Walking home from school each day, around 3:16, never seemed to really change. It’s five minutes of complete silence where I get to think. Normally my thoughts were on my dolls. Up until last year, I used to bring them to school to work on. Only recently did I start bringing her again.
I’m pretty sure these people still assume I’m mentally ill.
I made my own dolls, or puppets as a lot of people called them because of the moveable looseness that was identifiable in most all of them. I carved the wood, painted every last detail down to the wrinkles, coated them in finish, and put them together so they moved.
Most people don’t believe I’ve been doing it since I was very young; the first time I carved into my wood and made my first doll was when I was three. My parents didn’t like me around sharp objects, including the knives I used for carving, but I never cared. Doll making was a passion that was always on my mind.
So, tonight, walking home from school, something else was on my mind. Something different. I was thinking about Jennifer Lewoski.
And revenge.
***
Jennifer wasn’t good. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t be perfect. I was the only human who could really see past her pretty face and overdone lies. I say human because most of her pets didn’t like her either, but she did make friends with her goldfish.
Jennifer had finally pushed me over the edge.
Honestly, she didn’t do much. She’s very sneaky in the deterioration of a person’s mind, given the fact that what actually put me over the edge was her telling me my shoes were untied. I don’t know what changed within me when I heard her… I just kind of snapped.
But it gave me my chance to pull out Jenni, a special doll I’ve been working on for a few weeks. All I had left were the stings and the paper.
The doll took a lot of work for only one reason.
“Voodoo” isn’t the best word, more like a killer doll. All I’d have to do is tell the doll to go after Jennifer, and my Jenni would kill her. Of course I had to do some other things that were rituals to get her to work. Things like write Jennifer’s suicide note and cut a few of her strings.
When I got home that evening and had finished what I had to do, it was 5:29, later than normal, I immediately pulled out Jenni from my backpack. Her nose, one of the features I was never good at, was perfect and her eyes were as colorful as Jennifer’s. Nothing was out of place.
I sat in my dark workroom, staring into my mirror as I slowly brushed Jenni’s hair. The only light I worked by was a candle dimly lit beside my mirror; it illuminated my face so I had a soft glow as I gently stroked each strand of real hair.
Jennifer’s real hair.
It was braided today, by her mother before her parents left for the evening, which means I must braid Jenni’s hair. My fingers moved slowly to intertwine the locks so nothing was imperfect. I hand-sewed new clothing for Jenni, made from the same fabric as Jennifer’s clothing. The stitching took some time, but by the end, Jenni looked right. Jenni looked perfect.
