Excerpt: The Rag Doll

The medallion pressed against my thigh like a cow prod, branding it as it had done my hand. My hand shrieking with pain, I pulled the blistering hot necklace out, it maintained its contorted shape. The metal ring lay horizontal, pointing to my right before painfully ripping itself from my fingertips, sheering skin from them. I yelled in excruciating pain before noticing that the necklace had come to rest on top of a long wooden chest under the desk holding the typewriter.

Flinging the arcane symbol off, I pulled the chest closer to me and undid the rusted metal latches, staining them with fresh blood from my mangled hands. It contained a deeply blood-stained wood axe, perfectly preserved. This made me jump to my feet in complete horror – screaming at the sight of the murder weapon. I picked it up and placed it to the side with shaking hands – noticing dried clumps of brain matter on the sharp edge. Still whimpering, tears streamed down my face and I noticed something else in the chest, stained with my father’s blood. A rag doll.

My rag doll. I remember playing with it as my father would type his manuscripts, pretending it to be Princess Anastasia or Alix of Hesse. It stared at me with its plastic button eyes – the last living testament of my innocence laying there bloodstained and still. I also picked it up, clutching it to my chest. I wept. I wept into its golden twine hair, onto its bloodstained blue gown. Upon placing it back down onto the floor, I noticed I had smeared its back with my own blood, leaving distinct crimson hand-prints over the elegant lace.