran his hand across his brow and wiped it on his slacks. He felt a measure of pride
today, weighed down with frustration. Eleven miles from White Rose to the city. It
was something to be proud of. Even so, his mind ran amuck about his recent lay- off

as curator at the museum. Economic downsizing, his boss, Vernon Partridge had
coined his dismissal. Times are tough and we have to adapt. Sorry ole boy.
He maneuvered his way through the crowd on the sidewalk, bumping shoulders every
now and then with a fast-pacing busybody. The crowd, the beaming sun overhead; it
all added to his frustration. He did his best to try to ignore the irritations by looking
into the window displays as he passed them by. Ones like: Finland on the Rocks,
Wellington Suites, Buster & Stillwell Rare Books.
He came to a building that seemed squeezed between its two colossal contemporary
counterparts. It stood the height of a house, constructed of faded redbrick that had
been strangled by decaying creeper. He slowed to get a better look. It stood out like a
withered and bruised piece of fruit in a drawer full of its ripe and colorful cousins.
He stopped when he spied something intriguing in the corner of his eye. It was
Melinda. She sat bright-eyed-rosy-cheeked amongst the other antiques with a
collection of pearl-tipped pins sticking out of her matted hair. It was something Gert
had never seen before.
He ran his fingers gently over the glass, thinking, perfect for Jenny. He thought it odd
that Jennys birthday had popped into his mind just as he saw the doll, but he didnt
hesitate. He went up the stoop, briefly glancing at the wooden plaque over the
entrance. DRIFTERS KEEP, it read.
A small bell jangled as he entered. He was immediately hit with the cloying scent of
jasmine and some kind of gas that burned his nostrils. A soft tune of woodwind
instruments played from a small transistor radio on the ledge of a window by the

register and the paper lanterns which hung by string on the ceiling cast morbid shades
of red and green all over everything.
A small Chinese man walked from behind the farthest shelf at the back, greeting Gert
with a smile and a slight bow. Help you, sir?
The doll in the window, is it for sale?
The shopkeepers smile brightened. Everything here's for sale. Melinda good doll.
Its my daughters birthday next week. She melts over dolls.
Then Melinda be right for your daughter.
Melindais that its name?
Her name. the shopkeeper corrected. Was given to her by her maker.
Gert waited there patiently as the shopkeeper retrieved the doll, wrapped it in
newspaper, and placed it neatly in a brown paper bag. The price ended up being more
than hed expected; $300, to be exact. In a way, he somehow knew it would be.
Melinda was said to be 200 years old, according to the shopkeepers claim.
Gert paid in cash and the shopkeeper left him with final parting words that would
stick with him for the forthcoming years of his life.
Once shes yours, she will be yours forever.
*
Jenny Richmond loved dolls.

She loved dolls that talked when you pressed their hand, dolls that walked and did
little things labeled as cute-as-a-button by the nearest hovering aunt or granny, and
dolls that served no purpose except to look good on a bed next to some frilled pillows.
But on the day of her tenth birthday, the day she had received Gerts special gift, Gert
saw in her eyes a terror that not even the Gods could suppress.
She had been running through the jetting streams of the water sprinklers, a thin girl
with pasty skin and dirty blond hair pulled back into a ponytail an exact picture of
her mother. Lilly carried a double-layered strawberry-vanilla cake and started into the
birthday chant. All others soon followed, ensconcing Jenny as she blew out the
candles.
Gert came forward with his gift; hed placed Melinda in a multi-colored bag with
cartoon sea animals drawn on it.
For my one and only, he said.
She reached in and pulled it out.
Jenny locked eyes with Melinda for a solid minute, studying her. She then dropped it
and fell backwards off the bench. She crab-walked through the on-looking crowd,
screaming: Its not right! Its not right!
Lilly grabbed her and pulled Jenny into her chest, muffling the cries and doing her
best to calm her. Gert shrugged, confused, and glanced at the awkward stares on their
friends faces.

When everyone had gone home and there was nothing but a mess of cake and
streamers and conical shiny hats spread over the yard, Gert sat down at the kitchen
table, Melinda in hand, as Jenny and Lilly napped together upstairs.
Three hundred big ones and all you can do is scare her? He sneered at her and ran
his finger over the half-dozen pins in her hair. Well, I guess its back to staring out
the store window for you tomorrow.
He took her into his home office, a cozy six-by-six room lit by a green bankers lamp
on a glass top corner desk. Boxes of desk supplies, art museum inventory lists, and
stacks of invoices were jumbled what little walking space existed. He peeled open the
tape from the most accessible box and dropped Melinda in.
He paused at the doorway on his way out. He thought he heard a groan when he
dropped her, as if shed been winded.
Gert shook his head slowly in a concerted effort to convince himself otherwise, then
closed the door behind him.
*
The day of the Rotty came a week later. Saturday. Jenny was in her room playing
solitaire on her computer while Gert and Lilly finished their breakfast downstairs
eggs and grapefruit.
The MacMillans, two blocks down, owned a hulking Rottweiler named Cora, who
had just managed to dig her way under the fence while her owners were still asleep.
Cora pranced cheerily down Welch Avenue, claws ticking on the asphalt, burying her

nose in every garbage can as she went and coveting any tasty treats the neighbors
thought right to discard.
Gert almost spat out his coffee as he read the article in his morning paper: ART
DIRECTOR FOUND DEAD AT HOME. Vernon Partridge, twenty-year art director
at Avilman Citys famed city square gallery, was found dead two days ago in his
apartment loft of an apparent heart attack. He was 58, the story read.
Something wrong, sweetie?
He swallowed down the knot in his throat. Coffee was too hot.
Vernon Partridge had been a nice enough man to work for in life, and though Gert
didnt favor being unemployed, he never would have wished death upon the man.
Lilly laughed and sipped her own coffee. Feels fine to me.
Gert didnt say anything, only sunk deeper in his seat, feeling cold on a warm, muggy
morning.
He got up, rolled the newspaper up in his fist, and walked with heavy steps out the
front door, down the sidewalk, and to the corrugated metal garbage can at the end.
Lilly followed and watched her husband inquisitively from the doorway.
He held the paper arms length over his head as he lifted the lid. As shadow became
light on the tightly-stuffed pile of litter, Gert saw Melinda staring up at him.
He fell back onto the lawn, using the rolled paper to choke back a scream. Once he
got to his feet, he raised his head slowly over the precipice of the garbage can, once
again meeting eyes with Melinda.

You, he said, darkly.

He picked her up and glared at her raptly. One of Melindas hairpins was missing and
something was gleaming from her chest.
He pinched the tip with his fingers and pulled, revealing the rest of wiry pin that had
once been in her hair. Gert looked at the paper, and then back at her.
Heart attack.
His stomach sank. The pin had been punctured right where the heart should have
been.
You! he said, shaking her and sensing the same dread and hatred hed thought Jenny
sensed on the day of her birthday.
Cora the Rotty came pushing her way through a wall of shrubs on the other side of the
street, wagging her nub of a tail and sniffing the foliage for a place to relieve herself.
Her ears went up at the sound of Gerts shouting, and she made haste to see what all
the commotion was about.
Gert threw Melinda into the street without thinking, and just moments after she hit the
ground, he had a vision of Vernon Partridges dead body leaping off the mortuary slab
in the same style Melinda had left his hand.
He could see Cora running for the doll, her eyes wanting and determined.
Gert sprinted to intercept, thinking; shell tear it to shreds! Shell tear...Vernons body
to shreds!

Cora beat him by sheer height advantage -- she was closer to the ground -- and
snatched Melinda by the leg. She continued running along the curb, whipping her
head back and forth, tearing, as Gert desperately tried to close the distance.
What happened next happened so fast and unexpected that it took Gert a good minute
to realize what was going on. A shrill death-cry emanated from behind. He stopped,
skidding in his brown sandals, and turned. The scream came from his house. After
narrowing his senses, he pinpointed it from upstairs.
He froze in stark terror. Jenny. Its Jennys voice I hear.
He jutted one foot forward as if to dash for the house, but then turned again. Cora had
stopped running. She watched him from fifty yards down the street, ears bent up,
instigating him to play chase with her some more. Gert obliged.
The Rotty took off again, spiritedly galloping down the street. And just as hope of
retrieving the doll seemed out of reach, a human shadow jumped from behind a
cobbled stone mailbox grabbing Cora by her studded collar.
Gotcha! the figure said in glee. Cora immediately dropped Melinda and cowered on
her haunches, startled by her sudden capture. Gert caught up, winded and weak, and
thanked the person who caught her with every saved breath. It turned out to be the
Macmillans brooding son, Brendan. He was only sixteen but was much taller and
more physically developed.
I believe this is yours, Brendan said, handing Gert the doll.
Lucky for me you were here. Gert saw that Cora had taken out Melindas right eye.

