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The farmhouse is backlit with cool light, cradled in the silvery embrace of the full moon - stars fill the sky. Dollface peers up at the brightly lit room on the second floor. It’s very late, but the light illuminating the space is siren-blinding, shines like a beacon. She can clearly see the edge of a white dresser and the end of a white bed.
Dollface cocks her head and thinks she can make out pink sheets, pretty pink hearts on the walls. She turns and takes light steps to the front door, smiling all the way.
A girl’s room. Dollface wonders what she looks like, and hopes she’s awake. Hopes she’s the one who opens the door and answers her question.
No luck. An older man opens the door and squints at her with bland confusion. She stops herself from peering up again at that warmly lit window. The girl will wake up soon if she hasn’t already.
Dollface stands for a long moment in silence, and then starts on an exhaled breath like she’s nervous.
“Is… Tamara home?”
Dollface holds the father’s neck steady and feels her face heat up, excited.
She’s close to that room. The girl’s room.
She keeps holding his neck as blood spills over her fingers and her breath comes quicker, lets his body fall laboriously to the floor as pin-up girl and sackface peer down at him and breathe heavy, the slow crawl of blood across the hardwood shining with the moonlight from the open window.
How old is she, what does she look like, and will she put up a fight?
She enters the pink room and stops at the foot of the bed. Against all odds, to her amazement, the girl is asleep.
Dollface feels giddy and greedy at the sight of small painted feet haphazardly kicking the blankets away.
Dollface walks quietly, quietly to the side of the bed and kneels down to examine the girl she’s been curious about since they pulled up to the house.
At first glance, and at lengthy study, the girl is beautiful.
Dollface watches her chest rise and fall in a trance, watches her pulse in her throat, the black silky spill of hair against her pillows.
A beautiful girl. She can’t tell how old she is exactly, but figures she must be something like sixteen. Sweet sixteen. She glances at the record player on the dresser and smiles.
Dollface lightly touches her arm, lying limp against the sheets, and the girl remains still. Truly like a wonderfully preserved corpse - if not for the gentle, sluggish rise and fall of her chest.
Dollface quickly grows bored with the tender scene of the girl in serene sleep, and wants to see the fear on her face when she wakes.
There is something aggravating, though, about the idea of never again being able to look at her in such a relaxed, unaware state that isn’t blunt-force induced. Peaceful sleep.
Well, she reasons quickly, there can be no shortage of pretty sleeping girls to kill. Still….
She takes another look at the girl. Dollface puts a blushing hand to her cheek; is this love?
When she wakes, until she dies, she’ll be nothing but afraid.
But Dollface wants more range. She looks for the pulse in her throat and thinks magnanimously that you can’t have everything.
Dollface stands and looks down at her sleeping face.
She listens to the crickets outside and the still silence of the house, save for the occasional sound of the other two.
As her hand glides lower and slips underneath the dated nightgown, she hears the distinct sound of his footsteps closing in on them.
He glances at her for a moment as he slouches his way into the pink room, shoes shuffling quietly on the carpet as his eyes find the sleeping girl. He looks at Dollface’s finger slip from beneath the nightgown to rest on the girl’s leg, and he blinks.
Dollface tilts her head at him and wonders if he likes what he sees. Does he care that the girl is beautiful? She doesn’t think so. His eyes aren’t particularly interested; they look flat like still water.
She can hear him wheeze as he stops at the foot of the bed, her initial vantage point.
It seems he sees something she missed. Eager for a look at her face, her cognizance cut short.
She can hear his breath come quick, quick like their collective breath when the blood seeped out of the father’s neck.
She joins him on the floor and sees it.
Blood pools on the pink sheets and stains her nightgown, dripping in a sluggish line from her leg to the edge of the bed.
Dollface blinks and pulls her mask off in one quick, careless motion.
Sackface kneels at the end of the bed and grips the pristine white wood as he gazes with black hole affection at the trail of blood. Dollface feels her own heartbeat pick up at the look in his eyes: he wants to do more than kill the girl. Two against one! Pin-up girl won’t be interested in this.
Dollface holds back laughter; what a freak. He’ll fuck anything as long as it bleeds? She side-eyes him and reaches out as if to tug on the end of his mask.
Sackface stands leisurely, patience wearing abnormally thin, and leans over the sleeping girl to drag her further down the bed by the waist so he can press his
The girl wakes sluggishly, and with a truly bizarre lack of urgency.
The sight of her in motion makes Dollface feel almost high. She stretches irritably and turns to the right, muttering something.
The white lace sleeve of her nightgown slips and Sackface’s breath comes faster as his eyes keep feverish watch on the dripping bloody hole between the girl’s legs.
She hasn’t even opened her eyes.
“Sam, seriously, stop…” her voice is slurred with sleep.
Dollface pauses. Sam? Sam who regularly visits her late at night? Boyfriend?
She looks at Sackface’s hands gripping the girl’s waist with careless, bruising strength and her curiosity is uselessly piqued.
Sackface stills as soon as he hears her speak, but resumes his dragging when she goes silent. His hands tighten around her waist and his eyes are riveted to the sopping mess of blood coating her panties, and her gown, and the sheets.
The girl seems to register her unpleasant state as she groans and reaches a lethargic hand down to press against the wet crease. She pulls back reflexively when she presses too harshly against her puffy lip, sensitive and visible against the tangle of blood wetting the fabric.
“Sam, thas gross…. An’ I’m tired.”
