Doll Face

by Sadie Grubor

  "I forgive you."

  "I didn't think you were coming."

  The lean, deadly woman steps out of the shadows, hair still tightly wound on top her head and dressed entirely in black, aside from the shield across her face.

  "Your message didn't make it to me until forty minutes ago," I explain, focusing my attention on her as well as tracking anything in my peripheral.

  "I see," she says, the gleam in her eye leading me to believe she was well aware of my meeting.

  "Where is she?" I demand, tired of this drawn out game.

  "Who?" she asks. "And be sure you know which who you really want to find."

  "Don't give me riddles," I warn.

  She shrugs. "I'm just offering you some sound advice."

  Moving to the center of the room, she gives me her back. This act makes me scan the warehouse for her soldiers.

  "I'm not going to kill you," she says, her back still to me. "Not today anyway," she adds, then spins around, and asks, "Is this where you did it?" Her head drops to the stained floor.

  My silence causing her to grow agitated, she shouts, "Is it!"

  "No," I answer honestly.

  Lifting my arm, I point to a spot three feet to her left. The place my mother's knees touched, where she stayed strong until the very end.

  Her eyes follow my motion, then she walks to where I pointed. Arms at her sides, she drops her head back, and whispers something I can't make out.

  Head snapping back up in my direction, she asks, "Do you remember the exact spot you murder all your victims?"

  Clenching my teeth, I want nothing more than to gut her or shoot her for asking so many questions.

  "I won't die alone," she says, surprising me for a second.

  Her ability to read people—me—is impressive, but annoying as fuck.

  "So, your little army is here." It's not a question. It's more a taunt.

  With a slight tilt to her head, she crosses her arms over her chest and admits, "No."

  "What makes you so sure you can—"

  "I have no doubt you will fatally wound me," she cuts me off. "But you should know, I will succeed in doing the same to you."

  "No," I finally answer her question.

  Her brow furrows.

  "I don't remember every spot," I clarify.

  The confusion melts away.

  "I have something you want, but I also have a condition," she finally cuts to the chase. "Agree to my condition, then I will help you."

  "Why would you help me?" I ask, suspicious.

  "I'll just say you have something I need, so this one time, we're going to help each other," she asserts.

  "Why would I help you? You just killed half of my organization," I remind.

  Lifting one shoulder, she counters, "I did you a favor. Besides, I'm not the one who killed your father."

  I stiffen.

  "Your wife did that," she finishes, confirming she somehow knows Angelo was my biological father. "Rightfully so, too, if you ask me," she adds.

  "What do you want?"

  "Answers," she responds immediately. "No more, no less."

  "I'm afraid you'll have to clarify."

  "I need answers you can provide," she explains.

  "For?"

  "Ah, ah, ah," she waggles a finger at me, "that's not part of this deal."

  "What makes you think I have these answers you seek?"

  Her laugh is muffled by the face shield, but still audible.

  "Answer all my questions and I'll give you her," she states.

  "You know where she is?"

  "Which she?" The Geisha presses, lifting one brow.

  Then, it clicks. She knows where Mei and my sister are.

  "Choices, choices," she taunts. "Choose wisely, killer dearest."

  "You know about my sister.”

  "Is that the she you wish to know about?"

  Tightening my jaw, I fist my hands at my sides so I don't physically lash out. My palm burning to unsheathe my blade.

  "Who will it be?" she provokes. "The long-lost girl you've never known, or the recently stolen pet?"

  The answer surges through me, the finality of it feeling like the only correct response.

  I've never known my sister, and who says this woman is the only one who can give me answers on her whereabouts.

  "Where's Mei?" I ask.

  I don't miss the flicker of surprise in her hazel eyes.

  "I have five questions," she states. "Answer them to my satisfaction, and you'll have what you seek."

  "Fine," I say through clenched teeth.

  "First question," she announces, raising her fist in the air, one finger extended—her middle finger. "Did you know? Before you even arrived in this building, did you know you would kill her?"

