It could feel itself writhing in and out of existence. Blinking from the empty void, into the disheveled workshop, it could feel itself, gathering the fissures spread across the infinite realities, into a collection of spite and hatred. All of its energy was kept on staying together, staying constant. The memories of sorrow and bitterness fueled it, the betrayal and anger feeding fire into it's spiritual flame.
It burned with the brightness of a thousand stars, yet the agony of stitching itself together was excruciating. How could it survive in such a state of pain? Only the animosity gathered towards it's nemesis was keeping it going. Taking a moment to reflect would lead into losing focus, and it couldn't accept losing against its antithesis, it's true enemy. Pain was a means to an end.
Patchwork.
Seamed together.
It was incomplete, but it had to do. Whatever would get the deed done. It crawled, inch by inch. Painfully slow. It could feel the strings of the afterworld pulling at its essence, but it refused to die. A constant struggle between life and death. The ruined, dilapidated workshop slowly grew less and less blurry, as it became more tethered to the real world. Was this reality? Or was this an illusion cast by the Fates above?
The hotchpotch doll stood up for the first time, and looked around the room. A stitching smile formed below its empty, inky buttons it called eyes. A red patch in the shape of a broken heart formed at it's chest, tethered only with a single string. Twine hair fell on the top of it's head, resting like the head of a mop. While it realised its appearance resembled that of it's enemy, it found it necessary in order to make the connection.
So, so small. So much hatred, so much resentment, yet contained in such a small vessel. Densely packed, each thread radiating with contempt and revulsion. In its current form, it was so much less powerful than what it used to be. Yet, in other ways, it had never felt closer to revenge. A dish so bitter, yet so sweet.
It would be so easy to fall from the top of the ornate desk, and end it all there. But that was too quick, too easy. No, no, it wanted him to suffer for everything he did. Its revenge was more than the act of killing, it was a final retaliation. It was to take the moment that he had been waiting for, and to take all of it away. Leave his life unfinished, just like he left its own. In the end, it was all that he deserved.
At the edge of the table, it could see the prize. A small needle, roughly it's own height in length. It would serve as the instrument of retribution, of justice. Creeping sluggishly, it began to make its way over to the needle. In the corner of it's vision, it could see the corpse of its former self, limp and lifeless. It was disgusted by how pathetic it looked, so defeated and lost. It was of no matter, though, as it would win in the end. It didn't matter how undignified it appeared, for it would triumph in the end.
Finally, after an eternity of waiting, the prize was just within its grasp. It fumbled the needle into its grasp, excited to finally get its malignant retribution. Ready to make the incision unto itself, it braced for the impact. Yet, nothing came. It peered down, and found its grip weakening, its limbs shaking. In the final moment, it hesitated.
Why did it hesitate? It asked itself, pondering the answer. Could it be, even after everything, it still felt empathy? An ounce of regret filled touched it's heart. What existence could've been, if it were to choose kindness instead of cruelty. But, then it remembered. It remembered the hardships. The isolation. The loneliness. That was enough. Compassion clearly wasn't in his heart, why should it be in its own?
And just like that, ending its own existence, it stabbed directly into the heart.
--
The pain.
Unbearable.
He had never experienced something like this before. Where was it coming from? Was this a heart attack? He looked down, and saw red bleeding from his chest. As if he were shot. He collapsed onto the ground, his vision going black as he saw his loved ones rushing to him in shock.
The last of his moments were spent apologising. He would never get the chance to do it again, so he took the time to apologise to everyone he'd wronged. It was... gratifying in a sense. A release from the tethers of the real world. Strings pulling him away, into the unknown.
Lifeless.
Empty.
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