One in a Million: Schrödinger’s Doll

– Not suitable for children under 18 –

The numbness waned gradually, still clinging to my skin here and there, partially paralyzing me but inviting the cold air to greet me mercilessly. The sour taste in my mouth made me gag involuntarily, a nauseating sensation rising in my stomach as I tasted bile on the roof of my mouth. Had I thrown up? My eyelids were leaden, my muscles tensed in a way I did not entirely fathom just yet, seeing that the numbness still held its sway. I was coming to, but my senses lured me into a trap of delicious beliefs that I had just fallen asleep on the steps leading to my front door. The air wrapping me up sure seemed like that of a chilly night.

But it was not so. Terribly not so.

I tried to move but it appeared that my arms were in some way blocking any further movements. My head, spinning with dizziness strained to lift itself, and only as I did I felt the horrific shock settling inside of me. My arms were tied up; as a matter of fact my entire body weight was held by my sore wrists. I guessed they were sore, I could not feel them at the moment, and judging from my present state of being, I wouldn’t be able to do so either in the future. I couldn’t detect the quality of material though. It was sleek but whether it was rope or chain, I had no clue. All I knew was that I was hanging in my own wrists and the parched sensation in my mouth originated from an incredible thirst mixed with whatever stomach contents I had had to let go of earlier when I was still not conscious.

I was now, however, and I began speculating what had brought me into this very position when a bright light made my eyelids flutter. It burned and I shut them tighter, not really straining this seeing that they were already as good as closed. The light followed the click of a switch. It was not a small switch, judging from the thud against the plastic in which it was set. It was one of the larger switches, an industrial switch perhaps, which led me to another question of where the hell I was.

Over the stench of vomit, my nostrils detected a mouldy, wet smell, and my ears caught the sound of water dripping down on stone in one place, and another place into some sort of steel tray, sink or whatever it could be. The coldness could for all I know be due to an open space, but the lack of natural sounds suggested that I was stuck in a basement. My heart dropped to my knees when I heard the footsteps approach. How come I did not hear them before? Had there been someone in here, watching me as I had been unconscious and only now as I’d begun stirring, signaled his presence?

The answers to the questions held back from a moment of realization, and for a while all I felt were shivers down my spine with the thoughts of where I was, what had happened and what was going to happen to me.

She hung there, such a sweetness, a blessing from the world to the world itself. Her flaxen hair cupped her cheekbones and swayed but a little against her shoulders. The position in which I had suspended her showed off the muscles perfectly, running along the thin, bruised limbs with the skin grey from the cold. Only thin wisps of breath escaped her dry lips. I had cleaned her up as well as I could when the poison had begun its ascend into her veins.

She had been one of the easy ones. A proud woman walking home alone from a party; her self-image of strength and preparedness against any assault had not stood up to her expectations, and by the curb of her darkened home, I had waited, quietly, lurking in the shadows with the van parked down the road. The street lamp had caught the sparkling tip of the syringe as I had plucked it into her neck, silencing her with one hand over her mouth where the scream was caught in a gasp instead of audible sound. The heavy body had been easy to lay to rest in the shadows of the magnolia as I had gone to fetch the car and loaded her into the trunk and taken of.

My basement was the only security I had for fun in silent surroundings. The walls I had sound-proofed, the ceiling secured with rafters and the plumbing was finally working although the water was only cold. I needed no heat down here. This was a natural environment for me, and how I struggled not to laugh as I now approached her with a cloth in my hand to rinse the last traces of bile from her chin and chest. She was spindle this one, like a spider, and as I lifted her face I realized why I had stalked her now for so long. I saw the potential that had dawned upon me the first time I had seen her in the cafeteria, serving coffee and taking orders. A well-mannered girl. She’d soon learn her place. Illuminated by the light bulb swinging in its lonesome cord, I marveled at the princess from my dreams of late.

“Good morning, lady Patricia,” I said, rubbing the cloth against her dry lips to give them just the slightest hint of moisture while removing the yellow trails spattered on her pretty skin. “Slept well, I suppose?”