  A sharp pain zips across my chest, remembering that day so many years ago.

  "No," I answer honestly.

  Her eyes search my face before giving a quick nod.

  "Second question," she flips a second finger up. "Did he watch her die?" she asks, her lip curling.

  "Yes," I admit. "He watched very closely."

  The muscle in her left check ticks. Dropping her countdown fingers, she stands tall.

  "Is there anyone else left who was there?"

  Slowly, but surely, the connections start to form. Each death at the hands of The Geisha have been those in attendance to my mother and uncle's deaths.

  "Just Felix, and myself, of course."

  "Of course," she echoes.

  "But Felix played no real part," I assure her.

  "No part?" she snorts. "He was there," she sneers.

  Mouth suddenly dry, I force swallow a couple times before divulging, "We were both brought to watch, learn, and then act. Angelo liked twisted games. The same applied to the day we were brought into the family fold. He wanted me to take care of my mother and for Felix to take care of his father."

  "And you," she strides forward, "wanted all the glory." Her arms flail out, arching through the air. "So, you shot them both," she states, her words laced in disgust.

  She doesn't need to understand my reasons, so I remain silent.

  "Answer me," she demands. "Why did you obey him without question or second thought to your mother?"

  Taking one large step forward, putting less than two feet between us, I lean in close.

  "My shot was quick and clean," I clip out. "Angelo would've done much worse if I hadn't acted. The same goes for Felix's father. So, when he hesitated, I took things into my own hands."

  My chest rises and falls slowly, the creature stirring, wanting nothing more than to end this bitch right now.

  "You protected Felix," she says, surprising lacing her words.

  "I saved two people from a fate worse than a quick death," I correct, not willing to admit more.

  Dropping her voice to a whisper, she says, "Last question. What did she say to you?"

  "What makes you think she was allowed to say anything?" I retort, not wanting to share my last moment with her.

  "Tell me," she presses.

  "She told me I wasn't like them." I pause for a long moment, then finish, "Then she told me she forgave me."

  The Geisha's eyes widen and she takes quick steps backwards.

  Shaking her head, she protests, "No."

  "Yes," I counter, then add, "My mother always saw the good in people, even if there wasn't any in them. Like me."

  Hands on her hips, she lifts her chin, like she's going to further argue the matter.

  Before she can say a word, knowing she's helping my sister, I say, "So, tell my sister I understand her wanting us dead and I forgive her."

  "Your forgiveness isn't necessary. I'm sure she could care less," The Geisha retorts.

  Turning on her heels, she starts walking away.

  "We had a deal." At my reminder, she pauses.

  Without looking back, she says, "I may not be of this country, but even I know a town as small as Towanda is the perfect rural plac
e to hide in plain sight."

  "Quit with the riddles and tell me where in Towanda," I shout, taking one step in her direction.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she quirks an eyebrow.

  "I didn't say I had an address."

  My eyes are drawn to a black rope descending from the ceiling.

  "Thought you came alone," I call her out.

  Shrugging, she twists her arm and leg in the rope line.

  "I lied."

  With those final words, she ascends through an open ceiling panel and disappears.

  Exiting the building, I hear the distinct sound of a helicopter and watch a black one rise from the roof before disappearing into the dark sky.

  Pulling my cell from my coat, I lift it to my ear.

  "Did you get that?"

  "Got it," Sketch responds. "Already sent Vincent and Russ instructions to head farther south to Towanda."

  "Good." I slip into the back of my waiting car. "Did you confirm the necklace is Mei's?"

  "Yeah, the tracking chip is inside, along with your fingerprints," he confirms.

  "Make sure Vince and Russ cover as much ground as possible before I get down there."

  "Shouldn't you wait until we've got something?" he asks, quickly adding, "I don't trust the bitch at all. For all we know, she's setting you up."

