The Doll Collector

Chapter 20: The Doll Collector

There she was, my real life doll, lying on the bed with her arms and legs tied in a way that not even the best contortionist could escape. I sat beside her, running a hand along the side of her face. The sight of the duct tape over her mouth brought a frown to my face. It was horrible, but necessary, and effective. Her eyes gently opened at the sensation of my touch, then suddenly she violently backed into the wall, her expression wide with horror.

She had been passed out the entire night, and hadn't shown any signs of stirring until now.

I put a finger to my lips, trying to calm her down. Everything would be fine, so long as I was unsure if she was going to die or not.

The matter had been sitting on my mind since I'd awoken. There were plenty of reasons to kill her, and yet none of them seemed strong enough to make the decision final.

Whenever I did lean towards killing her, I suddenly felt a hollow in my chest and it landed me back in square one.

She was so beautiful and smart, she would make a better wife than a doll. Although, the relationship had gotten off to a rough start.

I helped her sit up and knelt in front of her, to tell her that she would be getting breakfast and water, if she promised not to scream.

When she nodded, I tore off the duct tape shackles, then walked her into the kitchen and sat her down at the table. She sucked in a deep breath and whimpered, as I removed the piece of tape from her mouth and hair, then cut the zip ties, from around her wrists.

In front of her was a plate of eggs, bacon, and a small stack of pancakes. She shakily reached for the glass of water, first, drinking it all the way to the bottom. I poured her another glass before taking a seat beside her.

She timidly turned her dark rimmed eyes to me. The makeup from our date had all run down her face by the incessant crying she'd subjected me to during our struggle.

Maria picked up her knife and fork, beginning to cut at her pancakes and eggs. I watched her closely to ensure she didn't surprise me with any sudden movements.

As soon as she was finished cutting her food, I removed the utensil from her, leaving her only with a fork. That too, was still a weapon, but somehow we had formed a weak bond of trust. She didn't have it in her to stab me again.

"How's that leg?" she shot.

Or maybe she did.

"You're quite the fighter." I told her.

"My dad wanted a son."

"He did a good job."

"Obviously not a good enough job. I'm stuck here."

"You're alive, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but for how long? Please, just let me go." she begged through a hoarse voice.

I never did understand the begging. Did reasoning ever keep you from being being killed?

The fork was gripped tightly in her hand, trembling with each second she held it. I couldn't tell if she was shaking from fear or anger. Her knuckles had washed over in a ghostly white.

Anger, it was anger.

"I can't do that Maria, you'll tell. You know who I am." I replied, enjoying a slice of salty bacon.

"You're him, aren't you?"

"In the flesh."

Her grip on the fork suddenly relaxed, causing a sense of confidence to bloom through my chest. That anger was fear now, and she knew she stood no chance against me.