It crawled up her body and touched every part of her: the length of her neck, the line of her jaw, the tender skin of her cheek. Laura shivered but did not try and get away.
When she could no longer hear the blood rushing past her, she opened her eyes, wary of stray droplets on the edge of her eyelashes. She stumbled forward as best she could. Blood sloshed underneath her feet. It squirted between her toes, gelatinous and slick. If she didn’t look down, it was almost like walking in raspberry jam. That's all I'm doing, she thought, as she trudged forward. Just walking forward.
Nothing remained of the blue door. It had been returned to dust.
The workroom was pitch-black, and the axe glowed, soft and sweet, leading her forward without much trouble. Everything was quiet now, but she did not feel any better. Her arms were exhausted. All of her was exhausted. Laura thought she heard someone laughing, but could not tell if she had imagined the sound. Golden light drifted over the barren floor, made of concrete, which looked thoroughly sterilized. Leave it to her father. She could just hear him giving her a lecture about the importance of cleanliness for any would-be murderer. If you’re going to do something, Laura, do it properly. Even ritual sacrifice deserves our utmost care and attention. Wouldn’t you agree?
Slowly, Laura’s eyes adjusted to the dim light. The room started to wake up, getting comfortable with Laura’s presence; dark corners yawned and stretched, shadowy figures transformed into solid, familiar shapes. She recognized pieces of iconography from her childhood: her father’s toolbox, the shoes he always wore to go running on Sunday mornings, the stopwatch that he used to time Laura and her brothers when they took practice SAT exams.
And there, in the middle of the room, waiting for her. Always waiting for her.
The dollhouse, full of dead moths.
~
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