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.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s