by Mary Burton
The Dollmaker carefully settled the wig on her head, centered it, and braided it into two thick strands. He slowly rolled on knee socks, savoring the silky smoothness of her calf, then folded the white cotton neatly at the top. He slid on patent-leather shoes and fastened the buckles so that they were snug but not too tight.
The finishing touches included a small bracelet with a heart charm on her left wrist, and on her right hand, a delicate ring on her pinky finger. He painted her fingernails a pale pink, fastened on delicate earrings, and dabbed hints of perfume behind her ear and on her wrist.
He stepped back, pleased. She was his living doll. A perfect mate.
He lifted her listless body and placed her on a red couch in front of a photographer’s screen. He angled her face to the side and propped it up with a silk pillow. He arranged her curls around her shoulders and fluffed her skirt. Reaching for his camera, he snapped a couple of pictures. Glancing in the viewfinder, he frowned, not liking what he saw. Her eyes were closed. And to have the right effect, they needed to be open.
Time to wake up.
“Destiny,” he whispered close to her ear. “Time to rise and shine.”
When she didn’t stir, he pulled an ammonia caplet from his pocket. But before he snapped it, he stopped to admire her again. He ran his hand over her cheek, along the smocked edge of her blouse, and over the swell of her round breast. Drawn by her seductive lure, he squeezed her nipple. His body hardened, and unable to chase away temptation, he slid his hand under the skirt and touched her between her legs.
She wasn’t ready for him yet. But she soon would be. He needed to wait.
Drawing his hand back, he snapped the caplet, and held it close to her nose. She inhaled sharply as the acrid smell chased away the haze.
His doll glimpsed her creator with a lovely face of bewilderment. Yes, her open eyes completed the look.
He snapped his fingers. “Time to wake up.”
She stirred and her eyes fluttered, but the sedatives still lingered. She was confused as she stared up at him. “Where am I?” she asked. “Am I getting better?”
“You’re perfect.”
She blinked, focused, and looked down at her hands, now tattooed white like her face. She tried to rub off the ink, and when it didn’t smudge, confusion turned to worry. She pushed off the couch, but her legs wobbled as her head no doubt spun.
“Not too fast, Destiny. It will take time for the drugs to clear.”
She staggered a step, crumpled to one knee. “What’s happening? What have you done to me?”
“I’ve made you perfect.”
She looked at her delicately painted fingernails, and as her gaze rose she caught her reflection in a large mirror he kept in his studio. She froze, shocked. Tears mingled with disbelief. “What have you done!?”
He didn’t like the judgment in her voice. A perfect doll didn’t judge. It didn’t get angry. A perfect doll was still.
“Shh,” he said. He put his camera aside and reached for a drink cup with a straw. “It’s okay. You’re fine.”
With a trembling hand, she touched the wig and then her bow lips. “I look like a freak!”
Worry crowded out his happiness. “Don’t say that. I’ve made you perfect.”
“I’m a monster!” Her hands began to tremble. Red-rimmed eyes spilled more tears.
He hated to see a woman cry. “Don’t be ungrateful.”
Shaking her head, she raised her hand to her head and the wig “My hair?”
When she tried to tug the wig free, he brushed her hand away. “Don’t do that,” he said, trying to remain calm. “It took me a lot of time to get it just right.”
“It’s not my hair. Not my skin.” She forced herself to stagger toward the mirror. Her face inches from her reflection, she gawked.
“You must be pleased with the work. You’re one of my best creations.”
She rubbed the round blush on her checks and the dots of freckles. Worry ignited in her eyes. “What have you done to me?”
“I’ve made you beautiful.” He snapped more pictures, enthralled by this instant of discovery. She might be shocked now, but she would be beholden to him when she realized the beauty of his work.
Her fingers curled into fists. “You have ruined me.”
“I’ve made you a living doll.”
With a yank she pulled the wig off and smoothed her hand over her bald head. She screamed. The shrill sound cut through his head, shattering his calm.
