Page 14 of Dolls & Daggers
My chest aches with the need to breathe as she retrieves the dagger and flips it around, plunging it directly down into his crotch. Numerous cries of abject horror rise from the males in the room as the victim releases longer and higher-pitched screams than before.
She stares at her handiwork, looking so childlike standing there in pink fuzzy slippers and her sky-blue nightie. In every video she’s sent in so far, she’s wearing a different babydoll, along with different colored hair. But the mask, slippers, and contacts are always the same.
Neon pink locks pulled up in pigtails bounce as she yanks her weapon from his flesh and reaches for his belt.“Should we show them what happens to men who touch little kids inappropriately?”
Some of the officers look away when she reaches for a pair of black gloves and slides them over her long, black-tipped nails. They might see a demon playing with her food, but all I see is a beautiful craft.
There’s art in suffering. And the Doll is an artist.
All of her victims hurt children. Why shouldn’t they suffer before their demise? Children should be safe from adults. They should feel secure in their own homes, around their families. And when they find the courage to say something isn’t right, people should listen.
Adults should be better at reading the signs.
“You fucking bitc—”His words are cut off by the sharp crack of her backhand, delivered with a pair of needle-nose pliers.
“Ring around the rosie,”she sings, prying the pliers open before clamping them onto his mangled flesh.
“What are you doing?”he gasps, his breath coming in ragged, frantic wheezes.
“Pocket full of posies,”she continues, voice bright with glee as she reaches for her dagger.
“No! No! I swear—I’ll never touch anyone ever again!”
An officer gags as she starts sawing. The grotesque sounds blend with the Doll’s lilting lullaby and the man’s screams—until his body slumps, unconscious from the agony.
“Ashes, ashes,”she croons, spinning on her heel as he bleeds out, his severed dick gripped in one hand, dagger in the other.“We all fall down.”
The screen flickers. A series of images flash:
—His I.D.
—Him with his family at church.
—A candid shot at the elementary school where he teaches second grade.
—Emails between him and the Doll, arranging their meeting—because he thought she was an eight-year-old looking for someone to talk to.
Each image is interrupted by her spinning and humming. Over and over again. A chaotic, frenzied loop.
Unhinged.
And so fucking admirable.
I wish I had her strength. Wish I could do what she does.
The courage it must take to stand against an abuser, to end their reign of terror. The euphoria she must feel, knowing the predators will never hurt a child again.
“I can’t believe such a tiny woman can cause so much chaos,” a man speaks up from somewhere in the room.
“Maybe men should step back and learn a thing or two,” Dove mutters under her breath.
“What a monster,” someone murmurs.
“Her? Or him?” another voice counters, dripping with disdain.
“Don’t get me wrong, he’s despicable, but look ather.” A man gestures at the screen, where the Doll now stares directly into the camera. “You gotta be pretty fucked up in the head to do that shit.”
“Sometimes monsters are just broken people, hiding their scars from a world that has hurt them,” Dove speaks louder this time.