You know I like to run early, Mr. R. Track seasons just 183 days away!
Brendan started jogging away while holding Coras collar; he scolded her lightly the
way a mother would scold her infant. The Rotty kept pace well, dutifully accepting
her scolding with little defiance.
Gert ran his fingers over Melindas face, wincing at the thick layer of dribble Cora
had left. His eyes became blurred with tears as he examined the doll. Thick puncture
wounds ran up her leg and her left arm had been dislocatednot to mention the eye.
He hurried back to the house and up the stairs.
A trail of blood ran from Jennys room, down the hall and under the door to the
bathroom, which had been splintered off the frame as if she had been dragged straight
through it. Lilly had Jenny in her arms, pressing towels that had been stained crimson
against her leg and over her right eye. Jenny moaned slightly in pain. Tears cut clean
lines down Gerts cheeks.
Lilly looked up. The ambulance is on its way, she announced, shaking. They said
to keep her comfortable. And then she started to bawl.
*
Gert spent the next week by Jennys side, reading her childrens tales and passages
from the Bible as she lay silently on her bed, keeping Melinda close by to keep an eye
on her. He confronted the shopkeeper at Drifters Keep a day after the incident with
the Rotty.
He had him pinned against the wall, knocking finger traps and paper umbrellas from
the shelf. The little man shrank under Gerts impending fist. What the hell is she?

He held the doll up between them. Look at this! This is what my daughter looks like
now!
She only a doll, the shopkeeper said. Nothing more.
Gert squinted, glared. She will be mine foreverwhat did you mean by that?
No meaning. No meaning at all. Just good fortune for you and your new doll.
Nothing more.
The shopkeeper pissed himself and Gert knew then that he was not telling the truth.
He left the shopkeeper to his business as he thought of other sources in which to
search.
But there had only been one sensible place to search.
He went into Buster and Stillwell Rare Books and asked the clerk for any text relating
to "Voodoo." The young girl looked conspicuously at the doll in his hand, then
showed him an old leather bound book entitled The Third Life.
A large gash ran across its face. Gert hypnotically scanned each page methodically.
Fact finding. He read that both Voodoo and Hoodoo spiritualism was actually a form
of sympathetic magic, meant to bless rather than to curse. From the cure-all belief
to pinning a doll to connect it to a persons spirit, hed felt himself more than educated
on the subject of gris-gris.
*
Present day . . .

And so I tested that knowledge. I sneeked a black candle and a metal bowl into the
hospital room as Lilly slept. The rain beat down so hard that night, allowing for some
noise coverage in case I should need it. I placed the candle in the bowl and filled it
with water up to the wick, just as the book described. I lit it and cleared my head and
waited. I waited so long, so long, until the water extinguished the fire, and, by the
books claim, the curse with it.
Clarice listened intently, her mouth half-open with interest. And?
And it worked. I pricked Melinda with one of her own pins and nothing happened.
And that was the end of it? Clarice asked.
I only wish, Gert said, shaking his head. The fire was the end of it. He looked up
at Melinda. Or it was supposed to be. I took her to the front of Drifters Keep with a
couple bottles of cheap whiskey, taking my fair share of sips along the way. I parked
along the walk and staked out the night. I never saw the shopkeeper leave, so I
assumed he was a live-in. I didnt care though. As far as I was concerned, Melinda
had infected that entire building, and the man who lived within its walls. The rain had
been coming down hard still. I knew the fire had to be started from the inside. The
roads were silent.
I chucked Melinda through the same window I found her in, followed by four bottles
of the brown stuff. I lit the last one, shielding the flame of the lighter with my hand as
I did, and pitched it in. And Ill tell you something: nothing burns faster than a
building full of antiques.

As I was heading back to the car, I heard laughter. She was laughing. I knew it even
though I didnt see it. But maybe it was my imagination. Maybe it was the screams of
the shopkeeper I was hearing. I really couldnt be sure.
So you never actually saw her move?
Gert thought about this. What if it all had just been in his head? What if he really was
crazy? No, I never saw her move. But some things you just know.
Then it was done, over, right?
Yes, but I had been wrong about the test. My family suffered as Melinda had. He
heedlessly pointed at Melinda, frowning, eyes welling up. They said my wife and
girl were sleeping, that they went painlessly. God, I hope thats true . . .
Clarice had made her way by his side, and held his arm.
She cheated me, he said, clenching his teeth. I was cheated!
He broke free of Clarices arm, reeled his arm back, making to hit the doll, and
stopped just short of her already disfigured face. He breathed heavily, gathered his
composure, then felt Clarices soft hand run down his back, tickling him, consoling
him.
I believe you, she whispered.
Gerts eyes went alight. You do?

Of course I do. Youre mine, Gert. I would believe you if you said the sun was going
to explode tomorrow. Its called being faithful, remember? And Im so sorry for what
happened to you. You were cheated.
He reached around and held her hand, silently thanking her, as fresh tears rolled down
his cheeks.
They came to an agreement about Melinda then and there. No more games and no
more tests. The risk of making the same mistake twice made him break out in
gooseflesh. She would remain their prisoner for the remainder of their lives; just
another piece of clutter in the basement. Dead weight.
Gert locked her back in the cage. Then he and Clarice left the basement as the kids
came running through the front door.
The bus was early, huh? Clarice asked.
The kids nodded, threw their bags down and started exploring the fridge and pantry
for a snack.
Good, Gert thought. I could eat.
*
A month later, Gert was preparing for a fishing trip with Clarice and the kids. Clarice
was in the kitchen, packing the cooler with drinks and things to eat. Orin and Gaby
had spent the night at friends houses. Gert searched the top shelf of the bedroom
closet; a place notorious for old things to turn up, for his lucky green hat, sliding his
hands back and forth, feeling, and pushed Clarices pink-flowered chest off the side.

It crashed on the carpet with a heavy thud and all its contents came spilling out. It
suddenly occurred to Gert hed never seen what Clarice kept inside that box. They
respected each others privacy; a lasting condition of their marriage. But hed never
replaced the padlock he stole to imprison Melinda.
He crouched down to get a better look. The blood drained from his face.
Among the scattered remnants of old dried up makeup and 70s memorabilia was the
copy of The Third Life hed used while attempting to dispel Melindas curse. The
scratch on the cover was a dead giveaway. He picked it up, opened it. The pages had
been bookmarked with pearl-tipped pins and random photos of Lilly and Jenny
around the house.
No, he thought. She doesnt have it in her.
But there was no denying it. The evidence was plain to see.
He opened the top drawer of his dresser, pushed aside the bundles of socks inside,
pulled out a black Beretta, loaded the clip, then snapped it in place. He owed one
more death.
Gert went down to the kitchen, stood at the vaulted entrance, and held the book next
to his face. Her back was to him.
Should I pack some beer? Clarice asked. She turned and her half-grin disappeared.
What the hell is that?
How could you, Gert asked. They were mine first.

Clarices lips trembled. Gert, Ive never seen that thing in my life. Please. Whatever
youre thinking . . .
It was her -- right? Melinda? You had me therebelieving in killer dolls and all. He
sneered, reached into his right pocket, pulled out the pistol and took aim.
Gert, please!
Let me guess, you did it for love? Then he squeezed.
It took only one shot.
*
He held Melinda in his arms, stroking her wilted locks as if she were his own.
You were just a piece of porcelain, Gert said, nonchalantly. You never did
anything, did you? I guess it was my fault for not seeing it sooner. He laughed in
spite of himself. He then lifted Melinda to his face and kissed her on the forehead.
Plastic and porcelain. No hard feelings?
Blank stare.
He sighed.
Melindas puckered O-shaped lips drawn up in a grin, revealing the same razor-tipped
teeth he thought hed seen in the woods. I love you, she said. Her voice was like a
childs.
*

Aaron Dries - Daddy

Daddy
Aaron Dries

Lewis was only two weeks into his four month contract with the London architecture
firm when he found the newborn baby in the dumpster. It had been lying on a cot of
lettuce leaves and used condoms. Its cries carried in the wind. He butted out the
cigarette he'd been smoking, downed his coffee and ran into the alley, following the
screams.
He saw her through his thick lens Coke-bottle glasses. She was naked and shivering.
When he cradled her in his hands, she sucked on his pinky finger. Her hunger broke
his heart. He carried her back into the building, his shoes clattering up the designer
glass staircase. She flooded his palms with urine. His shadow passed over the
immaculate carpet. Co-workers, who still didn't know his name, watched him as he
marched into his office. He stopped at the bay windows, overlooking the busy
cityscape.
Her uncomprehending blue eyes stared up at him.

