Perfect little doll

Scream

In the serene and picturesque garden, Maria reclined with her companions, her countenance aglow with the soft embrace of the sun's radiant beams. Her glossy, chestnut tresses gleamed in the warm, golden sunlight, lending an added allure to her captivating presence. Yet, concealed behind her vibrant smile, a shroud of darkness lingered, unbeknownst to those in her midst.

"Maria, when will you approach Alexander?" inquired Diana Freedman, a renowned author and a woman of striking beauty and reputed kindness. Draped in a flowing emerald gown, she gracefully drew near to Maria. "And who was the enigmatic woman accompanying you? She exuded a remarkable beauty. Is she your slave? If so, why is she wearing such a gown?"

Shaking her head, Maria replied, "She is destined to wed Lord Angus."

"LORD ANGUS IS TO WED A DARK SKINNED WOMAN!" Diana's exclamation resounded, carrying them to the neighboring houses. "Lower your voice, Diana," cautioned another woman, placing a consoling hand on Diana's shoulder. "How could he choose a servant over me?" Diana lamented, her world seemingly crumbling around her.

Inside the dimly lit dining room, Asa's attention was drawn to the window by the sound of shouting. Suddenly, a sharp blow to her back caused her to straighten up in her seat, and she turned to face Auntie Laire, who was smiling without a hint of happiness or remorse. "Keep your eyes on me, dear. Let's get back to work," Auntie Laire said sternly.

Asa rolled her eyes in exasperation, pushing her locs out of her face as she continued to diligently write the essay she had been assigned. Her classmate's impatience was evident as he remarked, "When are we getting this over with?"

"You need to learn English, Asa," he chided.

"But I already know English," she retorted, unfazed by his words. Another sharp whack on the back followed, but it hardly fazed Asa, who had endured much worse in the past.

Amidst the commotion, a sudden scream pierced the air, drawing the attention of everyone in the party. Participants all gathered around in horror. A girl was on her knees, clutching a sword in her hand, frantically insisting, "It wasn't me. It wasn't me!" blood dripped from the tip of the sword, flowing like a lazy river.

The scene was haunting: a woman lay sprawled on the floor, her once-gleaming hazel eyes now vacant, her lustrous hair splayed across the ground. The pristine white of her attire was now stained, transforming her from a vision of purity to something much more unsettling. Laying in a bath of her own blood.

The perfect little doll.

Is dead?