Sackface watches her own hand press weakly and hesitantly against the slippery red maw of blood staining the white, hears her soft pleading voice and starts to feel a bit light-headed, impatient. The feeling is an unfamiliar one.
Her fingers come away red, the metallic scent nauseating. She makes a high whining sound as she attempts to kick the blankets off of her entirely.
Dollface feels the moment linger like a painting: the girl softly and almost inaudibly slurs her protest at waking up to pain and blood, wiping her fingers off on her inner thigh. “Hurts.”
The girl pushes with no real strength against Sackface’s hands, starting to make strange, tiny soothing motions back and forth, rubbing gently like she’s apologizing.
Sackface watches her lips form the word with hungry eyes - no longer a placid, vapid lake - and curiously allows the gentle, rhythmic touch.
She sees Sackface and her face shutters in helplessness and horror.
Dollface thinks with some amusement that she wishes she could trade places with the girl for a moment. She imagines she can feel the girl’s heartbeat, terribly fast, and feel that sinking, sickening sensation in her stomach.
Dollface knows there will be other girls. She doubts there will be prettier girls, but there will be others.
She doesn’t know if they’ll freeze up like this girl, be quiet as a mouse, and have the strength of one as she weakly pushes against his hands, or if they’ll cry like she does, miserably before he’s even ——?
Sackface watches her mouth form the word through tears, head empty of anything other than surviving this, and finds he doesn’t mind the sound of it.
“Please.”
He’s heard that one a lot, though never in a circumstance quite like this.
This is new.
He holds the girl against him and grips her upper arms tightly to keep her in place, head bent to watch the rapid, hysterical heaving of her chest.
Dollface stands in front of her and smiles.
“You’re pretty.” Her voice is low and taunting, compliment cold.
The girl cries harder at her words and shifts, worthless with misery, against Sackface’s grip.
She listens to the constant sound of his low wheezing breath coming faster and faster as Dollface lifts her nightgown up and stares at her stomach.
Dollface laughs. “I’m kind of nervous, talking to a girl this pretty.”
The girl’s eyes shift listlessly to the side, lip trembling and tears soaking her gown, as Sackface releases one arm and wraps his hand loosely around her throat.
The girl’s breath speeds up, rabbit-fast as she’s flooded with a mute, surreal, all-consuming fear; the oppressive, weighted, unendurable fear of a nightmare.
Sackface feels an unwelcome sense of urgency, uneasily certain the girl will go into cardiac arrest soon if Dollface doesn’t stab her first. He wants her awake for that part. He doesn’t think he’d mind if she passed out when he was fucking her, but he wants her awake for the knife. He wants to feel her breathing slow, pulse grow weak against his hand. Weak, but not silent. He doesn’t want her dead yet. He looks up from her small chest heaving in bird-bone fright to see Dollface’s happy smile as she glides the knife from her collarbone to her belly button, poking and prodding the bare skin before she drives it into the soft swell of her lower stomach.
Sackface feels his face heat up at the sight of the knife disappearing into that sweet soft spot, where he imagines the womb is. The girl shrieks and wails, the most noise she’s made all night, clutching her stomach in an agonized panic as she bleeds. He stares at the gaping wet wound with rotted longing and tightens his grip on her neck with some frustration as she struggles with a renewed sense of mindless terror.
Sackface stares and stares, doesn’t even feel her struggle, breath harsh and harder than he’s ever been in his life.
She’s bleeding everywhere. He pictures the throat he’s wrapped around bleeding and blinks quickly.
Dollface holds the big kitchen knife and turns it back and forth in her hand with an eager, manic affectation of childish boredom.
She tries to hold the girl’s gaze but it’s fixed with comatose intensity on Sackface’s hand.
Dollface licks into the girl’s bleeding mouth like a dog, sloppy and wet.
Dollface trails the knife up underneath the billowy blood-stained fabric of the girl’s nightgown and Sackface lifts it up over her head and tosses it on the floor in a messy heap, blood digging into the fibers of the carpet.
Dollface ekes out a little disbelieving chuckle at the sight of the pretty girl crying and covered in blood, with her pretty white nightgown on the floor.
The girl makes a pained, startled whimpering sound that grows in pitch to a low whine as Sackface picks her up, his hand hot on her bare back. Dollface follows them to the bed and sits propped up against the headboard with her legs on either side of the girl’s body.
She starts shaking her head and crying silently when Sackface climbs up to kneel near the end of the bed, roughly widening her legs to fit himself between them.
The girl thinks blankly that she’s about to be in a lot of pain, but he just leans back and stares at the bloody wound on her stomach.
Dollface watches the steady stretch and paws at the girl’s chest with the sensitivity of a little boy ripping a fly’s wings off.
Sackface breathes through the girl’s head lolling to the side, the drool and the blood mixing. Dollface cradles the girl’s face in her hands and swallows.
She tucks the girl into bed, kissing her forehead before she turns off the light.
Sackface is gone, and a moment later she hears the truck start.
Dollface picks up a tube of pink lipstick, walks over to the mirror, and draws a sad face.
It’s not every day you come across a girl you really like.
Dollface kneels again at the side of the bed and pretends the girl is only sleeping.
She glances at the record player, the pink hearts on the walls.
When she’s standing outside the house three hours past unimaginable she peers up at the bedroom window and wishes she left the light on. She could fool herself into thinking for a moment that she could turn back time and find the girl sleeping in her bed again.
Well, nothing lasts forever.