Lewis had no siblings. His parents were dead and he had never married. The concept
of someone leaving a child to die in the cold was impossible for him to grasp. He
shook his head, tears beading off his silk tie. His secretary stepped up beside him; her
narrow face half in shadow.
Mr State... It was all she could think of to say and somehow, the trailed-off sentence
expressed it all.
*
After the reporters and flashing light bulbs assaulted his senses the silence of his
rented apartment became deafening. He felt emptied out. Though the baby was gone
from his arms, its weight still haunted him.
He fixed himself a frozen Weight Watchers meal that tasted like flavored plastic and
didn't even bother to ask himself why he expected anything different. But the taste
didn't matter. Two bites in and he realized that eating was just another failed
distraction. Loud television and the bland, flat beer in his hand hadn't worked either.
He looked around the room. The walls were vacant and bright and it hurt his eyes.
There was an artificial plant accumulating dust in the corner, its leaves shivering as
warm air escaped from the ducted air-conditioning.
Lewis felt the first pang of homesickness. He didn't have any friends, but at least in
Minnesota he had his magazines and side projects.
His glasses made a heavy thunk as he placed them on the dining room table. He
rubbed his eyes and in the darkness he saw the unnamed child, red faced and
screeching. He could imagine the nurses taking her away.

*
The hospital reeked of antiseptic and piss-scents that reminded him of his mother's
nursing home. She didn't know who he was in the end and the last time he saw her,
she had been sitting on a throne of her own shit.
Lewis searched for a distraction and found his feet. One step then another. Repeat.
This was how he got by. His thighs brushed together as he strode down the hallway.
The swish of his trousers sounded like saws cutting through ancient trees. He stopped
at the nurses' station leading into the pediatrics unit. The window was decorated in
Thank You cards covered in spider legged self-portraits and rainbows. A deflating
balloon bobbed at the end of its string. Lewis leaned forward, cleared his throat and
introduced himself.
The nurses clapped. They shook his hand. One staff member even asked him to
autograph the plaster cast hugging her wrist. His scribble was one of many.
They told him that the baby had been named Bernadette after the street she had been
found on.
Bernadette.
He rolled the word around in his mouth, just as a child would a new piece of candy.
Looking down at the baby, her head cupped in his palm, he didn't think the name quite
fit.
No. It seemed...too grand.

She was a tiny thing, but rough around the edges. He could see it in her eyes. He had
seen grown men without that grit; he lacked it himself. She had old eyes; the look of
someone who had seen a lot, survived, and come out the other side stronger. Lewis
could see it so plainly because it was something he so plainly desired.
He thought the name was very inappropriate, but who was he to judge?
I'm the guy who saved her life, he thought. I've got every right to my opinion. They
should have asked me to name her. But as was his typical manner, Lewis remained
quiet.
The nurses got him a chair and, although he had never been in the unit before, he felt
as though he belonged there. They gently lowered the baby into his arms and he felt
his body tingle. She was such an easy thing to love. Her mouth pressed against his
thumb; it felt like nothing.
Like everything.
She fit inside his life perfectly.
The nurse returned two hours later and took her from him. He fought the urge to
snatch her back, and it was the same every time he visited. But the pain of leaving the
child behind was worth it, because when she was in his hands he felt alive.
And then she would be taken away by strangers who couldn't possibly care for her the
way that he did, leaving him to walk through the shit-smelling hospital alone.
*
On his sixth visit, the male nurse at the station told him that Bernadette was gone.

What do you mean, gone? Lewis asked. He was astonished at how calm he was
when all he really wanted to do was dive over the counter and grab the nurse by the
shoulders, and shake some sense into him.
Look, Mr. State-
You condescending little bastard, he thought. Lewis didn't want to hear what the
heavily accented man had to say. He didn't want to see his lazy grimace, that
haphazard smile thrown across his face like an empty body bag over a gurney. He
didn't want to see his teeth or smell the traces of cigarette smoke embedded in his
skin. Lewis prepared to turn around, but the nurse's soft voice stopped him.
Lewis. She's been...collected. You know? A relative came and picked her up. The
nurse sighed aloud, feigning compassion. It infuriated Lewis. It wasn't her mother.
Nobody has any idea where she is. It was an aunt that came and picked her up, I think.
I'm sorry for you. I know how you felt about little Bern.
Little Bern? Lewis stepped back. The station was a large square cut into the hallway
wall. It looked about three feet in height and three by three in width. Plexiglas
windows within reaching distance were covered in greasy fingerprints. Lewis traced
the walls with his eyes, configuring measurements in his head. He could see the floor
plans scratched onto butcher's paper and some British architect stabbing a finger at it
and saying: See here? That's where the window will go. That's what will drive him
crazy-
Don't take it to heart. We should be happy for the little tot, the nurse continued.
You're a hero here, mate. Remember that.

The floor plans and sketches vanished. There was just the hole in the wall and the
slight young man on the other side reaching for the Plexiglas window. Lewis stepped
forward, his throat heavy. I'm not your mate.
*
Lewis couldn't sleep on the plane back to America.
The couple next to him looked to be in their mid-twenties, their hands intertwined.
When they were asleep they snored and when they were awake, they laughed.
Between their jabbing elbows and the planes turbulence -- which even had all the
stewardess unnerved -- Lewis felt like screaming.
He imagined doing it himself, opening his mouth and roaring, drawing as much
attention to himself as possible. Everyone would look at him. The children would be
frightened. But at least they would know how much he was suffering. Someone might
even recognize him from the news and turn to their traveling partner and whisper
behind their hands.
Look, there's that man.
The hero.
I wonder what happened to him?
But Lewis didn't thump around in his seat, or scream or do anything else to get their
attention. He just sat there in silence, blinking every few moments, and stared at the
emergency instruction booklet. When the stewardess rolled the service cart next to

him him and asked if he would like to order something off the menu, he politely
declined.
*
Lewis couldn't count how many times he must have passed the store and not seen the
baby doll. The thrift store had been on that street for years and it was rare for him to
even notice it, unless of course it was Christmas or Easter and the large window was
decorated in lights. And even on those days, he wouldn't have seen the doll were it not
for the brown paper bag blowing in the wind. It had skirted across the road, rising and
falling, brushing against the tarmac like a tenacious angel daring to touch the earth
once more. The paper bag skirted past him and planted itself against the window with
a soft crunch.
DARLING DIDDI. SHE TALKS, LAUGHS AND GOES POTTY!
The bag blew away.
Diddi stared up at him from the confines of her box. She had flushed cheeks and her
eyes were the color of faded blue jeans. She wore pink overalls covered in flowers
and knitted vine.
There was no time to hesitate over his purchase. The doll had been bought before he
realized he was even in the store.
*

His apartment was an open loft fit-out with good ventilation and lots of natural
lighting. An architects dream. The breeze blowing in through the open window ruffled
his thinning hair; the light cast his shadow across the living room floor.
Darling Diddi sat in his hands. It was an old battered thing, scuffed and beaten, but
the the resemblance to Bernadette was uncanny. Her upturned nose. Her chin.
The eyes.
His phone rang and the machine picked it up. He didn't bother answering it anymore;
he never accepted personal calls. His landline was simply a breeding ground for
telemarketers. If it was work related they reached him electronically.
The only other voices he heard in his home were those filtering in from the television
or from the computerized woman who announced a few times a day: you've got mail!
Lewis doubted the doll was the same one the box proclaimed it to be. The child in his
hand looked nothing like the one printed on the cardboard inlay.
Diddi or Bernadette, his little girl looked like a Lily.
And never an Elizabeth, Lewis said, smiling.
It had been his mother's name -- and his mother's expression.
Want an Elizabeth, go pick on a Windsor. Instead you got me: Lily.
Lewis laughed.
The battery socket looked as if it had been warped by heat, so he realized he would
never hear his daughter speak, but that was okay. He knew that parents feared for the

health of their newborns. After all, there were challenged children being born every
single day. He saw it on the news and read about it on the internet all the time. Lily
being mute was a blessing.
Life hands you barley and bones? Well, go on and make some damn soup.
That had been another one of his mother's expressions.
So what if Lily couldn't speak. It didn't stop Lewis from holding his head high. But
you can hear, can't you? he said. Yeah, I know you can. And you're smart. I know
that too. I can see the smarts in your eyes.
Lewis pulled his baby close to his chest, took off his shirt and pushed his flaccid
nipple into its mouth. He rocked her in his arms. There you go, oh come now, it's
okay. Sh-hhh.
He wanted to sing her a lullaby but he didn't know any.
*
He was wrong about Lily being mute. She could make noise -- just nothing
intelligible. There was none of the cute goo-goo-ga-ga's he read about in books and
saw on soap operas.
There was just the crying.
Lewis would get up in the middle of the night, shaking off dreams in which he was
falling or sometimes wandering the halls of his mother's nursing home, following the
scent of shit and soap to her room.

He had constructed a cot from the modeling materials he kept around the apartment
for projects that required dioramas and functioning models. Lily's mattress was made
from the tie-dyed silk material he purchased at the Camden Markets on one of his few
trips outside London Central. The old woman who sold it to him had claimed to be
blind.
Lewis plucked Lily from her bed and patted her on the back. Her cries were endless,
amplified over and over in echoes of echoes.
The moonlight creeping in through the Venetian blinds left them painted in gray
stripes. His bare feet stuck to the tiles, and when he shuffled around, he heard clammy
scratches. Lewis couldn't remember the last time he had mopped the floors, or any of
the housework which required more than a superficial wipe. He knew some chores
were slipping through the cracks, but assumed such things were common in the lives
of single parents.
Lily cried and Lewis checked her puckered mouth. Her blue eyes glowed in the dark.
Oh baby, you must be teething.
*
In the dream he couldn't move. His mother was writhing in bed, fighting her sheets as
though they were alive and trying to strangle her. Her face was cracked open in a
grimace of agony and she had wiped a layer of shit across her lips in a sickening
brown clown smile.

