Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Backstory #1: Doll ❯ Doll ( Chapter 1 )

In a way, her mind ran differently than that of a normal person. Something was there, something horrific that would go unnoticed for years. It wouldn't take long for something as simple as a minor attachment to get so out of hand, to become something more than love. For such a thing to get out of hand turning love to an obsession and that obsession to a certain sense of insanity.

Beaten, abused, and tortured by those who loved, or were supposed to love, her. Yet, her love could only grow for them, so much so that love turned into warning signs of obsession and that obsession turned into desperate need for the feelings of love to be returned. However, when it was denied to her it tore her up, and in a fit of insane rage, that which one would never think possible in a nine-year-old, came out.

She felt the corners of her lips tug upward into a crooked smirk befitting a horror movie. Chocolate brown eyes, like a gentle deer, turned into a crimson glow in the dim light of the moon. It turned her into a figure seemingly demonic. Pale hands clutched a hand-made doll resembling the one who had given birth to her, her mother. In front of her a blade sits shining in the dull light upon a dingy, creaky table. With her father at the bars until whatever ungodly hour and her mother deep in sleep from drugs, she was left to her own doings. It was silent, the room chilled by the very air that she breathed out. Her fingers curled open, letting the horrible nightmare of a doll fall to the cracked tile in a heap.

She reached out for the blade, as if it were a new toy. Gently, she touched the sharp end of the blade. When nothing happened she decided to try something different. A new maneuver to see just what would happen. She set the sharp edge against the supple flesh of her palm and pulled it along the center. As if it were a brand new blade, freshly sharpened, it tore a gash into her hand with great ease. She felt no sting, only chills up her spine, as blood pooled in her hand. That demons smirk of hers widened, an equally frightening giggle leaving her lips.

Even she wouldn't let the blood continue to run as it was, feeling that she needed the hand still. She hopped down from her seat, feet making a soft thud against the ground, and ambled over to the sink. She opened a nearby drawer with her uncut hand and pulled out a small sewing kit, something her mother kept so the woman wouldn't have to buy new clothes, only fix them. She tilted the faucet up, allowing water to pour from the spout that was as cold as ice. She held her hand under the water, watching the crimson mix with clear liquid, turning the red to clear as well. However, the blood still seeped out of the cut. She reached for the sewing kit, pulling out a rather large needle and some red thread. Carefully, and with some precision, she started to weave the thread through the edges of the cut, criss-crossing the thread as if in a design until she reached the end. She pulled tight, gash sealing almost completely save that she wasn't really that good with a needle and thread. The blood still came though it was less.

It was then that she couldn't help but wonder what it, the blade, could also cut into. She bit her lip in anticipation as she looked back to the crimson stained blade. She walked to it and picked it up once more before tip-toeing her way to her mothers room.\

She couldn't remember much else, not until she awoke to sirens only to see her mother's severed head, a horrific expression stuck on the dead woman's face. `I love you,' she thought, clutching the object. The words seemed to repeat over and over in her head. “Do you love me now?” She tilted her head, pressing curious fingers about the wrinkles of her mother's face.

It was then that she heard them, possibly the police, burst in from downstairs, door hitting the ground and echoing off the walls. Her head snapped up, mind coming back to reality. She jumped to her feet, still having not really comprehended what evil she had done, only knowing that she felt good about it, that it brought her calm just as the pain from her palm had. She darted to her bed and reached underneath, pulling out a small duffle bag. She shoved her mother's head into it and sealed it shut. She ambled over to the window just as the footsteps were coming down from the hall. She opened it and looked down, finding it a very short drop, as expected. She swung her legs over the ledge, door bursting open. She sent a spine-chilling glance over her shoulder. The suited male rushed at her, intent on keeping her from escaping. However, by a mere inch, he missed and she slid off the ledge, landing in the grass with a thumb, a stinging sensation shooting in her leg. However, she did not linger on it and instead bolted for the outskirts of town, where she wasn't ever supposed to go. It would lead to the city.

