Sirens wail.
***
Black.
***
The bus driver was cleared of attempted murder; hailed a hero. Gerard – not his real name – did know me after all. He was a mate of my Dad’s, part of the same filthy gang. He didn’t die; he’s paralysed for life. That’s better than any punishment a court could hand out, though he’s in jail now too. The judge refused to give him a shorter sentence for squealing like a cowardly pig on Uncle Barry, Uncle Roger and the man who was to play the part of my father.
I stand here at the final hurdle. When they sentence the Spindle Queen to life imprisonment I cry my first tears for four years. Now she’ll know how it feels to live in a box. I hope it’s painted a sickly, pale green.
The woman from the bus who called the police is waiting for me in the hallway of the court. We’ve been talking. She stands and smiles, takes a tentative step towards me. I raise my eyes in hope, and she nods.
“It’s all agreed. Come on Grace, let’s go home.”
My bedroom window looks out over the prettiest garden I have ever seen. I can smell the roses from up here. And I have space; space to sleep, space to dance. Space to be me. I turn, slowly at first then twirl, spinning – my arms outspread. I am a ballerina, pink like the walls.
In here, there’s not a spot of green.
In here, there is no black. At least, not today.
Lily Childs likes to dally on the dark side where demons wear corsets and nothing is ever as it seems. Her fiction and poetry has been published in print and online. Find out more on her blog The Feardom at https://lilychildsfeardom.blogspot.com
**MIM**
The Doll Maker and the Rat
Chris Allinotte
Gavin was cold.
He pulled his smile on when the cell door opened, pulled on his Gavin face.
"Back again, huh doc?"
When there was no reply, he added, "Think this time'll cure me? Get me outta here?"
The doctor inclined his head, paused, and then said, "You seem to be in a good mood, today. That’s positive."
Gavin squinted against the sunlight flooding in from the window. He studied the doctor carefully. In turn, the doctor remained silent, waiting for his reply.
Gavin burst out laughing.
“You’re not a real doctor, are you?”
The doctor nodded, cleared his throat and continued, “We felt," he said, "that you weren't responding to traditional therapies."
“We?” shouted Gavin, “Who’s we?”
“My,” said the sleek-bellied rat, “You are clear today.” It sat back on its haunches and stroked its whiskers.
“Clear enough to see that you’re not my fucking doctor,” said Gavin.
“It seems a shame to squander this opportunity,” continued the rat doctor, unperturbed. “I’d still like to talk. If you’re willing, that is.”
Sunlight fell through the window onto Gavin’s face. He closed his eyes, and enjoyed the sensation, resting his head against the wall. Warm. After a moment more, he said, “Whatever you want, doc.”
"That’s just fine," said the doctor. "How about some word association?”
“You know all the games, don’t you?” replied Gavin. He looked back at the window, then smiled again, “Who starts?”
“That’s very clever, Gavin,” said the rat, his tone brighter, “A sense of humour can be very therapeutic.” Straightening up, the doctor’s voice took on a “down-to-business” tone, and he said, “Now. Please say the first thing that comes into your mind."
They began:
Hot.
Cold.
Tall.
Short.
Fat.
Disgusting.
Man.
Woman.
Woman.
Girl.
Girl.
Doll.
Doll.
Kill.
Doll.
Fffu…
Doll.
...
Gavin was starting to breathe hard. The world was starting to swim again. He wanted his special dolly. The one that couldn’t look at him. He’d hold it so tight. He’d stroke its soft hair. Soft. So soft. It would be good again.
"Now," the rat continued, "What do you think it is about dolls that unsettles you so?"
"Their eyes. They have those cold blue eyes that won't stop looking at me."
"I see," said the doctor, twitching his tail back and forth. "And what colour were your mother's eyes, Gavin?"
Gavin didn't reply. He went over to his tin lunch plate and picked at the crust of bread and scrap of cheese he’d left unfinished. There were some potato chips crumbs left, too. That was good. Salty.
"Would you please answer me, Gavin?" said the doctor, his tone sharp. Immediate. "What colour were your mother's eyes?"
Gavin knew the answer would cause trouble, but what could he do? They would keep asking until he told. Merciless bastards. This rat was no different. He was another part of their “Wellness” machine.
"Blue," he mumbled.
"I see," said the doctor, scratching his nose, "We're making some real progress here today, Gavin. I'm very proud of you."
"Sure," said Gavin. “Great. He ran his finger around the edge of the plate, gathering up potato chip crumbs. Closing his eyes, he sucked the salt off of his fingers.
“Tell me about the buttons, Gavin," said the doctor.
"What?" said Gavin. He'd thought they were going to talk about the Bitch. Memory was battering at him. Memory inside his Gavin mind.
