Short Stories to Stab a Heart

My Child

Dedicated to: Contest-Girl

Pretty, perfect portrayals of a picturesque portrait of pride is enough to capture from her profile. Quite the stereotypical Instagram, the bio conveys a ladder of gemstones of the pompous and ostentatious which depict her gorgeous athletic and artistic achievements or her saccharine religious devotion. The perfect little target, I would consider, with her arrogance, beauty, innocence, and egocentricity.  A mild thirteen, I may add, with glittering, soulless green eyes and radiant, weak chestnut hair. Of the refined class, a motif of Nike, Beats, Gucci, Starbucks, and Versace shines prevalently in her lifeless account.

Now, how to attract, how to possesses a doll's attention, I ponder until my fingers swiftly press the freezing keys. Then the words appeared, glistening in the tiny white slot: soccer4life29. Similar enough, I would consider, in regard to the flashing sportsnfam4ever23 that it possessed enough capabilities to satisfy the little doll. A password entered and an arrow to start, I immediately follow a few random in attempts to create an ordinary facade. Then, I, with a slow shiver, press the little button, so thinly outlined with a semi-navy blue and prepare. My first photo, being a photoshopped mixture of Tom Hiddleston, Josh Hutcherson, and Brendon Urie combined, hopefully satisfied her desires.

Wait, wait, tick-tock, tick-tock, the clock goes on, a minute, a hour, a day, a week, until she finally accepts me into her realm. Now, to overtake her kingdom, I decide. She follows back and comments a heart emoji on my first picture. To act more realistically, I post a shoutout picture for me and lie it is my first Instagram. Obviously attracted and a dimwit, she willingly offers a shoutout, captioned with the words,"Follow this Handsome Beast <3." My bait succeeded.

A day, a second, a third, a fourth, and I clicked the tiny DM box. She messaged first surprisingly, innocently stating, "Hey :)." I reply, emulating her casual style. She starts to ask me questions about my identity, like the rest of the marionette dolls, and I create her an angel. A soccer player of seventeen years who faced family troubles grabbed her attention quickly. Slowly, I brought her into my arms, gently pressing her temples with my problems, locking her in a dance of sympathy. I bounded her in and her chances of getting out looked slim.

Questions continued and so did the photoshop, a selfie every other day, a text post a week, until she became assured I was real. Knowing those glass blue eyes would forever be fined on me, I felt pleased to see my plan worked. All left was luring her in to take my kill. I waited for the question, the beautiful, brilliant, bold words to show on the screen.

Her ranting about her parents make her ranting about her friends, her ranting about school, her ranting about her weight, her ranting about her life, all continued pop on the tiny screen but not the question. Bored, I became, so so bored, I desired to drop her off a cliff, shattering her porcelain skin, until she screamed the words. Until finally, the day my recent victim finally dropped dead, she sent the words.

"Where do you live?"

Clever me knew all and told of an address two blocks away, where my partner lived.

"Down in Roxbury, dear."

"NOOOOO WAY!!!!! OMG YAYAYAYAY I LIVE THERE."

Her cheerful tone disgusted me. How could a human be so stupid? I bet I did not even need to beg for her to visit!

"Oh I yearn you so much, beautiful. Will you visit?"

"I don't know :/"

"Please, I need you. My parents have been fighting and I'm so lonely."

"Oh baby... Well,I'll give it a try.

"Alright, how about next week Saturday? :)"

"Sure!"

Her heart would be fluttering, oh those cliché little butterflies. I prepared to call my partner to prepare the coffin.

Waiting is horrid, the worst invention of time. A chain binding my hands till the end of my punishment, I continued to sit on the chair, waiting for the deed to be done.

Ring! Ring!

"Hey Matt, we got her."

"Good."

Now, I waited for the coffin. An hour, a second, a third, until I saw his shiny black truck.
Slowly pressing the empty burden on my back, I brought her into the attic where my last victim laid. Opening the unconscious body, I started to dress the doll.

Braiding the yarn strands slowly, pressing the Saran fiver onto the lids, and waxing the remains, I brought my little doll to the stand where my victim once laid. Adorning her in my late daughter's blue dress and cleaning her dirt covered arms, I looked at her with satisfaction.

"I missed you, honey."