His Doll Novels & Stories

She said, "There was that obvious tombstone at the door, and we see this right after coming in. Maybe the tool for exorcism is around here..." She gave the dummy a squeeze and said, "A silicone doll? It looks like a sex toy. Where do you think they get this from..." Cyrus was speechless. "Hahahahaha, what was she thinking of?! I didn't think of it that way if she hadn't said it!" Suggestive and teasing comments popped up. "The doll is so realistic. I think it costs tens of thousands of dollars... Did they spend so much on a prop? The show must have quite the budget! What brand is it? Could they let us know? I want to buy one... for research purposes..."

It sort of made sense now how her fiancé could have hidden his true sexual orientation from her for as long as he had – I could imagine that it is rather easy to hide behind the fancy dress tea parties and floral print. “What do you do for a living?” I asked her, giving in to my curiosity. She smiled and set down her teacup daintily before she went to a cupboard and pulled out a doll – one that looked almost identical to me. “I make dolls, porcelain dolls of course.” she beamed as she handed me the doll. “I sell them to collectors or to people who want to have a physical representation of their darling children to remember them by as they grow up.”

I try to take care of her at work and outside work, her husband does everything he can to keep her out of trouble. Norah pouts, and I pull her out of the kitchen until we're in a safe, quiet zone. She shows me a small vile wrapped in a silky napkin, watching with wide eyes to see my reaction. "What the hell is that?" I have to ask. She grins. "It's another poison to add to my collection. I finally got the belladonna extract," she explains. "Are you crazy?" I whisper-shout, looking around. "This is a restaurant! You have to stop bringing them here!"

She was asleep. It is a strange thing, to find the person who has been traded and paraded sleeping like a child at the center of your fortress. Her hair had slipped loose from whatever pins had contained it earlier in the evening; a few dark strands fanned over the pillow. The black silk of her gown had been changed for something softer a plain night dress, maybe something Martha had insisted on and she looked smaller than I expected, a figure reduced by vulnerability. For reasons that surprised me even as they rose, I felt afraid.

"Trust me, Isabella. You're not there to belong. You're there to conquer." I look at myself in the mirror. Maybe it's time to show New York I'm nobody's property. "Okay. What time?" "Seven. I'll pick you up." Two hours later, I stand before my closet. I choose a navy silk dress. Simple, elegant, with a back that plunges dangerously low. This dress is a weapon. Every step I take is a promise of war. The doorbell rings. My heart pounds. Julian stands there in a white polo and khakis.

Dressed in an off-shoulder red gown that clung to her like a second skin, her hair swept up in curls, her smile sparkling with the exact amount of sugar and arsenic. “Barbie!” she said, her voice loud and warm. “You came! You look... stunning.” I could feel eyes on me as I smiled back. “Thanks. You too. You don't look bad yourself " “And Dolly! I’m so glad you could make it.” Dolly gave a nod that said, "what, you thought I'd get hit by a bus?" "no, I'm just glad you're here" She smiled. Zoe looped her arm through mine. “Come, come, there’s someone I want you to see.”

So technically, it was just me, Louisiana, Jake, Ashley, William, and the servants in the house. “Hi, baby,” I said as I sat beside her and slid my arm around her small shoulders. “Mommy got you Diddy.” I held up the doll, shaking it lightly in front of her, its soft fabric brushing against her arm. It was her favorite. She had named it after our dog that died in a car accident. “Thanks, Mommy,” she said, flashing me a quick smile before turning back to the cartoon, her eyes lighting up again as the screen flickered.

“I want to see Dolly. It’s urgent, family business.” He narrowed his eyes at me, and then smiled coyly. “If you create a scene I can’t guarantee that someone ..gentle would throw you out this time. If you know what I mean. She’s up in her office.” I ignored his sassy comment and walked towards hell. Dolly was a woman who liked to think of herself high and sophisticated. With short blonde hair and a faux long jacket, she looked like a washed out older wannabe version of Marilyn Monroe. I met her on a call leaning back on her oversized arm chair, a cigarette in between her chipped red painted nails. I waited until she was done and dropped the receiver on the telephone.

"Fight as much as you want. I will only enjoy making your life more miserable, doll." The word suited her far too well. A doll was soft and breakable, something beautiful enough to dress in expensive things and display for everyone to admire while its owner alone knew how easily it could be damaged. Her breath caught at the name and brushed against my lips, but the firm line of her mouth remained.