Dollhouse

The child walked down to the basement. As she descended the seemingly never ending stairs, the little one could feel her heart pounding, nearly exploding, inside her of chest. This next moment would be like so many others before. She knew it; the thought terrified her, and yet she was helpless to stop it. She hastily stepped over the one squeaky board that was always interpreted as maniacal laughter. He heard the step, and he chuckled as he always did. Perhaps this is why she imagined the board as such. Each time she stepped was an invitation to him. His prey, his little beloved doll, was approaching yet again. Though, this was no difficult task. He need only beckon, and his doll would come. The pain endured in such moments in the cellar were no where near as traumatic as the excruciating agony if she did not obey. So obey she did.

Once, there was a small lightbulb that swung carelessly in the middle of the floorplan. One night, however, in a terrible fit of anger, he swatted it, and crushed in as he caught it between his hands. Since then, so many moments ago, he had never bothered to replace the bulb. The girl, truthfully, preferred this. Not seeing his face was easier, made it less difficult to pass him in the morning on her way to catch the bus to school. He rather liked it too. He basked in the darkness, but he had always enjoyed seeing her pretty doll face writhe beneath him in his fingers. He always enjoyed watching her squirm. There was a silent satisfaction granted in each of her doll tears. It was like she came alive, and he, in turn, became alive too.

She stepped down from the last stair in nothing but her pink socks and light green night gown. This was how he liked it- he enjoyed the innocence of her stare, the simpleness of her attire. She did not put on airs, it seemed. Was she playing a game? Was the blank expression written on her face the true doll? Or was the agony he brought forth, embedded deep within, what was genuine? He was never really sure, but the game, the chase, was one he could not move away from. She never smiled, and this he revered. Such a tough little doll, but oh, he would crack her. He would break down those barriers as he had so many times.

There was nothing near either of them from any side. To the far corner near a shaded window was a small table. He often kept his tools here, various wrenches, hammers, sautering stations. Though his real tools were near as well. The countless china dolls and teddy bears, each with its own blank, slate look that cut him deep within. What was hidden behind a doll's eyes? This was his quest. The stepdaughter's mouth, so innately similar to that of his favorite china doll; it was like torture having to keep himself composed during the regular routine. But here, he could be free to explore every single crack in this child, every little dark speck that clung to her body. She was beautiful, truly. Standing there like a sallow queen. And he, her limitless king. Pushing boundaries farther and farther each time.

Gestures were small at first. Extra bedtime kisses at night, a few more pats on the tummy in passing. But then gestures turned into a depth of unquestionable emotions. He needed to feel her for what she was. A beautiful, swineful doll-girl. So gestures became pets. Patting became deep thrusts after midnight. And each time she was left confused, sick, breathless, and terrified beyond imagine of when or where it might happen next. Eventually, the basement became the meeting place. She knew when it was time. The silence of the house called for its own reverence. Sometimes, though, he would beckon. A tiny whistle, a soft, maniacal, unexplainable laughter. A terrifying laughter, no doubt. It was the terror that brought her back. She was just a child after all.

She would not meet his eyes. She would look, of course, but she was never really "there" in moments such as this. She could gaze up him for hours, if that's what it took, but she would never really allow herself to see. He could imagine whatever was necesarry for the engagement to begin. Anything to make it pass quickly. His hand rose swiftly to her jaw. It was as if he had never moved, but his hands were upon her. Moving down from undeveloped breast, small, meek nipple, to her peckish thighs. Eventually he would find her special spot as he always had. Sometimes, he thrusted his fingers into her without warning. Other times, he gracefully danced around her femininity as if she got some kind of pleasure out of it. Perhaps he had wanted her to, or perhaps he enjoyed watching her grimace and squirm above him. His eyes, could they be seen, would have never left hers. Even if she closed them or looked away, he would watch. Wait for that spark of emotion, that fire from deep within that only he could set aflame. Only he could bring out the waste within her.

He gingerly lifted her dress above her head. She did not make much effort to move, and so he took it off entirely. Standing there, cold, defeated, ashamed, and hardly being able to process such emotions, she gasped. A breath full of squallid air, a future comprised of oppression and powerlessness. This what all she had ever known, this torment and anguish of a life that has never truly lived; a life that perhaps he had missed as well. He unbottoned his jeans and took himself into his own hand. He continued to feel the inches and seams of her body, clenching his teeth and biting his lips and he lavished in the emotionless china doll. He finally released into his hand, wiping off remnants on her night gown. These moments never lasted very long, and she appreciated this. To her, though, the concept of time had shattered long ago. These tiny moments seemed to last for hours. Any amount of time spent was far too long.

He threw the night gown back in her direction. She could feel the cold, wet left overs of his DNA. She was forced to redress as it would be more endangering to challenge him, and save her the embaressment of walking up and through the house naked. She heard the zip of his pants and knew that, at least for tonight, it was over. The moment had passed. Without movement or stumble, she stood, basking in the degredation of his seed. He walked past her, tustling her soft dark hair as he passed. Only when she heard the creak of the stair and the door open and shut did she feel somewhat safe. Pausing a moment later, she collapsed onto the concrete floor on her knees. Sounds of crunched bone escaped her body. The groud was cold and unforgiving, but this was something she had experienced so often, just in another form. This pain was nothing like the malice and lunacy she suffered through from day to day. A silent sobbed escaped her lips as she stared down at the blankness of her body, and into the blankness of her soul. The little china doll shed a tear as she gathered her spirit as she travelled up the stairs to prepare for her next encounter.