The wind will change and you'll be stuck with that expression, Lewis, his mother
would say. Back in the days when she could form words. Back when she knew who
she was talking too.
He wanted to get up and tend to her, but the last time he'd done that she'd rolled over
and latched her gummy mouth on his wrist, her good arm snapping around to pinch
his side. The nurses told Lewis that he could no longer approach her. That his mother
had been a danger to herself for quite some time, but had now graduated into being a
danger to others.
Lewis wondered how long it would take for her to die.
It seemed cruel for her to live in such a way with her soul imprisoned in a decrepit
husk, without even thoughts to keep her company.
He knew that there were many long days and nights of crying to come. This was only
the beginning.
*
Jesus, muchacho! You look like you've spent two weeks in Vegas and haven't
stopped to piss, said Xavier, a draftsman at Lewis' firm. Xavier looked at his coworker with two parts awe and one part concern. The concept of someone having a
life outside of work excited him -- and for it to be Lewis of all people! He was more
shocked than anything.
Lewis wanted to tell him about Lily, or perhaps show him the small photograph of her
that he kept tucked away in his wallet, but something deep inside him told him to

keep it to himself. That same voice also screamed at him to clean his act up, shave and
get some sleep.
You're dying on your feet, Lewis, warned the voice.
Lewis took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
Sorry to disappoint you, Xavier, but nope. No Vegas trip, I'm sad to say. Just a series
of rough nights.
Insomnia? Ah man, anything but that.
Yeah. Insomnia. It's a bastard of a thing; it hits you like a freight train.
Well Jesus, man, put down that coffee!
His mug the words GERM TOWN, RECONSIDER VISITING, only the lettering was
threaded with stains from where his shaking hands had spilt its contents over and over
again. It was another unwashed thing in his life. He could see his reflection in the inky
liquid, warped and gaunt. He looked unrecognizable as the man he had been prior to
visiting London.
Thanks Xavier, Lewis said, slamming the mug down on the kitchenette counter.
Some of the coffee jumped out of the mug, slapping against his shoes. Someone's too
tired to give you a smile, how about you consider giving him one instead? he said,
unable to hide the sarcasm.
Xavier raised his hands, trying not to laugh. Hey, was that another one of your
mother's sayings, muchacho? he asked as Lewis rounded the corner and vanished
into his office.

*
Shut up! Shut up!
But Lily wouldn't shut up.
Her long winded screams were high-pitched wails that seemed to last forever. He had
no idea how lungs so small could hold and then expel so much oxygen at once. The
sounds she made pierced the air and dug into his ears like something alive and livid,
scratching at the inside of his skull until it hurt.
Since the baby, Lewis was quick to anger at the best of times. Between the stress of
multiple work-related projects and the lack of sleep, he felt as though he were falling
apart at the seams. Lily's cries tore him up in the most intimate of ways. As if each
wail were a betrayal as if she knew his vulnerabilities. Her cries for food would
assimilate with his dreams so when his mother with her shit-stained smile, turned to
yell at him, he heard the infantile scream. Her green eyes would turn blue just before
he woke up, clutching his chest and lathered in sweat.
He tried calculating the square-footage of his room, creating sketch-ups of the designs
and material requirements- anything to distract him from the noise. He buried his head
under his pillow and took sleeping pills that were strong enough to make him groggy
but not knock him out.
Lily screamed again.
Lewis towered over her, reached down and shook her by the shoulders so hard, the
make-shift cradle collapsed, scattering cardboard and wire. Her baby rattle hissed as it
rolled across the floor.

Lily's mouth did not move and the sound did not stop and her eyes did not blink.
Lewis pushed his child against his chest with one hand, the other hanging hand limp
by his side.
*
A cool wind sent the trees outside his apartment into shudders; their branches
scratching against the windows. Clouds passed overhead with the swiftness of a fast
moving stream. Lewis watched the television blink on and off. His eyes glazed over
and grew dim. The Presidential State of the Union address was on but he had no
interest in anything that was being said. Nothing like the man at the podium with the
black suit and handsome tie seemed to apply to his world anymore. Lewis felt like he
was fading away.
The baby was a vampire feeding off his energy, his love -- just as his mother had
done.
Yes, she may have given him life, but at the cost of his? She had now turned soft and
come to collect the freedom she had given him. That was why he put her in the
nursing home. There had been no other choice. Death had been too slow.
Lily was screaming.
Lewis had lost a lot of weight. When he looked at himself in the light of the bathroom
mirror, he saw shadows being cast by his ribcage. His sagging man- breasts clung to
his chest like the teats of female hogs. He itched in places where he shouldn't. People
had commented on his smell at work, on his dandruff.
He was beyond humiliation. Lily was pushing him into a dark place.

The television picture shrank down into a dot that lingered on the screen for just a
moment.
Lewis stood up, the bones in his back cracking. He walked over to where he had left
Lily on the floor, lying on a bed of old Time magazine covers. She had shat herself
again. Her sloppy mess covered the faces of former politicians and public figures. But
Lily didn't care. Neither did he anymore. This was the extent to which she had sucked
the life out of him.
Lewis picked her up. She wreathed and shook.
Her blue eyes looked into his. They'd never seemed so bright. The more she fed, the
louder she screamed. The fainter he felt. You're killing me, Lily, he said. You're
destroying me.
Even his voice was softer. All of its grind and edge was gone.
As if mocking him, Lily's cheeks were still the same flushed rose they had been when
he saw her in the window of the thrift store. She continued to wail. Or was it laughter?
Stop, Lily. Stop now. This is your last chance.
But she didn't stop.
Cut it out, God damn it, Lily! Stop! Stop! Bernadette stop it!
No response. Just the continuing noise.

He punched her in the face and felt it collapse inwards under his knuckles. One of her
eyeballs fell from its socket, sailed through the air, and shattered on the floor,
breaking into shards that lit up as the television sprung to life.
The President continued to drone on. People were clapping. Static rained down over
the audience.
Lewis felt Lily's pain; it gripped his chest. It hurt to hurt her, as it had hurt to put his
mother in the home. He remembered how she had turned to look at him, confused and
afraid, as the nurses led her through the sliding glass doors into a world of white. It
had also stormed that day.
Lewis opened the front door of his apartment. The wind cut through him. Leaves
swirled in circles at his feet as he stumbled down the stairs, one hand on the
balustrade and the other clinging to the baby.
He stole furtive glances at his surroundings, frightened that someone just might hear
Lily's screams and come running. Just as he had in London.
If his neighbors to inquire what would they find, he wondered?
Lewis knew that only someone without children would judge him. He was neither a
bad man, nor a guilty one.
He passed through the trees, seeing faces in their trunks crying for mercy, and passed
into the alleyway beside his building. The only light came from the street-lamp at the
end of the road. It was partially obscured by the branches of an old sycamore, casting
frenetic shadows over him and his crime.

The father cried with his daughter as he lowered her into the mouth of the trash can.
*
He sat on the kitchen floor. He estimated that the sun wouldn't come up for another
two hours. The storm had blown itself out and sucked away all the noise. Left behind
was a stillborn silence that set his teeth on edge.
He held his hands up to his face, studying the structure of his bones and veins. There
was an architecture to the human body that he'd never appreciated because he'd never
sought it out. Though he may get old and weathered, the structure of his being held
strong. Not even death could destroy that. There were skeletons defying time in their
coffins in shallow graves all over the planet.
This was one of many distractions he could employ and exploit in his new-found quiet
place. He decided to have a shower. He could do that freely now without worrying
about how long he pampered himself, afraid that Lily would cry for him again. There
would be no more guilt. He walked down the hallway and pushed open the bathroom
door, reaching into the darkness for the light switch. He found it and flicked it on.
The room burned bright. He saw the bathtub. The drawn-back shower curtain. The
woman with the slit wrists staring back at him, lying chin-deep in a pool of blood.
Her face was framed by lifeless hair and she had pale blue eyes, just like Lily's. Only
fiercer. The woman pulled herself upright and her skin tore away where her back had
been resting against the lip of the tub, revealing insect-infested flesh. As she began to
speak, a rosary slipped out from between her lips and snaked into the scarlet water.

