(once, long ago, there was an Empty Spaces Anthology. This was the longer of my two stories in it.) There is a type of rot that breeds in silences, a moist decay that drips through the cracks in your life and softens your thoughts with its insidious warmth. It’s the sort of thing that lingers long after it was first welcomed in, that never quite leaves— “Miss,” the doll’s plaintive voice echoes through the bedroom door, “are you in there?” ...
“I’m sorry you had to see me like that. I never wanted you to know that side of me. I wanted,” a drop of blood slides down her perfect teeth, “I wanted to keep you safe.” This isn’t when the doll found her in the woods, covered in stolen blood. This is some time after. She’s cleaned up, mostly, freshly showered. Her still-wet mane looks faintly depressed with so much of its volume gone. It smells good, though, like a tropical vacation that she’s never had the money to have. ...