  "She had the necklace, Maurizio. I don't doubt she's up to something, but she had Mei's necklace. I have to go."

  "Jacob says to swing by the penthouse. He'll have your necessities ready to go."

  "Fine," I agree, knowing Jacob is the only other person who can access my knife collection.

  Mei

  Every day, it gets easier and easier. To the point where I'm no longer worried about Andy discovering my deception. No, I'm more concerned about the person I'm twisting into with every passing day.

  After Andy's blow up in the barn, I was locked back in my room with the dresses and the dolls. Each time I glanced at one of them, I only saw the women in the barn. The images tear through my mind, resurrecting memories of a time I've tried to forget. Worst of all is the sick desire I have to revisit the barn, because it's not to free them.

  Since being locked back in my room, I've created a new routine. One designed to put me back in my brother's good graces. Showing interest in all the dolls, talking to and playing with them—all of it is meant for him. What I didn't plan on were the side effects it would have on my own mental stability.

  This morning, I step into a pink pleated dress with a white peter pan collar and puffed cap sleeves. As I began rolling the white socks to my knees, long buried desires tease at my thoughts. Separating my locks into pigtails and securing pink bows to each one brings forward dark urges.

  Glancing at myself in the mirror, my reflection knowingly mocks me with reminders of who and what I really am.

  A monster wrapped in a cute package.

  Finished dressing, I move to the doll shelves and stare at them until my eyes grow dry and I'm forced to blink.

  Gripping the bottom shelf with both hands, I jerk it downward. It barely comes away from the wall, but it's enough to send the dolls tumbling. I repeat the process with the next shelf, then the next, until the floor is littered with disheveled dolls.

  Looking down, I find Polly Dolly staring up from the heap, her pink pleated dress with the peter pan collar taunting me the same way the mirror had.

  Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, I hold Polly Dolly's head in one hand, her body in the other, and keep unfocused eyes downcast.

  "What—?" Molly starts. "You're going to clean that up," she grounds out.

  Head still down, I lift my eyes and look at her from under my lashes. Allowing my eyes to focus, I raise one side of my mouth in a mocking grin.

  Straightening, she fidgets uncomfortably for a moment, then squares her shoulders and stomps to the side of my bed.

  "I'm not picking them up," she snaps.

  "I didn't ask you to," I retort.

  "You little…" Her hands clench and release. "You've always been spoiled," she states, like it will mean anything to me. "Come on. Pick them up," she orders, throwing an arm out toward the pile of dolls.

  When I don't move to obey, she grips my bicep in her hand and yanks me from the bed.

  "Pick them up," she shouts, dragging me to the lifeless stuffed bodies.

  "No!" I yank my arm from her grasp.

  Spinning around, her face flushes red and angry lines crease her face.

  "You will do what I say," she bites out.

  This time, I laugh out loud, incensing her more.

  With both hands, she shoves me, and confesses, "I've always hated you." She shoves again. "The way father doted on his precious Dahlia—his doll. The way Andy would spend hours watching you through that fucking mirror, trying to play with you when I was right there!" She shoves again, and my back hits the wall next to the door. "No one ever paid attention to me. Not once did father praise me or give me gifts." Getting in my face, she takes my chin in her cold hand. "Even when you were gone, finally gone," she sighs, "all they ever did was talk about you, plot to find you."

  Thrusting my face away, she takes a step back and looks me over.

  "You disgust me. This little part you play, that you've always played for them," she snorts. "I saw you," she says, low and menacing.

  Tilting my head, I furrow my brow.

  "Who do you think let you out of your room?" she asks, making realization pour over me. "Who do you think made sure you could get into those off-limits places? Huh?"

  Crossing her arms over her chest, she sneers.

  "Yes, precious Dahlia, I saw the things you would do in Father's work room when you thought no one could see."

