24 In The Killers Dollhouse (2/2)

Alice was gentle on them. She killed them with a single blow each.

As they lay limp near me, I wondered what had caused her to be so merciful to them.

”Oh, old age. I respect those that live uneventful lives and remain happy,” she sighed as she closed in the space between us. ”Do you know why I killed them, though?” I refused to answer her.

”Stop being so stubborn,” she whined. ”You're no fun.”

I didn't want to be any fun for her. The more interest she gained in me, the harder she tried to break me.

She just couldn't find my story; I didn't break character, so she kept me.

But I wanted to break character and I had finally decided to do just that.

So I defied her. I fought her to the fullest.

”I'll tell you the answer, anyway,” she chirped. ”I want to cook you a wonderful meal today and I was an ingredient short. Food is a priority, right?” she giggled as she skipped away.

I stared at her back in horror and she approached the couple with a butcher knife.

I couldn't believe my eyes. I couldn't even close them.

I stared and stared.

I screamed as I saw her detach limb from limb and place them on a plate she had brought with her. She went on to scrape the meat from the bones and clean it out with her hands.

”Don't worry, I will wash the blood off,” she told me.

But what did that mean?

”Remember, Evie. You must cook your meal in a sanitary manner.”

As she walked back to the portable kitchen I saw her wrap some of her carvings into a box and store it for later.

I remember the distinct smell of her cooking. I remember how she wretched my mouth open and forced forkful of her 'meal' into my mouth. I remember the churning of my gut, the stench of puke and the feeling of stickiness on my skin as she made me eat every single piece of meat she had cooked.

I remember her laughing and telling me that I was pretending not to enjoy the unique taste. That I was just like her, a little girl with a big appetite.

I remember her eyes as she glared at me when I refused to hold the fork. I remember the feeling of lashes on my back, my thighs, the color of blood soaking through the white shirt she put me in ever so often.

I remember shakily taking the spoon and wailing as I tried to stomach it all, as I tried to not be in pain.

I hated the pain.

I really hated it.

I just wanted it to end.

”Please kill me,” I begged her one day when I saw her taking out a limb wrapped in plastic.

”What's the fun in that? I want you to try my cooking, I am just learning and I need someone to give me tips.”

'Why me?' I kept asking myself.

”Now, we will defrost the meat and then you will help me prepare the ingredients,” I remember sobbing as I protested. I remember her slicing at my arm with the knife she was cutting the vegetables with. I remember her mixing salt with water and my eyes widening in horrified anticipation.

The drops felt like death.

I gave in.

She handed me the bloodied knife she had hurt me with. She made me chop carrots and onions with it. I tasted a disgusting metallic tang in the food that day.

And that was only the beginning.