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She was perfect.
A living doll.
Four weeks ago when they’d met again, her face had been lovely in an ordinary sort of way. She was in her late twenties with long limbs, a trim waist, and perky round breasts. But she’d reached her full potential, which was sadly destined to fade with age. So he’d intervened, rescued her from her predictable life, renamed her Destiny, and enhanced her beauty by painstakingly tattooing her face.
Experience taught him flawless tattoo art began with detailed prep work. And knowing Destiny deserved the best, he took his time, first sedating her, then cutting off her brown hair and shaving her scalp and eyebrows until the skin was as smooth as glass. Next he used alcohol pads to clean the skin so there’d be no risk of infection.
Only when the canvas was ready did he reach for the first tattoo gun loaded with the finest of needles. It took a full day of meticulous work to cover the key portions with the base coat of white ink. And though there were times when his hands ached and his back stiffened, he refused to rush. Finally, when all the base color had been applied and the tiny amount of blood wiped clean, he tattooed gracefully arching eyebrows. Next came the rosy blush of color on the cheeks. Stippled freckles. Heart-shaped lips. He saved the eyes for last, permanently lining the upper and lower lids with the steady hand of a seasoned artisan.
Toward the end of the transformation, she began to wake, so he injected a fresh syringe of sedative into her IV line. Very quickly she drifted off to sleep again. The transformation had taken more time and drugs than he’d planned, but the end result was worth the complication of restocking his drug cabinet.
After the job was complete, he wrapped her head and face, knowing the healing process was critical to the best tattoo work. Infection and neglect ruined tattoos. He changed her bandages four times daily, understanding his work at this stage was akin to an open wound.
For her safety, he kept her drugged and hydrated with an IV bag hanging over a special reclining chair. And as she slept, he spent hours embellishing and tailoring the clothes to match her flawless features. Again and again, he gently removed her bandages and carefully washed her face.
Ten days of healing had passed, and he now stood back and studied her. All the hours of labor and the extra days of recovering had been worth it. The colors on her face were vibrant and vivid, the lines clear and sharp.
He’d dressed her in a plaid skirt and a white top that was formfitting but not overly tight in a vulgar sort of way. He turned toward the collection of wigs and vacillated between blond and auburn. Finally, he chose the blond wig with long locks that curled gently at the ends. All the wigs were natural, the best on the market. He’d even taken extra care to trim the bangs on this particular model so delicate wisps of hair brushed the tops of her painted brows.
The Dollmaker carefully settled the wig on her head, centered it, and after brushing it, braided the strands into two thick ropes. He slowly rolled on knee socks, savoring the silky smoothness of her freshly waxed calf, and then folded the white cotton neatly at the top. He slid on patent-leather shoes and fastened the buckles so they were snug but not too tight.
Destiny’s finishing touches included a small bracelet with a heart charm on her left wrist, and on her right hand, a delicate pinky ring. He painted her fingernails a pale pink, fastened delicate earrings, and dabbed hints of perfume behind her ears and on her wrists.
He stepped back, pleased. She was his living doll. A perfect mate.
He lifted her listless body and placed her on a red couch in front of a photographer’s screen. He angled her face to the side and propped it up with a silk pillow. He arranged her braids on her shoulders and fluffed her skirt. Reaching for his camera, he snapped a couple of pictures as he did with all his dolls.
Glancing in the viewfinder, he frowned, not liking what he saw. Her eyes were closed. And to have the right effect, they needed to be open.
Time to wake up.
“Destiny,” he whispered close to her ear. He ran his hand over her cheek, along the smocked edge of her blouse, and over the swell of her round breast. Drawn by her seductive lure, he squeezed her nipple. His body hardened, and unable to chase away temptation, he slid his hand under the skirt and caressed her.
She wasn’t ready for him yet. But she soon would be. He needed to be patient.
“Time to rise and shine.”
When she didn’t stir, he pulled an ammonia caplet from his pocket, snapped it, and held it close to her nose. She inhaled sharply as the acrid smell chased away the haze.
His Destiny doll looked up at her creator with a lovely look of bewilderment. Yes, her open eyes completed the look.
He snapped his fingers. “Wake up, my sweet little doll.”