He'd spilled mother's cup on the living room floor.
Mother asked him to please meet her in the guest bedroom—that sterile, not-for-you chamber where her china doll collection resided. Row upon row of baby-doll eyes watched. His screams fell upon dozens of uncaring ears, and two that were inhuman.
Gavin stood up and looked out the window. The view here was all right. Warm yellow sunshine painted the expansive lawn a violent, vibrant green. The sight cheered him, and brought him back to now, where the “doctor” was growing impatient.
“We lost you for a minute there,” said the doctor. While Gavin had been inside his thoughts, the rat had climbed the vinyl padding on the wall and now sat perched on the windowsill. Seeing the rat mere inches from his face made Gavin back up a few steps.
Unfazed, the rat continued, “What were you thinking about just now, Gavin? Was it your mother?”
“Yeah.”
Gavin, turned away.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Alright then. Let’s continue talking about the buttons.”
"The doctor last week knew all this stuff," said Gavin. He hated the sulky tone he heard in his Gavin voice.
"Enlighten me," said the doctor. Cold and condescending, he added "Tell... me ... about...the...buttons...Please."
The words were dull spikes being pounded in Gavin’s ears. It was enough. Enough questions, enough tests. Gavin screamed and lunged at the doctor. He meant to rip the doctor’s tiny throat out with his teeth if he could.
The rat doctor squealed, jumped off the windowsill, then darted to the door.
Gavin's momentum carried him face first into the wall. He cried out and sat down hard.
Cowering by the door, the doctor stared at him with his queer red-black eyes and said, "That was unnecessary.”
Rubbing his throbbing and bleeding nose, Gavin said, “You were bullying me. I hate bullies.”
His voice still high and panicked, the doctor tried to regain composure, saying, "You might have simply told me that."
Shaking his head, Gavin smiled. “That was more fun.” He wiped his nose. Blood. Gavin blood.
The doctor crept along the wall. "What do you suggest we do, Gavin?" It stopped. "Sooner or later, you have to think about what you did."
Images spun in his Gavin mind: matted hair, wet, choked screams, and his blade pushing past resisting skin and flickin
g out those eyes. Blue. Cruel. Bad eyes. Hard press of the needle. Nice, quiet button eyes. His dollies. Perfect playmates. No more blue. No more bad eyes. Quiet, lovely dollies. Soft. Nice. Soft. So soft. He hugged them all goodnight before he left them propped up against the pillows.
No dollies now. No more. Only this cell. This window. This rat.
Gavin sighed."I don’t know, Doc. Maybe I should just off myself?”
The Doctor nodded, "That is an interesting suggestion."
Snorting, Gavin replied, “That’s not very doctor-like of you, is it? Aren’t you supposed to be trying to cure me?”
The Doctor made a small clicking sound in his throat, then cleared it with a tiny but perfectly human “ahem”. Coming to the middle of the floor, it looked up and said, "I’m saying, Gavin, that if you refuse to discuss your crimes, you aren’t going to get any better, and you’ll stay here until you die.”
Gavin didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Bizarre as this whole thing was, the rat was right.
“And if that’s the case,” continued the rat doctor “Today is as good a day to die as ten years from now, isn’t it?”
Scratching his right bicep, where the white jackets always jabbed their nasty “calm-down” needles, Gavin considered, then said, “Have you got a better idea?"
"I do," said the rat. “Go with it. Talk to me.” It walked closer, and nosed by his foot a little before continuing, “We were already making progress, weren’t we?”
Gavin remained silent. His Gavin mind was silent, too. For once.
He looked down at the doctor rat. “Progress?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. Lots of progress, really,” the rat said.
The rat paused to clean a forepaw. It made an unpleasant, moist licking sound.
"Anyway," it continued, "What have you got to lose? This can only help," it finished, sounding almost cheerful.
Gavin went back to the window. The sun felt so good. Warm.
"It'll help,” he repeated. “Maybe. Except now, I'm talking to rats."
"We've all got problems,” said the rat with a shrug, “I've got delusions that I’m a psychiatrist in an insane asylum."
A long minute passed between them. The rat’s final words hung between them like a gossamer brick.
Fuck it, Gavin thought, just go with it.
“Alright,” he said, with a laugh, “Let’s talk.”
"Excellent," said the rat, scuttling over to the remains of Gavin's lunch. “My first question is the most important.”
“And that is?”
“Are you going to eat this?”
Chris Allinotte lives in Toronto, Canada, and is only a little bit crazy- but it’s that bit that does the writing.
Look for Chris’s work next in Static Movement’s “Unquiet Earth” anthology of Zombie flash fiction. For more stories, check out: https://chrisallinotte.blogspot.com
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