The cold was indescribable as he touched my face. It went right through me, a prickling sensation to my numb skin, but I sure felt it. Cold like the hands of a man who sits by a desk all day and comes home to watch tv all night. A dead cold, an icy cold. The cloth was harsh against my skin but I welcomed it gratefully although I had no intentions of giving this man whatever he wanted of me. Unfortunately I had the feeling that I would end up having to agree with his demands no matter how much I wouldn’t. I was in no position to bargain, he probably had me where he wanted, and there was nothing I could do about it. A tear trickled down my cheek as I shuddered and tried to shy away from his touch, but his firm grasp was demanding like that of a king forcing his mistress to obey his every need.

“I-I’m cold,” I stammered and tried to pry open my eyes. The world was a haze and I felt dizzy just looking at him. The light burned my eyes and threatened to make me vomit again. But I could see his shape in front of me, tall and dark. I imagined he was handsome, I couldn’t tell, but as long as I imagined it, I felt just a tiny hint better than previously. And then there was the voice. There was some familiarity to it that I could not place. Was he a friend? An acquaintance? A family member?

“Yes, unfortunately I don’t do well in hot environments,” I replied sadly and drew away the tear on her face, wondering where it came from. “But you’ll get used to it in no time, darling. Trust me.” I smiled reassuringly at her and watched her eyes swim, bloodshot from the intoxicating drugs and the poison which was still searing through her. For just a moment I pondered letting her off. She couldn’t possibly identify me, not when she’d lost her sight already. But I dropped the thought. She had come this far, then the transition would progress as planned.

I tossed a strand of her hair away from her face, enjoying how the light played on her skin. She was cold, goose bumps spread on her quickly. Or maybe it was his touch? How could she not enjoy it, now that she had longed for it, now that he had prepared it all for her ascension to become what he called himself a goddess of power?

“You, my love, are beautiful beyond comprehension,” he whispered in her ear, noticing how his breath almost became a mist on her icy cheek.

“P-p-please, let me go,” I stammered and tried to pull away from his touch. His breath was warm though and it gave me a momentarily soothing feeling to feel something just slightly warmer than the air surrounding me. However as quickly as my skin had heated, just as quickly did it cool down and I shivered once again, trying desperately to find myself and my strength. But there was none. My mind would not make a bargain for me this time, and my eyes hurt more and more as did my very bones. But the touches from his fingers became a reviving sensation in me, like they removed the pain from my body. It was an excruciatingly horrific feeling building up, but I slowly realized that the more I wanted to feel and the less pain I wanted to be in, the more I had to stay within his reach. It was like another mind pressed on mine, beckoning me to do this, to follow the instinct of survival. I would die if I did not comply.

“There, there, Patricia, you don’t know what you’d be missing if I let you off the hook,” I said and slipped my hand down her cheek and to her clavicle, running along the pumping veins; my nails scraped against the skin and the red lines adorned her like ritualistic body paint of the ancient tribes of Mesopotamia. A sign to the gods that the sacrifice was ready to be received by them. “We could have so much fun together. You and I. Like we’ve had in the past.” I let my gaze wander her body, following the curves, the lines, the structure; her very figure intrigued me. Spindle, yet strong, a delight just to look upon her. My hand slid down to her breast, small and firm, just out of the maturing process. I tickled the skin evilly, pinching the nipples just enough to almost feel the pulse in them as blood came rushing forth. The cold had already made them hard but a slight warmth surged through them also. It would not be long, oh no, it surely wouldn’t.

I tried to speak through the shivers of his touches but only a deceitful gasp escaped my lips. It was as if my heart strained to beat faster and I regained some warmth, a delicious warmth that I wished would never stop. It eased the pain and helped my mind regain itself in the blink of an eye. But then the nausea took over again and I had to swallow hard not to vomit once more.

“W-who are you?” I muttered, giving up on the thought of escape. It had already dawned upon me that I wore no clothes, the air enveloped me treacherously, threatening to strangle the blood supply to my limbs, especially my arms and hands on which I had already given up.