Lewis, the woman said. When she spoke the sound of moving phlegm rattled in her
lungs. She bore a distinct South-London accent. You wanted it, you got it.
He wanted to turn and run from the room but he stood rooted to the spot. He could
feel himself shaking in his clothes. Huge wells of emotion threatened to burst free, but
didn't.
Gashes crisscrossed up and down the woman's arms. Blood dripped from the wounds
like honey and the tip of a razor protruded from one cut near the crux of her elbow. A
flicker of sadness crossed her face and she grew still, as though she were taking a
moment to reflect on where she was and what had brought her to this place. The
expression died and whatever life had been in her also died.
Lewis watched her jaw go slack then unhinge with a sickening thonk. The sound of it
made his heart jump. He screamed. His legs collapsed underneath his weight and he
fell to the floor.
The woman raised her head to expose her bulging throat. Her jawbone slanted off to
the side like the broken wing of a bird and her mouth opened wide.
Something's trying to get out, he realized. But by the time he understood what was
happening, it was too late, and he had seen what was pushing up her throat to peer out
at him. He saw an old grinning face covered in shit.
His mother.
She wormed and twisted under the woman's skin, trapped and shaking. Ancient
fingers curled out from inside the woman's mouth, prying the lips so far apart that it
looked as though she had a smile that stretched off to either side of her head. His

mother's eyes rolled back in their sockets to reveal the whites. She gasped for air and
mewled like a newborn.
The cry ripped through Lewis. He crawled out of the bathroom and slammed the door
shut behind him. He lay breathless in the hallway.
*
Lewis didn't know what to do or where to go, so he shuffled back into bed and drew
the sheet up close to his chin. The sun was yet to come up and despite the dark, he
knew he wasn't alone. He didn't need to see it to know it was there. It was close, he
could feel it. After a few sluggish minutes, he could hear it too.
The tap of plastic feet. The jingle of its baby rattle like the sound of pebbles in a jar.
Lewis' heart seized up and skipped a beat.
Moonlight fought through the clouds and the room faded from black to blue. He could
see the paintings on the walls, the remaining Time magazines on the dresser. But not
it.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He swallowed hard, the noise of his clicking throat startling him. He prayed for the
clouds to return. Were his prayers to be answered, his bedroom would be swallowed
up by the darkness so at least he wouldn't have to see it. Hearing it was one thing, but
locking eyes with it was another.
Lewis had shown compassion and mercy throughout his entire life. It seemed unfair
that it would be denied to him now.

Chi-chi-chi-chi-chhhh, went the rattle.

There was a tug on his sheet; it tightened over his toes. He craned his neck forward,
his chin doubling. Beyond the mound of his chest he could see the foot of the bed.
Everything else seemed to disappear. Lewis had read once that the human focal point
was the size of a thumbprint, and lying there, watching and waiting for its arrival, he
knew that to be true.
The small hand reached up onto the mattress. Plastic fingers fumbled and latched at
the sheet, folds unraveling as its weight bore down. It started to pull itself up onto the
bed. He wanted to close his eyes but couldn't.
And then he saw it.
The crown of its bald head. Its heavy eyelashes. One cobalt peeper stared out at him
from its bent-in face. The rosy cheeks, now soiled and scratched. Its mouth was
caught in an eternal pucker. Feed me, feed me, those lips said to him. I'm hungry...
But those words were only in his head. His visitor may have stared and stalked, but it
did not speak. He was too terrified to realize how grateful he was.
A moment passed by and that last saving grace was gone.
The baby's first word was long and drawn out, as if the non- existent batteries in its
belly were running dry like a record playing at half its speed. Those puckered lips did
not move. The word carried no echo. It was intended just for him.
Daaaa-dyy.
*

Hayley Bernard - Jax

Jax
Hayley Bernard

Desert Research Institute

Nevada Test Site, Saturn Facility
1994

The Saturn complex is hidden deep in the valley of the Mohave Desert, located at the
south base of Lookout Peak in the Mine Mountain range. The ground surface is
mostly sand and gravel. A sidewinder slithers across the hot ground, unimpeded by
the high fence surrounding the compound.
A small group of scientists, clad in bright yellow suits, walk out of the Disassembly
Building carefully transporting radioactive material from one building to another.
They enter the Test Area, an oppressively dark structure compared to the outside, and
flick on their flashlights. The Test facility is the largest building in the compound.
It is a one-story, metal gray structure with a flat roof. Inside, five-feet thick concrete
walls provide radiation shielding. On either side of the hallway. hot cells and tracks
are often used to transport radioactive material.

The scientists walk in a line down the hallway, their posture erect, each stepping in
sync with the other. They are carefully holding a jar containing the mixture their boss
had requested.
They pass through the Kilo-Curie Hot Cell Area; Warm and Cold Storage; the
personnel area with toilets and showers; the Radiation Safety Room; a dark room and
several offices. All these rooms, especially the Radiation Safety Room, are rarely
used.
The scientists walk downstairs to the experimentation room, or the Critical Test
Facility, where their boss awaits.
Finally! Lance yelled, leaping from his stool at the sight of the three men entering
the laboratory. His whitish-blonde hair was sticking up in all directions while his pale
blue eyes sparkled with excitement. What took you so long?
Thomas stepped forward, holding up the jar containing the glowing green mixture.
The gesture was his answer.
Extraordinary, Lance said, his accent faint but still detectable. He grew up in
Iceland, mostly in foster care homes. He was switched from one home to another
because people didnt feel comfortable in his presence, even when he was a child.
As though entranced, he slowly twisted his hand to unscrew the top of the jar
containing the radioactive material.
I-I dont know if thats a good idea, sir, Thomas said, his face beginning to sweat.
Lances piercing blue eyes turned cold. It isnt?

Thomas bit down on his lip and decided silence was prudent. He'd seen what
happened to others who pissed off his boss.
Luckily, Lance was in good spirits today. His face broke out into a wide grin just
before a high-pitched giggle erupted from his throat. His attention was now back on
the odd, green mixture that contained trace amounts of uranium, hydrogen, and other
elements he felt might create the nuclear reaction necessary for sustained flight. He
turned his back on his crew to retrieve his notebook from the table behind him.
Alright, Tom, fill the pack then join me and Sam in the viewing room. Jack, you stay
behind.
Jack felt his heart sink, but he nodded. It was only a matter of time before he was
made the guinea pig.
Lance and Sam climbed the short set of stairs to the viewing room which was
protected by four-foot thick radiation shielding glass. Equipment controls for remote
handling were mounted around the perimeter of each window. Lance enjoyed
watching his team perform the experiments with their own hands. When they began
the Saturn Project, the Department of Defense had given Lance twenty scientists to
work for him.
Only three remained.
Lance hummed merrily as the door slid quietly shut behind him. He sighed and sat
down in the chair, staring through the viewing window with an expression of rapture
on his face. This time, Sam. This time. Man will fly.

Sam was the only scientist that Lance had hand picked himself and considered him his
right-hand man. In a way, he was just as insane as his boss was. He knew what they
were doing was wrong, but he thrived on chaos. They would be in some serious shit if
the government found out what they were really doing with the materials that were
supplied to them.
They were supposed to be building rockets, instead they were making these nuclear
powered jet-packs. Lance had quite an unhealthy obsession with the Disney movie
The Rocketeer and he had been trying to construct a functional rocket-pack ever since,
without much luck.
Although Sam didnt quite understand his bosss fascination with jet-packs, he did
understand obsession and passion. Hed been in love with the head scientist for quite
some time.
This time, boss, Sam whispered, gently laying his hand on Lances shoulder.
The Critical Test Facility was separated into six sections, each with a viewing
window. Lance loved the way the building was constructed. When he'd had more
scientists at his disposal, he could stand remotely and supervise all six experiments
being conducted simultaneously.
Thomas slowly ascended the metal stairs after strapping the jet-pack onto his friends
shoulders. Despite the circumstances, Jack was rather calm. In the morning, he had
woken with the distinct feeling that today was the day he was going to die. He had
taken 3 Xanax and couldnt really feel much of anything.
God be with you Jack, Thomas whispered, holding back tears.

Dont you get all girly on me, Jack returned with a smile, adjusting the shoulder
straps of the device. See you around.
Thomas joined Lance and Sam in the viewing room. He stood with his back to the
door, taking deep breaths to compose himself. Tears stung his eyes and he turned
away from the sight of his best friend below, standing with a death trap strapped to his
back.
He met Sams direct gaze.
Sam pursed his lips and winked.
Lance was busy flipping switches to adjust the lighting in the test room that Jack now
stood in: Hot Box 3. The room was painted stark white and sat entirely empty, with
the exception of a dusty mannequin slouched in the corner.
There was a loud burst of feedback, followed by Lances voice echoing throughout
the small chamber.
How ya doin, Jackie?
In the test room, Jack squinted and raised his hand to shield the bright white light
emitted from a powerful halogen bulb directly above him. He could barely make out
his boss and the two men watching him, safe and snug in the observation room.
He turned from the brightness. His eyes fell on the mannequin behind him.
This should be you strapped to this thing, he whispered to the dummy.
Alright, give her a try when youre ready, Lance ordered into the microphone.

