Page 45 of Miserable Marionette

Her eyes widen as she makes it to my straining cock, and I have to fight to keep the smirk off my face.

Her thighs press together, and I wonder if she’d want it so bad if she knew the number of times I’ve debated shoving it inside a corpse. The number of times I’ve considered opening up a hole on an ugly puppet and fucking it raw. Not because I want to. The thought, while not disgusting to consider, does nothing for me.

But to punish her the way she’s punished me every time she’s opened her soft thighs. Every time a hand has touched her that wasn’t attached to me. Even miles away, somehow I knew.

Audrey doesn’t make a sound as she suddenly lies down on her bed and jerks the covers up over her, tucking them to her chin.

I finally smile, letting her see it as I lean down and snag the doll, I was here to find a week ago, from underneath her nightstand.

Krissy is back in her original dress, the ones I made nowhere to be found, but the years haven’t been kind to the doll. I dust her off gently, reverently, even if my puppet doesn’t care. The girl I grew up with would insist I was nothing less than a gentleman to Krissy. The Audrey from my memories would sob if she knew her Krissy had been neglected, unloved. If she knew, she’d grow up to be the same. Her lips part, sucking in air like she’s about to do it, like she’s about to speak. My pulse jumps as she silently lets the breath go, her eyes swimming with new tears as I tuck Krissy into her side.

“Get some rest, puppet.”

Her eyelids heavily flutter at that, like her body has been waiting for permission.

Her hand grips Krissy, dragging her deeper into her side as she closes her eyes. She’s out before I lean down, pressing a deceptively soft kiss to the top of her head, sucking her through my lungs like it’s the last breath I’ll ever take.

21

Neglecting Dust

Gideon, Present Day, 1994

My eyes track everything, taking note of every scuff of paint, every family photo in need of dusting as I make my way toward the dated fridge, updated since I left but not before her parents did. Not before the only people left to care for her abandoned her in this house all alone. It’s loud, just a decibel or two over the acceptable hum of a home. She probably doesn’t even notice; Audrey has gotten used to the decay.

I can fix that.

A scowl pulls down my features as I wrench the door to the fridge open, finding it nearly empty. A few quick strides to the pantry find not much more than ingredients for spaghetti, oats, or cereal, canned foods not enjoyable on their own but meant to be tossed into an amalgamation of something vaguely consumable.

Gideon, Eleven Years Old, 1977

My shoes scuff along the hardwood as I let myself into Audrey’s house, her mom letting out a shocked gasp as she stirs something in a large pot on the stove. It smells good, but something else doesn’t. There’s something burnt, a subtle layer of smoke throughout the house, casting all its warm oranges and wood-paneled walls in a faded haze. I wrinkle my nose, but step further inside. Something heavy thuds behind me onto the porch.

“Well, shut the door, Gideon. You’ll let the heat out,” Mrs. Fisher chastises. I just nod my head, stepping inside the bad-smelling room and shutting the door. I don’t care if it stinks. I’m here to see Audrey; she’s been holed up inside with her Christmas presents, refusing to stop playing since she got them three days ago. As much as I usually enjoy breaks from school, I find myself wanting to go back as quickly as possible just to have more of her time. “She’s in her room,” she offers, turning back to her pot and effectively dismissing me, not commenting on why there seems to be a fire in the home.

I hear her dad cough from further back in the house, making my brows knit together.

The deeper I go down the hall, the worse the smell gets, a chill in the air that the entryway didn’t have.

When I make it to Audrey’s room, her dad is standing at an open window fanning it with a magazine as a teary-eyed Audrey sits on her bed. The smoke burns my eyes, but I step in anyway, going straight to her. Then I wait, knowing eventually someone will explain. Just as she sniffles, opening up her mouth to speak, her dad finally notices me, interrupting her.

“Hey, Gid! Snag one of those magazines in the bathroom and help me fan this out. We had a bit of a mishap, but it’s alright, right Auds? Nothing to get worked up over, kiddo.”

I frown but do as I’m told, not taking my eyes off Audrey until I have to. My jaw clenches as her lip wobbles, determined not to cry in front of him. After I’ve gotten one of the Good Housekeeping magazines they keep in a rack by the toilet, I stalk back to the room, rounding her bed, finally seeing the darkened bits of hardwood and crusty black char of… something. It gets clearer as I start fanning, finally spotting the burned remains of her blue Easy-Bake Oven on the porch outside. My lips quirk up in an almost smile. Almost.

Her dad curses under his breath. “Damn thing went up in flames,” he explains, even though I didn’t ask.

That seems to break Audrey, a weird, strangled cry leaving her throat. Like she’d rather choke than let it out. I’ve never seen her do that before. It’s stupid, and it’s making me mad. I stop fanning, my brows knitted together as I whirl on her, oddly incensed by the whole thing, my head buzzing. “Just cry if you want to cry.”

Her big hazel eyes turn from me to her dad as he slaps me on the back with his magazine, motioning for me to keep fanning out the smoke. He lets out another chest-heavy cough before speaking. “It’s okay to cry when it counts. Like if ya get hurt real bad or something. But if you do it over every little thing, it doesn’t count for anything anymore. Right, Auds?”

She sniffles again, her chin wobbling so hard her teeth clank together, and that hot feeling in my chest rises. I turn to him, to say what, I’m not sure, when she speaks up. “I don’t need to cry, it’s just cold in here now.”

It’s a lie. A stupid lie, and the buzzing gets louder. They don’t take good care of Audrey. I decide quickly; I hate them for it.

Gideon, Present Day, 1994

The keychain jingles together as I jerk it up from the mess on the small coffee table, upsetting an empty used cup and stacks of unopened bills. It takes me mere seconds to remove her house key and pocket it, checking on Audrey one last time, then I’m out the door, my boots crunching on gravel before they’re traded for pavement. Awareness pricks my neck, pulling my attention back to the line of police. Braylon emerges from the woods with his gaggle of officers that seem to defer to him, despite not being in any leadership position. County will be little more than support crew now that the state police are taking the helm, with the newly local medical examiner’s help, of course. I don’t lift my head fully until I do. My rimmed glasses slip on my nose, just a bit, my hand drawing up to push them back before offering him a wave. He returns it, but he watches.