“Oh, Patricia, now you embarrass yourself.” I shook my head despondently as I glided my hands over her body with slow graceful movements. “I sure thought you’d remember me. All the time I’ve come into your cafeteria these past weeks, ordering the same thing, smiling back at you as you hand me the cup and the cake.” I leant closer to her face, smelling the cold sweat from her body, like a salty, cold ocean. “And all the while I sat there watching you I just imagined whether the coffee could taste just as good as you, and whether your flesh would have the same soft texture as the muffin.” My fingers circled her buttocks, their silky, firm feel sent thrills through me that even Heaven would be jealous not to invoke in its followers. “And you always smiled back. You always did. You learned to catch my eye, and you saw that gleam, you always did. You always did. You knew my plans. It was a mutual understanding. You said you were ready to go to Heaven and that I should lead you, you always said. Always.”

His voice was rapid as he spoke, perhaps in some sort of fantasy, exploring all the imaginary scenarios of his world wherein I had seemingly been for a while now. My heart sure beat fast now, both from the undeniable but horrible arousal as well as the fear. The fear of what would come next. I had prayed – although I had tried to resign to the option I had learned at conflict management when dealing with an assault or a robbery, to let the criminal have his way without question – that he would not put me through this. The thought had never occurred to me that I would lose my virginity to a psychopathic stranger, but as I hung there, his hands all over me, I knew resistance would be futile. Tears streamed down my cheeks and my parched throat conjured sounds resembling sobs but not quite like them.

“Please, sir, I won’t tell anyone, I swear. I promise,” I begged quietly, hoping my frail voice was audible to him as well as to me. It sounded distorted though, like it was not my own and I swallowed hard again. “Just please let me go.” I raised my head and battled the weight of my eyelids to look at him as directly as I could. My arms shook somewhere above in their bounds, and a dull sound reached me. I was chained up.

But just as futile as it was to resist, just as futile it was to beg. He did not hear me, or he would not hear me, and the fingers’ play caught me off guard, invading my privacy violently. My muscles weren’t  working and I somehow fell into a soft, dreamy haze as a little pinprick against my skin signaled a needle being pressed in. The blackness engulfing my mind was such a sweet relief that I probably released yet another tear before my head dropped heavily against my arm and my eyes closed once again.

As I came to he was upon me and had probably been for a while. The slippery, wet feeling between my legs gave me a good clue to what was happening, and the force with which he thrust into me was like being beaten with a club. My entire body shook and wavered. There was no pain, but neither no pleasure, and as I tried to reach out and sense myself, connect with my limbs, I realized I felt nothing. I had no limbs, or I had, I just couldn’t feel them anymore. I was no longer suspended but lay on a table, no bounds kept me down, but seemingly I lay there of my own free will. It was a bed of sorts, soft and deceitfully comfortable.

I felt like I was trapped in a body which wasn’t mine, and it was being invaded and used for a purpose I neither enjoyed nor felt disgusted by. I looked down myself and saw my body. A transformation had come over it and I wanted to scream but all I could hear were childish moans escaping my throat, delicious wet moans to him, probably, but odd sounds that rang shrilly in my ears, to me. What had happened? What was going on?

His hands steadied my hips as he sped up, his face came down upon me and I closed my eyes as I received his kiss, but it was like there was no kiss to receive at all. The touch was there, certainly, but in a way, it was not done onto me. It was done onto whatever I had become. Whatever I had been transformed into. My fear and my sanity began shaking. I felt like I was covered in plastic, a living doll. As he drew away again I could look at my clothes and I saw the neat ribbons on the little girl’s baby blue dress. I felt like hammering on the inside of the skull, begging to be set free, to be let out, but the words I heard were not quite like that.

“Yes, please! More, I beg you, use me more!”

The thrusts accelerated as did my screaming. I was wild with panic and positively fuming with anger for what fate had had in store for me. I felt everything on my body and yet there was a dimension between me and him, a material, physical aspect which I did no longer belong to. I felt the warm semen spill between my thighs as he came and watched as he climbed off me. Only now did I see the mirror above and see my reflection. What had once been a teenager fighting to get into maturity, had now become an underdeveloped girl with golden hair in pigtails, a porcelain complexion and eyes like a doll.

I felt dead and alive at the same time, and there was no way I could undo it.