Jack closed his eyes and flipped the switch. Bright green flames shot out the bottom
of the jet-pack and Jack was lifted from the floor. He hovered a few feet off the
ground for a moment. His flame-retardant boots caught fire.
Come on, baby, come on, Lance urged, sweat dripping down his face.
The roar of the jet-pack was deafening. Jack used the hand controls to steer himself
into a horizontal position, as his boss had instructed him to do. Liquid metal was
dripping onto his neck. The top of the pack was melting.
Thats it, Jackie boy! Lance commended ecstatically. Youre-
Blood splashed.
Holy Hell! Lance yelled, leaping to his feet.
It was another failure. He'd been so certain it would've worked this time. The intense
heat within the jetpack had forged a hole through the top of the model. As soon as the
fire blasted out of the wrong end, Jacks head was gone.
Fuck! Lance was screaming. Fuck Sam! Fuck!
Sam was smiling, staring at the headless corpse through the viewing window. Less
uranium next time, I suppose?
Oh, you think? Goddamn it! Lance yelled, pounding his fists on the control board in
front of him. He tried to compose himself. I only have one try left. We have to get
this thing perfected before
Boss, boss! Look! Sam gasped.

Lance followed Sams shaking finger to the observation window. With a gasp, he
leaned forward. What the fuck is that?
Jacks body was lying slightly raised from the floor, resting on the rocket-pack
strapped to his back. His head was gone, though most of the blood and flesh had
vaporized in the heat blast. The body without a head wasn't what held the attention of
the mad scientist, however. It was the steady stream of white particles exiting the
body cavity from the neck.
Lance was unable to tear his eyes from the display. Blindly, his right hand sought
Thomass arm and he pulled him closer to him. Go, he told him, insane eyes huge.
Go in there and find out what that is.
Thomas turned away from his boss and removed a radiation suit from the wall.
Inside the room, the white mist bumped lightly into the wall, recoiled and continued
to float. It swooped downwards to touch the floor then moved on to do the same to the
hand of the dead man. It moved away and swept towards the corner where the
mannequin sat.
Clothed in the radiation suit, Thomas carefully descended the steps. His eyes swept
the room, but he no longer saw any sign of the mysterious mist that had exited the
neck of the headless corpse.
Over there! Lances voice boomed from the speakers. Over there, you moron! In
the corner!
Thomas knelt down, breathing heavily and took Jacks pale cold hand in his gloved
one.

You were always a good man, Jack. Ill miss you. Then again, I suppose Ill be with
you soon though, wont I?
There was an audible gasp from the loudspeaker and Thomas peered at the
observation room. Both Lance and Sam, two scientists that needed to be locked up
inside an insane asylum for the rest of their pathetic lives, were on their feet and
staring. Thomas had never seen them look so petrified. At first, he thought they were
looking at him. Then he heard the footsteps behind him.
The mannequin stopped in its tracks when Thomas looked up at him. The thing slowly
raised his plastic arms in front of him.
Hello, the mannequin said.
Thomas let out a blood-curdling scream.
The mannequins smile faded. Please, dont do that, it said. I will not hurt you.
Thomas scrambled away, slamming his back into a wall directly below the viewing
window. Get the fuck away from me!
The mannequin gazed at him with a compassionate expression. It sat on the ground,
mimicking Thomas posture and drawing its knees up to its chest. Nonchalantly, it
glanced over at the headless corpse in the center of the room.
Is he alright? the mannequin asked, redirecting its attention to Thomas.
Thomas shook his head vigorously.

Pity, the mannequin stated. Slowly, it glanced at the window to return Lances direct
stare. You made me, didnt you?
Lance just gasped through the microphone.
Thank you.
Lance fell back into his chair.
W-What am I? the dummy asked. Please, what am I?
Thomas's mouth worked as he wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. Y-You
were made from Jacksfrom Jacks
Jax. Jax, the mannequin repeated, a pleased smile spreading across the plastic face.
Jaaaaaaaaax
*
As the weeks passed by, Jax adapted to his new environment surprisingly well for a
plastic mannequin suddenly brought into consciousness. He liked the humans,
especially Lance, the head scientist who had given him life.
In the beginning, all the scientists were afraid of him. But now, they treated him as a
member of the team.
Since the awakening, Lance had asked the mannequin tons of questions concerning
his former life. He asked him a lot about a man named Jack Telson, who
apparently had once been a scientist.

Lance showed him Jack Telsons belongings; family pictures and memorabilia from
the late humans desk. Jax couldnt recall any of it. Lance finally decided that Jax
was, indeed, not Jack Telson, but something created from a residual energy that exited
Jacks body at the moment of his death.
Right now, Lance was in a sulky mood. Jax wanted nothing more than to go over to
his maker and attempt to cheer him up, but the head scientist had instructed him to
remain in the corner without movement.
Jax frowned, watching the way the four humans were treating the head scientist.
He didnt like it.
Well, if I knew the Department of Defense was paying a visit to my facility today, I
wouldve cleaned up some more, Lance said with a nervous giggle.
A muscular man by the name of Wayne, who stared at Lance as if he was a cockroach
dining on shit, finally stepped forward. It has cost the taxpayers over two hundred
million dollars to reconstruct this facility last year. We have given you twenty of our
best scientists to work with
Sweat streamed down Lances face as he glanced at Wayne. An attractive red-haired
woman stood directly behind him. She refused to make eye contact with him, even
when he waved at her. She was dressed as an officer. Every inch of her exuded
professionalism.
Listen here, you maggot, Wayne growled, seizing the mad scientist by the collar.
You were hired to develop nuclear thermal rockets for the Department of Defense. I
had hoped, with all the money and time spent on this project, that there wouldve been

some results by now. So far, I've seen nothing! I need to know what you've done with
the assets we supplied you with, and where the hell the rest of my scientists are?
Tom is still here, Lance assured him, gently prying off the brutes fingers from his
collar one by one. And my own Sam, of course. Tomsuhpreoccupied at the
moment. But Sam and I would love to show you something. Its something that will
change the way you look at science forever. I guarantee youll be impressed.
Wed better be, Wayne replied, glancing scrupulously over his shoulder at his
fellow officers; Madeline, Bert and Brett.
When the military man turned back toward Lance, he froze at the look of madness in
the man's eyes.
The crazy scientist had a silver spray bottle raised to his face.
With a squeal, Lance sprayed and Waynes world went dark.
Jax had watched the whole scene from the corner of the room, yet remained silent.
When the four agents dropped to the floor, the mannequin supposed it served them
right for talking to his master that way. He watched as Lance and Sam dragged each
agent into the Critical Test Facility and placed each human into their very own
compartment.
Wayne was in Test Room One, Madeline in Two, Bert in Three and Brett in Four.
They were each strapped to a rocket pack filled to the brim with that glowing green
mixture Lance always carried around with him.
Jax wanted to help his master, but he remained still and quiet as instructed to do.

Back inside the control room, Lance began flipping switches while giggling madly.
Jax had the best view of Hot Box 2 where the red-haired human currently lay
unconscious, with a beautiful plastic girl behind her. Jax gasped in amazement as a
brilliant white flash of light filled the room where the human girl lay. When the flash
died down, the girls head was missing.
Behind her, the plastic girls limbs started to twitch. There was a deafening explosion
from Hot Box 3 and Jax reluctantly turned away from the beauty and saw the blast
from Berts pack had not only blown his head off, but blown a large hole in the wall
separating Box 3 from Box 4. Lance screamed as Berts floating white particles swept
through the hole in the wall and blended with those spewing up from Bretts headless
corpse.
At the end of the day, all the mannequins were stored together in a dimly-lit room.
They never slept. Jax especially enjoyed Madelines company, but he also got along
well with Wayne. The three tended to avoid the other dummies, Bert and Brett. Jax
wasnt exactly one to insult anyone, especially one of his own kind, but they were
really dumb. When they talked, they only repeated words they heard humans say, or
strung together sentences that made little sense. And they were always smiling.
The humans had tested the new Plastics on their memories, but none remembered
anything about the specific human that had given them life.
Jax had overheard Lance say that each mannequin seemed to possess the temperament
of the human whose substance they had received, but nothing beyond that. Jax
supposed that was true. Hed briefly seen the way in which Human Wayne had
conducted himself. Plastic Wayne wasnt much different.

Lance is a maggot, Plastic Wayne hissed to the others. This whole place is a
prison. I dont care what the rest of you do, but I intend to get out of here.
Why? Jax asked, crossing his legs Indian-style on the floor. This place is great.
Lance is great. He takes wonderful care of us.
Madeline raised her eyebrow at him. The human called Sam had given her a red wig
to wear and Jax thought she was the prettiest thing hed ever seen. I dont know. I
think Wayne is right, Jax. Im sorry.
Jax tried not to show his hurt. Well, Lance brought us to life. If it wasnt for him, I
wouldve been asleep forever. So wouldve you. You should be more grateful.
Madeline lowered her head.
Wayne leaned forward and raised his plastic finger to Jaxs face. Dont you tell her
how to feel. You might enjoy this, but I dont. Id rather be asleep then trapped.
Were not trapped, Jax insisted. The humans would let us go if we'd just asked.
I did ask, Madeline said; her voice barely a whisper.
Really? Jax asked, his eyes bright with excitement. What did they say?
There was a loud clattering sound from across the room and the three Plastics sitting
on the floor glanced up. Bert and Brett had walked into each other again. They were
now muttering on the floor and trying to get their limbs untangled.