With growing horror she glanced wildly around the room at the large four-poster bed, the rocking chair, and the small table with tea set. When she saw the door, she stumbled toward it. Her knees wobbled as her skirt skimmed the top of her shins.
She yanked on the knob, and realizing it was locked, she screamed. “Let me go!”
“No one can hear you.”
She pounded her fist on the hard wood, crying for help and mercy. “You’ve ruined me.”
“You need to calm down. It’ll be all right. I have taken such good care of you.”
Her eyes blazed hate and disgust. “You have ruined me, you fucking freak!”
Her harsh words belied the angelic features. “That’s not necessary.”
“Like hell it’s not! Let me out of here! Let me go!”
As her raw words mingled with more weeping, he knew he had to silence her. Dolls were not supposed to speak, and Destiny was not supposed to cry.
He moved to his worktable and hurriedly dumped a powder into a glass. As she shrieked louder and pounded on the door, he added fruit-flavored water because he knew she’d like the taste.
Mixing the drink with a straw, he stood beside her. “Here, drink,” he said, raising the straw to her lips.
She slapped at his hand. Red drink sloshed on her white skin. “Get away from me. I’m not drinking anything else.”
“You have to drink,” he coaxed. “It will help you, and when you wake up, you will be just like you were.”
“How can I be who I was? This shit is all over me.” Her hands clutched into fists, she slowly slid down the wall to the floor, her legs crumpling under her like a real doll.
“I promise. Drink this and you will be fine. You’ll see.” He pressed the tip of the straw to her lips that now always smiled. “Drink.”
“I don’t want to drink.” She tried to stand but couldn’t rise. “I want to go home.”
“And I want you to go home.”
The Dollmaker wiped the tear from her cheek with his fingertip, pleased that her face remained unspoiled. No smudged mascara. No faded blush or lipstick. “It’s okay.”
She stared up at him, eyes large with fear and hope. Finally, she sipped, her throat and mouth clearly parched.
When she finished, he pulled the straw away and dabbed the corners of her mouth. “You like the taste of cherry, don’t you?”
She nodded.
“That’s a good girl.”
As she stared up at him, her breathing hitched as she tried to suck in air. She drew a stuttering breath. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s okay. This is what’s supposed to happen.” The Dollmaker smoothed his hand over her bald head, already eager to put the wig back on her. “Soon your lungs won’t work at all and you will stop breathing forever.”
“What?” she gasped.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be right here with you. I would never leave you alone at a time like this.”
“You’re killing me?” Her voice was now a hoarse whisper.
“No. I’m finishing the job.”
The doll tried to speak, to scream, but her lungs were paralyzed. She was afraid, but her fear would soon fade. Gently, he tilted her back so that he could peer into her eyes and watch as the life drained from her body.
Her hand rose to his arm in one final attempt to cling to life. Her grip was surprisingly strong for someone who teetered so close to death.
He let her hold on to him, smiling and touching her cheek gently. “Shh. Just let go.
”
Her fingers twitched and slackened a fraction. No more tears pooled or ran down her painted cheeks. Death pulled.
The Dollmaker leaned forward and kissed those still-warm lips. Slowly her fingers slackened and her hand fell away, and all the remaining energy faded from her body.
When her eyes closed, he removed a clean tissue from his pocket and wiped her face, savoring the peaceful stillness that settled over her.
God, she was a perfect creation. In all his years of practice, he’d never made anything so beautiful.
“Death has made you my permanent little Destiny doll.”
He kissed her lips again, savoring the sweet tranquility. “I wish I could keep you forever, but we only have a few hours. But, don’t worry, I’ll be as careful as always. You’ll see how much I love you.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2015 Studio FBJ
New York Times and USA Today bestselling novelist Mary Burton is the highly praised author of twenty-six romance and suspense novels and five novellas. She lives in Virginia with her husband and three miniature dachshunds.