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Miranda And Her Doll
A sweet little girl...or is she?
P J Francis
Just an aspiring horror writer from the UK
|AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (15)
A Marriage Made In Heaven (Short Stories) A tale of revenge. [936 words] [Horror]
A Perfect Crime (Short Stories) One womans vengenance as a perfect crime. [1,048 words] [Horror]
Emotion (Poetry) - [39 words]
Ghostly Figures (Poetry) - [89 words] [Horror]
Gold (Short Stories) Lost hopes... [243 words] [Horror]
Hunters Moon (Short Stories) A creature is hunted. [1,768 words] [Horror]
Insignificance (Poetry) Life's meanings and hardships. [71 words]
Life's Essence (Short Stories) - [123 words]
Ode To A Tramp (Poetry) We forget about people that we don't see. [220 words]
The Daemonae-The First (Novels) This is a part of a dark fantasy/horror that I am writing. [4,721 words]
The Dog (Short Stories) - [258 words]
The Eye (Short Stories) - [138 words]
The Holly Tree (Short Stories) A dark fantasy tale. [1,399 words] [Horror]
The Tower (Short Stories) A man wrestles with his actions. [226 words] [Thriller]
The White Room (Short Stories) - [892 words] [Horror]
Miranda And Her Doll
P J Francis
“Today will be the day!” Miranda gleefully whispered to herself. “I think that I have everything…” she glanced down at the items laid out carefully on her pink princess duvet. “Yes! Now I can make a start!”
She sat down on the edge of her bed, and looked around the small box room that was her bedroom. It was too pretty-she hated it passionately. Her mother had decorated it three years previously, thinking that Miranda would love it. “A pretty room fit for a little princess!” She had said. But she hadn’t seen the look of horror on the small girls’ face.
Her mother never listened, Miranda thought. “Mother knows best…blah bloody blah!” A wry smile appeared on her face, “I’ll show her…!”
Miranda was thirteen years old, small, with elfin features, and large hazel all-seeing eyes. Her shoulder length blonde hair was gathered together loosely with a vivid purple scrunchie. Her mother fretted constantly that Miranda was an untidy girl, always wearing denim jeans and scuffed Adidas trainers. More often than not, Miranda was coerced into wearing long satin frilled dresses; her mother would preen over her hair for what would seem like hours, only to be disappointed when Miranda would rush to her room to brush it all out.
She had won one small victory though. She had got her beautiful long hair cut in to a shorter more manageable style. Miranda had originally wanted it a lot shorter than that, but after facing her mother’s tears and woeful tirade, she had conceded, and opted for shoulder length. Partly to appease her mother, but also to put a stop to the embarrassment that her mother was causing her. Still, it was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless!
Miranda picked up the book that was lying on the bed, mindful not to move the other items that rested there. Her hands caressed the leather bound tome, fingers nervously flitting through the dry ancient pages. Her nose wrinkled in disgust, “why do old books have to smell so Goddamn awful?” she thought silently. She sighed, and laid the book back on her bed, open to the pages that she sought. The large book looked incongruous lying there, yellow parchment against a background of bright pink duvet.
“Miranda. Miranda, honey? You up there, my sweetums?” a voice called from downstairs.
Miranda sighed in irritation, “Yes, mum, I’m up here! What do you want?”
“I hope you are doing your homework, and oh, don’t forget your daddy will be home late!”
“Ok mum” she replied, trying to keep the anger out of her voice. “Why don’t you ever shut up!” she whispered tearfully. “All I want is for you to shut up, and leave me alone!”
She sat there, tears of anger streaming down her red contorted face. She put her hands to her face, muffling the sobs, all the while trembling with frustration.
After a little while, she felt better, the tears had seemingly cleansed her mind, so she was free from distraction. Now, she could turn back to her task. She looked at the things on her bed and picked them up, one by one, letting her skin feel and sense the important objects; a photograph, a lock of rich auburn hair, a fragment of crimson red silk, and lastly the effigy of a little sexless clay doll.
The objects had been easy to obtain: she had plenty of family snapshots, so this one of her mother had been simple to get, the slip of red silk, easy; she had simply borrowed one of her mothers fancy scarves, and had purposely forgotten to give it back (her mother had plenty anyway Miranda thought); the hair-out of her mothers hairbrush, carelessly left laying on the bathroom floor. The other two items were a bit more harder in obtaining-too many questions about the strange parcel that had arrived for her, while Miranda had fretted that her mother would uncover the book on Santeria, and the strange little grey figure. But still, it had been relatively simple; the only drawback was waiting for the perfect time, the perfect opportunity that would arise. And it had; her father was working late, so she could use this moment to be alone with her mother. Her father wouldn’t understand why she was going to do this, but she had to obtain some form of control; simply, she had to be free of her mothers suffocating (and nauseating love).
She carefully picked up the little clay figure, fingers relishing the soft contact, and she rested it gently on her knees. She picked up the scissors, and photograph, looking at the small smiling image of her mother. She laughed bitterly, and started to carefully cut around the happy face. She scooped the little figure up, and gently pressed the circular picture into the soft clay.
She laughed with delight at the sight of the small doll wearing her mothers’ face. She picked up the scrap of crimson, and gently wrapped it around the doll's neck; it looked like blood-a red slash across its throat.
A gust of wind blew in from the open bedroom window, scattering the strands of auburn hair. Miranda cursed an oath her mother wouldn’t approve of, and she bent down to retrieve them. She panicked slightly as she couldn’t see the strands against the lilac background of carpet.
“Dammit, bloody dammit! Hell fire! Where are you, you god-damned whores hairs?” She cursed. She let out a sigh of relief; the sun was shining through the window, lighting up the hairs like strands of fire. She plucked them off the carpet, and holding them tightly to the window, she let the wind blow off the fragments of dust and fluff. She inspected them closely-it wouldn’t do for one of her hairs to be entangled in amongst her mothers.
She arranged the fine strands, and carefully pressed them on to the figure's head. Smiling she turned around so that she was facing the book, and reaching over, she pulled open her bedside cabinets draw. Her hand fumbled through the paraphernalia that lay within, until her hand located the small clear plastic box. She pulled her back, and closed the draw.
Inside the little box were some black headed pins. The joys of mail order-she had been delighted to learn of all the things that you could order on-line, and have them discreetly delivered to your door.
“No stopping me now, huh!” she whispered fervently.
Miranda slowly and carefully picked up the small doll that now resembled her mother. She picked up a pin, and holding her breath, she pushed the needle through the eye on the photographic doll's face. The pin slid in easy, like a hot knife through butter. She pushed it all the way through, so that the silver length of needle emerged through the back of the dolls head.
A wrenching scream, full of hurt and unbearable pain echoed throughout the house, followed by the clatter of smashing plates.
Miranda looked up and smiled; a smile full of beauty and corrupted innocence.
“This is going to be fun!” she whispered.
© PJ Francis2003
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© 2003 P J Francis
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