  Memories of going through his detailed notes, books, all the pictures, and the dolls he wasn't finished with flit through my mind. The unfinished were never to be bothered and were locked away in Father's workroom, but I'd liked them. The way their eyes would move or tear up when I would poke at their limbs. How the sound of their voices, muffled by sealed lips, made my fingers tingle with excitement.

  "I wanted you to get caught!" Her shout pulls me from dark, shameful memories. "For once, I wanted him to see you weren't his perfect little doll. But, no, you had to ruin that too by releasing that woman and bringing the cops."

  Her eyes grow watery, just a blink away from escaping.

  Focused on her impending tears, I wait for empathy, shame, or something other than what I feel right now. But nothing arrives to replace the disgust raising the hairs on my body.

  Dropping her voice low, she says, "But if you're gone…"

  Her thought dies off, but not before I understand them.

  In a flash of movement, she brings a familiar large silver needle to my neck.

  Wrapping my hands around her wrist, I try to stop her.

  "I'll make you the doll you always pretended to be," she threatens, pressing the point into my skin.

  "There's only one problem," I rush out, and she stills.

  Rolling my eyes, I explain, "That's not how it's done."

  Bringing my knee up between her legs, she groans and stumbles back.

  Ripping the needle from her hand, I look it over and purse my lips.

  "Daddy would be so disappointed," I chastise. "It's not even the correct gauge."

  Balling my empty right hand, I land a punch into the left side of her face. She falls onto the floor.

  With swift steps, I come to stand over her. Gripping her brown locks, I yank her head to the side.

  "But I can make it work," I reassure before jabbing the needle into her neck.

  It misses the target area.

  "Stop!" she cries, clawing at my arm.

  Extracting the instrument, a laugh escapes my mouth.

  "I'm out of practice," I admit before sticking her again.

  "No, stop," she shouts, but her words fall on deaf ears.

  Carotid Artery penetrated, just like Daddy's books taught me, b
lood spurts from the open end of the needle.

  The carpet saturates and Molly's movements slow. Her head lolls back and I watch the life drain from her eyes. The needle slides out of her neck as she crumbles to the floor.

  Chest heaving, adrenaline coursing through my veins, I stand over her body and close my eyes. Taking two deep breaths, I drop the needle and back away from my work. Stepping awkwardly on a doll head, I lose my footing and fall into the pile of stuffed babies.

  "You were jealous of the attention." I give a humorless laugh, and roll out of the dolls. "You wanted this," I shout at her lifeless body, motioning to the room. "You can have it," I hiss.

  Stomping forward, I grab beneath her arms and drag her to the bed, a red trail following.

  Leaving her on the bed, I rush to the closet and rip down everything I'll need. Stripping her from her 1950's inspired blue dress takes more effort and strength than I anticipated, but in the end, I dress her in yellow polka dots and white ruffles. The final touch being a blonde wig and yellow floral hair clip.

  Trying to pull her from the bed, it feels like she's gotten heavier, so I untuck the blanket beneath her and use it to haul her across the floor.

  At the bedroom door, I try the knob. It opens. I make my way out of the room, through the hallway, and down the first flight of stairs, my older sister dragging behind me.

  At the second-floor landing, I stop and listen.

  Nothing, so I bring us down to the first floor.

  Passing through the entryway and living room, I enter the dining room and stop. Staring at the large table, the dark urges swirl beneath my skin.

  "You wanted to be precious and coveted," I announce, like she's still alive. Then, my words turn colder, harder. "Let me show you what that's like, Dolly Molly."

  I tug her body along the hard floor, pull, lift, and shove Molly into place. Straightening, I stand over her and blow a stray curl out of my face. I brush my glove-covered hands over the front of my dress and see the stains. Lifting my hands, I stare at the gloves.

  Red.

  Blood.

  The darkest parts of the stain start at the tips of my fingers, fading to a wet orangish pink near my palms. Glancing down my body, most of the stains look more dirty than bloody. All except where the blood had spurted out the end of needle and sprayed across the pleated pink.