The man from before must have called it in. As she ran, a figure jumped from the bushes and tackled her. She went tumbling, bag flying out of her hand `Mother!' She shrieked like a banshee. “She's mine!” She kicked her legs. “Get off, she's mine!” When her hand went down, something sharp poked her. It was the needle from before, barely hanging on to tied thread. She gripped the needle and brought it forward. The pointed end pierced the man's eyes, leaving him howling in pain. She scrambled back to her feet and grabbed her bag before running once more. Escape was not only possible, but certain. Not even a week later after her escape did they have wanted videos up and about labeling her psychotic, a true demon to society.

She sat in an alley, rain beating down. A fare amount of time had passed since that day, wanted videos having been taking down, leaving most to think that the psycho was still on the loose or they had caught her. She was, in fact, still on the loose. However, she was mellow. All insanity, though not dead, was dormant in her mind as if waiting for the trigger. She was now seventeen. Compared to when she was nine, she definitely looked different from the blonde that she was years ago. She had formed into a young woman, sickly looking with her pale skin and inset eyes. She smelled of death due to the black duffle she still carried, a rotting skull sitting within. Her hair was a shade of white, unnatural in any given standard. It indeed was as it was merely a dye. Various scars, all sewn up by her own hand with red thread, were scattered about, one curving under her left eye, in the center of her chest, and upon her neck. The detail of the sewing was far better than that of her hand. She wore beaten and torn clothing, not far from showing off the breasts that had grown in the place of a flat chest. Her mind lacked a conscience, and lacked any form of sanity. Pain meant pleasure, but being alone only hurt her.

She was a sick shell of a woman, only living for the skull in her bag.

The sound of heeled shoes on the wet pavement stopped just in front of her refuge. She clutched a hidden blade, a pocket knife she had found days before. She didn't dare to look up. The woman, or so she deducted from the thin ankles she could see, bent downward at the knees, setting down a clip of money. Only then did Nichole look up.

The woman she saw was possibly the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Her hair was a wonderful shade of black, like a raven's feathers, and her eyes were a shining steel blue. As for her skin, it was like porcelain. She wanted to feel it but did not dare to touch such beauty.

The woman stood once more, fixing the business skirt she wore, and walked off. Two suited men followed after her. `Come back,' she became panicked, her obsessive ways rising up like never before, not since that day. She looked to the money that the woman had left and snatched it up, holding it close. She looked to see if the woman was still nearby, but the black haired beauty was long gone. She jumped to her feet, flinging the duffle aside as if it were worth nothing to her. In a way, it wasn't, not anymore.

`For me,' she thought, glancing at the money clip and then back up. She wouldn't be able to catch the woman. It was a new obsession. `For me,' she thought again. “Mine?”

To think this was only the beginning. The woman had no clue of what she had just set herself up for. She didn't know that the reaper now had a steady hand set on her shoulder.

Nichole growled. `Mine.” She pivoted on her heel, chest heaving. `Mine!' She continued through the alleyway, stumbling ever so slightly as if drunk. Her hands twitched. She felt around her pockets and dug deep, pulling out a thin piece of clear Plexiglas, sharpened to a point at one end, and some dingy red yarn she had also found in the trash. She wanted to be calm.

She found herself a new perch, ducking into the dark to work on her `energy'. She opened her mouth just enough to where it was comfortable for her to talk as needed. She pressed the sharpened end into her upper lip, forcing it through. She pulled it through and pierced her bottom lip. She repeated the process, successfully making a loose seal for her mouth, much like the doll she had once owned. From each hole made in her lips, blood seeped out, draining down and dripping off of her chin, staining the torn up shirt. She looked at the clip again. She had never received anything before. `I love you.' She smiled that wicked smile of hers, only enhanced by the blood on her lips and the stitches that blocked her tongue. In her mind, the beauty's face stayed, every inch of it. She would find the woman, it was an internal promise, she would FIND her.