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One in a Million: Puppeteer

– NSFW –

au: originally a short story for the appendix of Darklighter Chronicles

A drop of blood spilled into the tin bowl where it evaporated in the sterilizing spirits covering the used surgery tools. The clatter of the scalpel into the bowl was loud in the silent, cold room where the windows showed the splendid view all around the mansion, except from the view west where the tables stood and instruments hung on walls or lay in cabinets. A tap was turned over the greasy sink and water splashed mercilessly against the weathered enamel; blending now did a sinister tune, a hum by a dark voice, which floated into the room.

A dull afternoon glow lay upon everything, even the sky was not entirely grey, coloured by the beginning sunset, but the orange flame was more like a blemish on the veil of clouds hanging overhead. Only a spot here and there showed the contours of them, allowing a brighter blue through to the bottom of their bellies, but besides that, everything was hazy, like a dream. The only light in the room to break the gloom was the surgical lamp above the operating table upon which the maimed body of a young girl, possibly around the age of ten or eleven, lay sedated. Her naked skin gleamed with an almost unnaturally white glow under the patches of clotted blood along the lines of sewn wounds near the joints of her limbs, jaw, still undeveloped breast-line and, most importantly, from the navel and down to an undefined place between her legs. This was the most recent wound, the others having clotted up earlier in the process while he was still finishing off the last touches.

As he straightened up, drying his hands in the blood-stained cloth by the sink, he repelled his own gaze in the mirror with ease, the ice of his eyes amazing him in the simplest manner of being so aesthetically inconceivable by human genetics. Despite the weary work a smile fluttered as usual across his lips and the hum continued, only broken by the few seconds passing as he mastered his own reflection’s will-power. He went to a cabinet and drew out a small bottle labeled “Belladonna” before he advanced the operating table. Few itches and ticks here and there could be seen in the young girl’s nerves, and the eyes, held open by a steel aggregate, rolled frantically. She was conscious, sure, but no sound could press pass those small and now full, rosy lips. His smile widened as he saw how she gazed at him. Her face was still expressionless from the sedative, but he could hear the clamor of thoughts beating against the inside of her skull where she was now trapped, forever silenced to his will. He hushed her down, stroking a pale, slender hand over her brow and hair, and unscrewed the cap of the bottle.

“There, there, darling,” he whispered softly, words that would have been gentle as a caress if not the scenery had invited to speculations about his intentions. “I had to fix up your precious virginity before I could mold you, just like I wanted you.” He ran a finger down her porcelain cheek before he moistened her eyes with a few drops from the bottle, widening her pupils to those of a doll. He exchanged it on a tray for a syringe filled with an orange liquid. As he pressed out a little to avoid air caught in the needle, it seemed thick, like resin. He planted it in the skin by her elbow, watching as the liquid took hold and made her flesh almost plastic. He did not lift his gaze as he carefully injected the last drops.

“One should never ask to play doctor with me,” he mused as he stowed away the syringe before glancing back up at her, the eyes twinkling with an unusually amused gleam. “I take that kind of offer way too seriously, don’t I?” With a chuckle he rose and clapped his hands. “Oh well, it has been mightily fun, hasn’t it?” He went to the cabinet and replaced the bottle of belladonna drops with a small jar full of a greenish ointment. He came back and began rubbing it into the wounds. The clotted blood fell off and he could pick out the suture. Indeed there were barely any scars left already! The last wound between her legs he took his time with, and small whimpers stuck in her throat revealed a slight reaction before he put away the jar and went to soak the cloth and wash away the last blood and healing ointment off the skin. He halted to smile down at her before he began unstrapping her from the operating table, removing the clamps holding her eyes open; she did not, however, blink when he released the eyelids from their capture. His fingers caressed the leather straps curiously, pondering aloud when to replace the old with new. He tugged on her small hands to guide her to sit straight on the table. The thin, golden-brown hair was corrected, her shoulders raised and chin tugged out.

“There,” he stood back and admired his work. “I must say, I should develop a new methodology for these processes.” He turned on his heel and walked to a cabinet where clothes lay perfectly folded. He found an old night-gown, white and with brocades of birds and flowers as well as two thin, woolen socks, and came back to dress her.