Wayne rolled his eyes and redirected his attention to Madeline, whose eyes were
averted. They turned you down, didnt they? They told you that you couldnt leave,
didnt they?
Madelines head dropped further and she took particular care not to look at Jax.
Lance... s-said h-h-hed never let me leave. Then, he touched me andI dont know!
I dont know what he was doing, but I didnt like it. He undressed me and
Jax saw the distress in Madelines eyes and quickly placed his hand on her shoulder.
Madeline, they undress us all the time, he didnt mean anything by it.
He didnt admit it to any of the other Plastics, but he did feel a twinge of something
whenever a human undressed him at night. He didnt know where that feeling came
from. The act of dressing and undressing seemed so natural, yet so completely
unnatural at the same time. He supposed they would get used to it.
We have to get out of here, Wayne growled, his features darkening. Dont worry,
Madeline, Ill
Never leave! Never leave! Bert exclaimed, clattering over to them with a broad grin
on his face.
Get the fuck away from me! Wayne yelled, rising to his feet.
Brett came limping forward, his eyes unfocused. Turnips go the way turnips go!

One morning, Madeline was staring out the factory window into the desert beyond.
The sunlight shone on her bright red hair and flawless plastic skin. Jax couldnt
keep his eyes off her.
What do you think is out there? she asked without turning around.
Jax rose to his feet and slowly walked over to her. He was used to this question, for
she asked him the same thing multiple times a day. I dont know, was his usual
answer, but he wished he could give her more than that. He spent all the time he could
by her side. They often took long walks, hand-in-hand, around the facility. As the days
turned into weeks, the two mannequins had grown closer together.
But as the days turned into weeks Jax noticed a despair growing inside Madeline. She
had become withdrawn and distant and more fearful of the humans taking care of
them. Especially Lance. No matter how much Jax tried to convince her that their
maker meant them no harm, she shied away from him and even tried to hide from
him.
Whats out there? she repeated in a whisper, pressing her forehead against the
windowpane.
I dont know, was on Jaxs lips, but he couldnt bring himself to say it.
Instead he asked: Do you want to find out?
Jax and Madeline walked purposefully down the hallway. Jax was anxious. He didnt
fear Lances answer. He knew that his maker would let them go if asked. But he
feared letting Lance down and of losing a friend.

Jax and Madeline walked to the observation room where Lance sat with his back to
them. The master seemed lost in thought.
Sir? Jax began.
Yes? Lance said, dismissively.
Sam walked in from the other room, holding a steaming cup of hot chocolate for his
boss. Kids, Mr. Lance isnt feeling good today. Run along and come back later.
Jax glanced up. Sam was a very tall and strong looking human. Jax admired him, but
he liked Lance a lot better. Sir, Im sorry that youre not well, he said to Lance. I
only have a quick question.
Sam seized Jax by the shoulders, gripping tightly. Did you hear what I said,
dummy?
Theyre going to shut me down, arent they? Lance asked, staring blankly out the
window. I have failed.
Jax jumped as Madeline let out a piercing scream. He peered around Sam and saw the
monstrosity stumbling around Hot Box 2. The creature was shrieking and dripping
trails of blood. It rose to its feet and slammed itself into the wall again.
Kill me! Kiiiiiiilllll meeeeeee! the creature wailed.
Jax stumbled back a step, shaking his head in disbelief. It was Plastic Wayne and
Human Thomas. They were mixed up. Only one side of Human Thomass face
remained; his one eye wide open in desperation. Most of his body remained human,
except his arms and legs, which belonged to Plastic Wayne.

Lance sighed and turned to look at the mannequins behind him. What can I do for
you?
Jax was holding Madeline tightly and backing up towards the door. Were leaving
this place.
Lances lips curled into a grin. Calmly, he crossed one leg over the other. Oh, is that
so? he asked. He seemed amused, even though there were tears steadily running
down his cheeks. Sam, what do you think? Should we let our dollies go?
Sam loudly cracked the knuckles of his massive hands. I think we should play with
them.
Sublime suggestion Sam, Lance commended. Play with her first.
Gladly, Sam agreed. Beaming, he turned around to retrieve something from the
cupboard behind him.
Jax, come here, Lance said, smiling gently at his first creation.
Jax took a tentative step forward, holding tightly to Madelines hand.
Let her go, his master encouraged. I need to talk to you. Man to mannequin,
please.
Madeline was visibly shaking. She clung to Jaxs arm. Jax, please. Please dont leave
me-

They wont hurt us, Jax said automatically, though he wasnt really sure of anything
anymore. Slowly, he released her hand and walked over to his maker, who
immediately rose to his feet to embrace him.
Jax? Madeline whispered, sorrowfully. Behind her Sam raised the axe high.
Lance held Jax close to him and tenderly rubbed his back when the mannequin rested
his head on his shoulder. No no no, the head scientist whispered. You must turn
and watch, my son. You must learn
Jax watched. He watched Sam chop her into tiny pieces while she screamed. He
watched him gather up her remains and toss them into a garbage can. He watched
without really seeing anything. It was like all his thoughts stopped the moment his
master made him turn and saw the axe coming down on her head.
Jax sat silent in a corner because his master ordered him to.
Im going to lie down Sam, Lance said listlessly. He was sitting in his swivel chair
in front of the window, watching the creature he created beat itself to death. It
appeared the show was over. Take care of the mess, would you?
Sam finally stopped rubbing Lances shoulders and allowed his boss to stand. Cheer
up, sir, he said.
Lance shrugged and left the room without a response.
Jax blinked slowly. He felt like he was waking up for the second time. His master had
given him life, and he had shown him death. The mannequin put a shaking hand to his
head. He wanted nothing more than to return to the blissful state of nothingness from

whence he came. But there were things he needed to do here, first. With a burning
hatred in his eyes, Jax slowly raised his head and stared at Sam.
Sam leaned forward and gazed out at the window. The room was filled with blood.
The pathetic creature lay crumpled in a corner, its last breaths escaping in a thin
wheeze.
Im surprised youre still alive, Thomas, Sam said, speaking into the microphone.
Good show.
Chuckling to himself, he raised a coke can to his lips. The can went flying out of his
hand when he was struck hard from behind.
Sam awoke some time later, slumped in the middle of Hot Box 3 with a jet pack
strapped to his back.
Hi, Sam, a voice called out over the loudspeaker.
Groggily, Sam wiped the blood from his nose. He squinted at the window and saw a
vague shape standing there, watching him. Lance?
No, the mannequin replied. Im a creature that was never meant to be, and so are
you.
Sams heart started to race. His shaking hand escalated to his shoulder and he felt the
jet pack strapped to his back. No! Nooo! Lance, help me!
Jax laughed, just like his master did whenever he was excited about something. Look
behind you, his voice echoed across the chamber once his laughter abated. That is
what you will become.

Sam started to glance over his shoulder, but Jax flipped the switch using the remote.
There was a blast of heat and light, then all that remained in the test room was a
headless corpse and a very confused can of Coke.
Jax went to the cabinet to retrieve some tools. Slowly he walked into the dark room
adjacent; where his creator was resting.
Hello, son, Lance whispered, weakly, when the mannequins silhouette filled the
doorway. I heard all the commotion in the other room. There are no test subjects left
now, are there?
Jax advanced towards the sofa. The butcher knife he clutched in his plastic hand
shone in the light that spilled from the room behind him.
Only one.
Jax walked down the streets of NYC as a human. He didnt talk to many people. They
seemed to be able to tell somehow that he wasnt quite one of their own. He walked
towards Macys at 34 and Broadway and tipped his hat a little further to hide his face.
The wind was brutal.
For the fifth time since he left the alley he called home, he reached up his hand and
smoothed the loose skin on his cheek that was flapping in the breeze. It was getting
old and starting to look a little crusty and brownish at the corners.
Every night, he peeled off the human skin from his face and hands and carefully
placed it in Ziploc bags. He really needed new skin. Lance was his first, but that was
many years ago and there had been many since.

Jax stopped and gazed up at the still beauty in the large store window. She wasnt
Madeline, but her features were similar and she had her long red hair. He visited her
every day.
Whats out there? he whispered.
*

A.J. Madden - Stitches

Stitches
A.J. Madden
- Story of the Month -

Do you know what its like to be a doll?

No, I didnt think you did. No one knows what a doll really is until they become one.
Even then, they dont have much time to think about it. Dolls do not have a
particularly long life expectancy.
Its not difficult to understand why when you consider we dont have mouths. It is a
hell beyond description, but it also brings a sense of peace, a calmness that one can
only acquire in the face of imminent death.
I still remember the first day he brought me here. The memory is growing hazy but I
cling to it with a cats claws, trying not to forget. I remember a different person,
distinctly separate from what I am now.

