It was such a pretty doll: from the beautiful white face to the lovely dress. The baby blues staring ahead to the perfectly shaped mouth were enticing. The lovely bow in her beautiful golden locks. So pretty. She was perfect.
And she was his pretty doll. He’d made her himself. He found the perfect one: it had been such a struggle to find the right doll. He had to try and fail several times before he got it right. Because finding the perfect pretty doll body wasn’t enough: he had to make sure he didn’t break her before he was done.
That had taken several attempts. Then there was the proper dose of the drug. It was meant to maintain his doll body in a liminal state between life and death. She couldn’t be too alive and fight him but dead she would lose that perfect complexion and her eyes their pretty colour.
That too had required tests and failures. So he had to change cities and then states. But here she was his pretty doll. Perfectly still, perfectly pretty. For him to play with forever. But he knew she would need friends. She would feel lonely otherwise. He wanted a dollhouse filled with pretty dolls like her.
He caressed her face lovingly. She didn’t move. A perfect doll. His pretty doll. He had made her. He would make more.