She stirred and her eyes fluttered, but the sedatives still lingered. She was confused as she stared up at him. “Where am I?” she asked. “Am I getting better?”
“You’re perfect.”
She blinked, focused, and looked at her hands, now tattooed white like her face. She tried to rub off the ink, and when it didn’t smudge, confusion turned to worry. She pushed off the couch, but her legs wobbled as her head no doubt spun.
“Not too fast, Destiny. It’ll take time for the drugs to clear.”
She staggered a step, crumpled to one knee. “What’s happening? What have you done to me?”
“I’ve made you perfect.”
She looked at her delicately painted fingernails, and as her gaze rose, she caught her reflection in a large mirror he kept in his studio. She froze, shocked. Tears mingled with disbelief. “What have you done?”
He didn’t like the judgment in her voice. A perfect doll didn’t judge. It didn’t get angry. Look at you with disgust and horror. A perfect doll was still. Accepting.
“Shh,” he said. He put his camera aside and reached for a drink cup with a straw. “It’s okay. You’re fine.”
With a trembling hand, she touched the wig and then her bow lips. “I look like a freak!”
Worry crowded out his happiness. “Don’t say that. I’ve made you perfect.”
“I’m a monster!” Her hands trembled. Red-rimmed eyes spilled more tears.
He hated to see a woman cry. They used their tears to make him feel bad and to manipulate him. “Don’t be ungrateful.”
Shaking her head, she raised her hand to her head and felt the wig. “My hair?”
When she tried to tug the wig free, he brushed her hand away. “Don’t do that,” he said, trying to remain calm. “It took me a lot of time to get it right.”
“It’s not my hair. Not my skin.” She forced herself to stagger toward the mirror. Her face inches from her reflection, she gawked.
“You must be pleased with the work. You’re one of my best creations.”
She rubbed the round blush on her checks and the dots of freckles. Worry ignited in her eyes. “What have you done to me?”
“I’ve made you beautiful.” He snapped more pictures, enthralled by this instant of discovery. She might be shocked now, but she would be beholden to him when she realized the beauty of his work.
Her fingers curled into fists. “You’ve ruined me.”
“I’ve made you a living doll.”
With a yank, she pulled the wig off and smoothed her hand over her bald head. She screamed. The shrill sound cut through his head, shattering his calm.
She glanced wildly ar
ound at the large four-poster bed, the rocking chair, and the small table with the tea set. When she saw the door, she stumbled toward it. Her knees wobbled as her skirt skimmed the top of her shins.
She yanked on the knob, and realizing it was locked, screamed, “Let me go!”
“No one can hear you,” he gently said.
She pounded her fist on the hard wood, crying for help and mercy. “This is a nightmare!”
“You need to calm down. It’ll be all right. I have taken such good care of you.”
Her eyes blazed with hate and disgust. “You fucking freak!”
Her harsh words belied the angelic features. “That’s not necessary.”
“Like hell it’s not! Let me out of here! Let me go!”
As her raw words mingled with more weeping, he knew he had to silence her. Dolls were not supposed to speak, and Destiny was not supposed to cry.
He moved to his worktable and hurriedly dumped a powder into a glass. As she shrieked louder and pounded on the door, he added fruit-flavored water because he knew she’d like the taste.
Mixing the drink with a straw, he stood beside her. “Here, drink,” he said, raising the straw to her lips.
She slapped at his hand. Red drink sloshed on her white skin. “Get away from me. I’m not drinking anything else.”
“You have to drink,” he coaxed. “It’ll help you, and when you wake up, you’ll be better than you were.”
“How can I be who I was? This shit is all over me.” Her hands clutched into fists, she slowly slid to the floor, her legs crumpling under her like a rag doll.
“I promise. Drink this and you’ll be fine. You’ll see.” He pressed the tip of the straw to her lips that now were always smiling. “Please, drink.”
“I don’t want to drink.” She tried to stand but couldn’t rise. “I want to go home.”
“And I want you to go home, too.”
The Dollmaker wiped the tear from her cheek with his fingertip, pleased her face remained unspoiled. No smudged mascara or faded blush and lipstick. No one would undo his work.
She stared up at him, eyes large with fear and hope. Finally she sipped, her throat and mouth clearly parched.
