I glance at the handmade doll in my fist.
Its big, beady, button eyes glare back at me.
Its head is sagging and I fear it will roll off.
I’ve stitched it together, made it out of nothing.
I sewed my hatred into this thing.
Now it seems to be seething with rage.
It is full to the brim with poison.
All I must do is torture it.
And although I will not hear it scream, I know my victim will be crying with agony somewhere out of my sight.
I know I control my victim, shortly before it dies.
I can dip it into boiling oil.
I can always repair this doll.
But the burns will sear through living flesh.
I can cut its limbs off with scissors.
I can always sew them back onto the doll.
But my victim will be left handicapped and helpless.
I can throw it against a wall.
The doll will always bounce back, undamaged.
But I will break the bones of my victim.
I can bury it deep underground.
I can always dig it up later.
But my victim will suffocate to death.
I glance at the handmade doll in my fist.
Its lifeless, cold eyes glaring back at me.
Its head is sagging and I fear it will roll off before I can wrench it off.
I’ve stitched it together, made it out of warm cloth and thread.
I sewed my revenge into this thing.
Now it seems to be seething with pity.
It is full to the brim with tears.
All I must do it set it free.