AGALMATOPHILIA

_-:1:-_

Have you ever had a small scratch on your hand, or possibly your finger, and watched the sparkling crimson life force bead to the surface?

Chances are you have, chances are you wrapped your lips around the wound and carefully suckled the flesh, tasting that ever familiar tang of iron and copper, like sucking pennies or licking the top of a battery while it's still charged.

Blood, though only one word, and just that, a word, means more than anything to the average human. The very thing that keeps us alive, that pumps through our system, carrying much needed oxygen and minerals to our organs.

But blood meant nothing to the dollmaker.

Blood was merely and only a word, and one he'd seen visualised in front of his pretty fawn eyes, so much so that the colour of bright ruby reflected throughout the vast landscape of chocolate brown iris', so deep one could swim through them.

They could be the most erotic, dirty thing he would use, they would fall for it every time with a bat of thick, richly dark lashes, men and women would fall to their knees, figuratively and literally to do anything he desired.

It was those very eyes that would lure the blood, beckon forth an unsuspecting casualty. Drawn in by lust and hunger, only to be staring glassy eyes at a ceiling moments later.

And then there was the blood again.

It had stained the concrete below shiny leather clad feet, they danced around the table, stopping here and there to examine the flesh before them, that liquid life weaving through cracks and imperfections in the foundation below, making its way towards the dip under the necropsy table and flowing down the drain with a gently trickling drip.

It was somewhat tranquil, the soft, calming sound of splashing liquid, music to the ears.

Speaking of music, his mind interrupts, smooth jazz wafts down the stairs, the shop above empty, closed for the night.

The dollmaker was the only one awake at this time of night, record player to accompany as his assistant slept soundly above the shop, wrapped in the warm cocoon of their bed.

Unlike normal couples, the assistant wouldn't worry about his lover coming to bed late at night, or in early hours of the morning, often staying up with the dollmaker and keeping him company while he worked his magic.

The insistent pitter-patter of thick, partially coagulated liquid copper, barely louder than the humming coming from the man, had become music sweeter than that of the velvet jazz gracing the air.

He furrowed his brows in concentration, the wisps of smoke venting from his cigarette almost obscuring his vision as he crafted the perfect masterpiece, it was kept tightly between his lips, hands unable to remove it for draws so he would huff it out his nose.

He falters for a moment, removing the blue latex gloves hugging his hands, a satisfying snap as they peel away, and discarded into the stainless steel trashcan beside the stairs.

The dollmaker wipes his forehead, finally taking the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, sucking a draw deep into his lungs and letting the burn linger for those few ecstatic seconds.

Ecstasy.

He used to feel it all the time, a unique and untouched sense of euphoria would rattle his bones after every doll he would build, the way he could smooth wood with a sanding block until it was as smooth as cut glass, the polish would fill his nostrils with redwood pine, a soft lacquer staining his fingers.

Expert with paints, brush strokes would glide against the sculpted face to elegantly design something worth buying, worth keeping.

He was a perfectionist, one who had worked in the trade for years.

His shop filled children with glee, parents giddy on the thought of their precious brat owning a one of a kind doll designed after them.

Unintentionally his upper lip curls in distaste, bringing a hand closer to inhale the toxic fumes drifting from his disgusting habit.

Occupying the handcrafted rocking chair in the very corner of the room, the man sat, to reflect, the rolled up sleeves of a pristine white shirt needed bleaching once again, pink and brown stains settling in, soaked deep within the fabric.

He loosens the buttons on his vest, popping down to the very middle before he stops, and sighs, and leans back to let his head collide with the hard wooden back of the chair.

With a harsh inhale, iron fills his sinus threatening a gag, yet years of abusing that iron tang states otherwise, the gag suppressed and swallowed back.

He'd grown tired of wood, the canvas not unique enough for his tastes, and so, he grew used to blood, and the smell, the taste.

On those lonely days he would love the taste, how is sizzled against the flat surface his tongue would form pressed against the roof of his mouth, the thickness, the feel of its warmth running across his pale skin.

The dollmaker closes his eyes for an erotically short second, memories of that crimson life force running down his bare front, lower and lower-

He stops, shaking his head wildly, he stands and stubs the burnt out cigarette against the small and filled ashtray neatly sitting upon a waist high shelf just behind his work station.

It was not the time to be distracted, for the dollmaker must work quickly with his tools in order to make the perfect doll.

His newest canvas would soon start to decay if he didn't move swiftly to remove it from its previous owner, careful not to tear it, imperfections in such a beautiful, supple material would be a pure waste, and would not only anger the dollmaker, but make his next craft harder to perfect with the knowledge of failure lingering in the back of his skull.

All the mistakes would play over until they had scorched out a hole where his passion would be, and the dollmaker would close his store for weeks on end, trying to regain that arrogant sense of self worth.

But in the end, it was all worth the trouble, and so he finishes the last piece off, and removes the skin from the man formally known by the townsfolk as Keegan, carefully draping it within the walk in freezer for later use, beside the dozens of older fleshes accompanying the newest.

Tomorrow, he would make the perfect toy for himself.