Her name was Stephanie Goodwin and she was twenty-six. She enjoyed trashy
fantasy novels and cut-price ice cream. Her mother had arthritis and her little sister
was going to become a lawyer. Sometimes I feel we have been severed, cut down the
middle into two separate souls.
Then I remember that I was that girl, and it all happened to me.
I had been temping as a receptionist; a stop-gap while waiting for something better to
come along. One Friday evening I had left the building late, inhaling a fresh gasp of
night air. My heels ticked and tocked against the blunt tarmac, unaware that a similar
noise was shadowing them.
Goodnight, maam.
Ill never know exactly who said that but I appreciate his words. They were the last
words spoken to me; a final farewell as I strolled into the darkness.
I was inches from the car. He was either laughing or crying. A bag was thrown over
my head. The legs were kicked from under me. I fought and screamed. Something
pushed into my thigh and a cool feeling webbed itself up towards my stomach.
When I awoke I was in this room and it is here I have been ever since. He was the
first thing I saw when I opened my eyes. He explained that I had been chosen to
become one of the dolls. His most recent doll was decomposing in the corner. He
stroked my hair and told me I was beautiful. I tried to spit in his face, but he injected
me again.
I still dont know who he is even now. I dont know his name and frequently forget
what he looks like. I see him mostly in shadows and whispers, hiding behind tinted

glasses and bared teeth. He has an oddly calming voice, as if in another life he might
have been an airline pilot.
I became a doll because he told me thats exactly what I was and had always been. He
spoke of my existence in magical terms, spinning metaphors about toymakers and
dolls that numbed my hysterical mind. He told me he could bring me to life. I just
needed to peel back the layers, pulling at the dead flesh until I found the real me
hidden down inside. He said it would happen in stages.
The first stage was the dress.
Dolls wear dresses. Everybody knows that. Frilly, frothy dresses with ribbons and
bows. He stripped me of all my old clothes I wonder what he did with them and
put me in an adult-size dolls outfit. Its pink and yellow with little bows running
down the sides. It smelt of cleanliness, but a cheerful, enforced cleanliness that
implied I wasnt the first to have worn it. He told me I looked adorable.
When he forced me into the dress, I became angry. I clung to that silly notion that I
could take my own life back. I kicked out at him. The buckled shoe he had placed on
my foot flew away and knocked him on the head. I felt the syringe again, injecting me
with liquid nightmares.
My face was the next to change. I know make-up is superficial, but its effects changed
me permanently. The cheap cosmetics could wash away but the damage had already
been done.

He came into the room one day, talking so excitedly that he seemed to be speaking
another language. He told me how every doll should have the perfect complexion like
flawless, ornate china. A mirror of perfection, were his exact words.
He spent days applying the make-up, styling me into a doll. His skeletal fingers
clutched the thin instruments awkwardly and Id often feel him slip and send a bruise
of lipstick across my chin. He poked my eye several times while applying the liner.
When it came to the rouge, he splashed it onto my cheeks with a typical masculine
energy, rubbing it into circles with a pointed fingertip. He showed me my reflection
and stroked my hair as I cried, spying his sinister stare and madman grin from behind
me.
Step three was the photos. There were so many, each flash like a shriek in the dark.
The room would light up suddenly, casting us as midnight silhouettes against artificial
flare. He developed every one of them then posted them around the room. He had to
remove the other photographs first, the ones of the dolls that had come before me. Id
spent a long time in stage three, where nothing happened and things begun to
approach a slower pace.
He brought my food and allowed me use of the bathroom twice a day. He spoke to me
in the lonely hours of the night. His temperament grew warmer, but the prick of the
syringe still shone in the corner, a silent warning to insure my silence.
Ill never know why he chose me to become a doll. It terrifies me to think that it was
just a lottery. There have been many before and there will be many after me. Their
photos used to line the walls in this mausoleum, each face staring back at me from the
other side.

Now my own face, blank and earthy, has replaced them. I dont know how he has
been doing the doll-making thing for so long without being caught. Perhaps hes
clever or perhaps everyone already knows. Who knows, there could be dollmakers on
every street in every town, providing some twisted service to their communities.
The stitching was the final step of becoming a doll. Dolls do not have mouths as they
do not need to speak. They have nothing of value to say and to hear them talk detracts
from their natural and intrinsic beauty.
Those were his words, not mine though sometimes I can no longer tell the
difference. It took me a few days to work out exactly how he would stop me from
talking. The first time I heard him mouth the word stitch I almost lost consciousness.
A childlike, screaming dread cascaded down my body, reaching out to the ends of
every finger.
As the weeks passed, I had become fraternized with fear. I had bonded with it and
accepted as a permanent bedfellow. The idea of having my mouth stitched together
was beyond even my sterilized concept of horror. It played constantly on my mind, a
grainy film that splashed against my eyes. Then he stitched my mouth tenfold in my
nightmares, all the while I screamed into the back of my teeth. Spurred on by the
adrenaline, I decided I would find the strength to escape.
Timing was very important. Too sudden and he would catch me. Leave too long and I
would die. His movements at bedtime were calculated and precisely analyzed in order
to anticipate the ideal moment for anyone to escape. I waited for seven nights.
I began by twisting my wrists free from the leather handcuffs that he forces me to
wear each night. They were flimsy and easily loosened, but I maintained the charade

until the right moment. I raised myself slowly from his table and shuffled my body to
one side. My lips curled in on each other. I attempted to put my feet quietly on the
floor and hoisted myself into a standing position. I crept toward the hallway, standing
still for minutes at a time, cast like a statue against the dusty gloom.
I reached the door, extending a shaking hand to open it. With infinite patience and
painstaking care, I turned the handle. It squeaked and my teeth clamped shut. I
continued opening the door a few inches, sweating dark thoughts that ran down my
clothes and into the carpet.
I slid through the slit I'd created for myself and felt the material of my dress scratch
against the handle, the small tear echoing like peeled masking tape through the house.
I was frozen in the hallway, and the atmosphere of normality I encountered was
sickening. A patterned red carpet ran along the hallway and up the stairs while dusty
photographs lined the walls. Shoes muddied the cheery welcome mat and a coat was
thrown over the crook of the banister.
This seemed to be like everyones house; replicated millions of times across the
country. Yet behind the closed door of the living room lay its beating heart of
darkness.
I reached the front entrance, casting a hopeful glance atop the staircase. I felt relief
pre-emptively, already experiencing the breathless joy of escape. I pulled at the front
door. It wouldnt budge. I searched for keys, but by that time it was too late.

I failed to notice a thread connecting the doorknob to a small device hiding like a
spider at the corner of the ceiling. It began to shriek and its red light flashed a oneeyed scream of terror that urged me to run.
I was halfway through the kitchen when he caught me. I cant remember what he did
to me, nor did I want to. Dolls dont escape. They dont get up and walk away. They
are beautifully still and stare at the world with inert eyes.
That may have happened days ago, or it may have been last night the drugs are too
strong but it was my last coherent memory. Now I sit and wait for the stitching. Hes
going to do it. Hes actually going to do it. My mouth will be stitched; needles will cut
through my lips and sew them together until I can no longer breathe.
Thats what killed the rest of them. He combs their hair and he dresses them. He tries
to silence them with the stitches and they suffocate. He doesnt care; hes insane. Like
a frustrated but spoiled child, he will just find another doll. There will be more after
me and I will be just another corpse in the corner.
Today is stitching day. He hasnt said so he rarely speaks to me now but I already
know it. This is suffocation by design; its not the blunt cruelty of an open hand or
even a cloth bag. It is asphyxiation by a single thread -- woven around my mouth in a
signature of death. Hes coming now. His footsteps thud in my ear.
Anesthetic first. Another needle. It sinks into my cheek like a long kiss goodbye.
Slowly, the feeling dies. It tingles for a while, then numbness. He gets the thread and,
on first attempts, manages to slide it through the eye of the needle.

It came toward me and slices my lip open. I dont feel anything, watching as blood
started to trickle down my chin. Its yanked through to the other side. I vomited. He
kept pulling the thread tightly so that the lips remained locked together. Then he went
again. And again. Eight dot punctured my lips -- each having a single piece of thread
running in and out of them. The lips are pulled together; my terrified eyes becoming
the only signal of emotion on my entire face.
He looks at me afterward. A smile breaks his lips.
You are the most beautiful doll Ive ever made.
I feel like vomiting again but theres just nowhere for it to go. Everything is contained
inside of me. Im trying to breathe through my nose, but Im already light headed and
feel like passing out. Being contained inside the house was bearable, but being
trapped inside my own body is pure Hell. I cant laugh or scream, cry or breathe. I
have been forever muted.
Such is the life of a doll. Pretty, brittle things which gather dust in the corner. Anyone
can become a doll. And anyone who thinks they never would is living in blissful
ignorance. We are all doomed to become dolls.
Eventually.