“It would be so much easier,” his voice floated absently into the room as his fingers travelled skillfully over her body, dressing her with the care of a father who had just bathed his favourite. Once in a while he glanced up at her face, smiling reassuringly now and then. “Don’t you think? Without all this needle-work and cutting and sewing and surgery.” The socks slipped onto her feet as if tailored. “And I wouldn’t have to clean it all. Just the syringes. And of course the virgin surgery would still have to be done,” he met her eyes fondly amused. “Otherwise there would be no need for all of this, would there? No, certainly not.”

He commanded her arms up as he pulled the gown down over her head and he lifted her off the table to make her stand. Her feet scrambled lightly against the floor boards, but she stood freely between him and the table. He chuckled again and drew a strand of his long, black hair away from his noble face as he circled her, correcting the gown, slipping a hand down her arm or stroking her hair. He ended up in front of her, beaming like a sculptor admiring his statue, when a loud knock on the door shook him out of his trance. He paused for a while in his track of thoughts before resigning to the fact that very few knew how to get to his surgery room.

“Yes?” he called and turned around as the door was opened and Nathaniel stepped in. The loyal bodyguard, a spitting image of his master, bowed.

“I apologize sincerely for the interruption, my lord,” he said, “but I believe the girl’s parents might be the mayor of Salisbury. I had Marcus look them up in the Darklighter Archives, just in case.”

“Tsk tsk, that’s why I thought she looked familiar,” Matthew smiled and put an arm around the girl’s shoulders as he slowly approached; she stumbled along wordlessly. “Her father was in a military court 10 years ago. I oversaw that he was set off with a warning although he had a throng of prisoners tortured and mangled without the knowledge of his superiors. I guess he can, what do you call it?, cut me a piece of his pie,” he looked down lovingly at the white-dressed girl beside him. “Now, Eleanor, you must be tired, right? Want to go to bed?” The girl looked up and nodded shortly as a firm reply. Matthew smiled and looked back at Nathaniel. “Go make her room ready,” he ordered and Nathaniel left.

It took a while for the girl to walk to her room, her feet unsure and heavy still from the sedative, but with his hand in hers they came to the small almost cabin-like apartment ready for her and he guided her into the soft covers of the bed where she snuggled in. He lay down beside her and she invited him freely, her will bereft of boundaries such as she had had previously, but he invaded her not, merely caressed her and tried out her voluminous lips around his member, until he, with a shiver running down his spine, released himself in her mouth and retreated to let her rest.

As he walked through the mansion he looked out through the tall windows seeing the shadows of twilight enveloping the world. How he hated twilight. This scam of darkness, like a remediation of what was truly at stake; death and despair in the blindness of space, where neither star nor moon nor sundown would reach the surface of the world.

He emerged into the living room of the first floor where the young ones sat in the couches, window sills and arm chairs, watching a ridiculously meaningless reality-show, laughing at the theatrical performances and betting who would sleep with each other. They all rose as he entered but he merely gestured for them to sit again and relax. Gabriel advanced him cautiously, his face pale and the eyes blank, intoxicated obviously, his movements dull and lifeless. Matthew smiled thinly at him and guided him along into the couch where they sat hurdled together in the corner, listening to the voices of the young ones, clamoring about who was a phony and who was not on the other side of the screen. He bent down and kissed Gabriel’s ear lightly, asking him to come along.

As they rose, like a master ordering his puppet to follow as well, no one looked away from the screen, no one changed the subject as the two tall figures walked past them and out into the darkness of the corridors and towards the master bedroom.

And in their embrace in the softness of the king-size bed, Matthew knew that the whispers of passion exchanged were not possible for the artificial beings upstairs, created in the blazing spotlight of the surgical lamp. No. His son had been conceived in the gentle moonlight, a night so many nights ago that nobody save few people could remember, if even they could. He whispered nothing but that precious name of his beloved son, and as they finished and fell asleep, he held him closer, sensing the warmth from the beautiful creature. Alive, like none of his dolls could be, sensible, like none of his dolls could be. And only, as the young angel with blank eyes full of tears but a smile upon his satin lips fell asleep, did the devil speak, quietly uttering his regrets to the darkness around him, but concealing it within his black, distant heart.