JUST A DOLL, ISN'T SHE?
- Reads 4,742
- Votes 163
- Parts 8
MatureComplete Tue, Nov 20, 201814m
This is the death of the nice girl, the disillusionment that we ever needed to be one.
They expected us to crawl to them, with palms up and legs open with perfect pretty painted faces and oh so sweet smiles, what a show to behold, what a horror to live.
But I clench a knife between my teeth now, grinning ugly and bloody. And I'm never nice.
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In agony I deliver the children of faceless, infertile clients. To them I am nothing more than a vessel, bearing the fruit they so wish to carry within themselves. They love me for my ability, and they hate me for it. This is why I am hidden away here in the Factory where they cannot see my rounded stomach, swollen with their life. When the life inside me is gone, birthed into their eagerly-waiting arms, I will be left with nothing. I will be impregnated again, and again, until my body is ruined and I am sent away. I should question this system, this ritualistic rending of my heart, but I do not-in fact, I volunteered for this job. And now, six babies later, I am afraid to leave. It is better to carry life, even temporarily, than to have never carried it at all.
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