Page 15 of A Doll's Curse
“Damn, who shit in your cheerios today, A-N-T-O-N-I-O?”
“Unfuckingbelievable. And by the way, I hate that damn doll you gifted Belinda years ago. The doll is creepy.” Antonio took a few steps away from Miss Nancy before trying to walk away again.
“What doll? I’ve never given your demon child anything.”
Miss Nancy shouted after Antonio as he continued his run down the street, ignoring her offensive remarks. She watched him disappear from sight.
“Only cowards run from the things they fear!” she called after him.
Antonio gave Miss Nancy one last, concerned look before looking away. “Who was it from, then?” he thought.
Moving slower than in previous years, Miss Nancy spent most of her days lounging in her home. Her knees hurt and popped constantly, as she had always declined arthroplasty. She never planned for a double knee replacement at the age of seventy-four. She liked to remind herself that pain was just part of life; she liked feeling some pain. In a world of solitude, she believed that a little pain helped her remember that she was still alive.
After her husband’s death thirty years ago, she could never find love again. She had forgotten the feeling of being wanted by a partner; her devotion to her late husbandkept her from seeking love again. She never bore children, so grandchildren never played in her backyard. Her loneliness followed her like a cloud of tears she never got to cry. Her words sounded like thunder, but no one was willing to listen. Bitterness was her friend and her most reliable companion.
Years after her dog’s death, Miss Nancy often thought of Betsy. She had grown old and gray like her, but she never lost her spirit. She would always love and remember her for that. A tiny box containing Betsy’s ashes sat on the end table next to her TV recliner, with a framed picture of Betsy beside it.
Miss Nancy had her cremated because she could never let her go. Sometimes Betsy’s imprinted bark would echo within the walls, a ghostly reminder that her soul still lingered, or maybe it was just the old creaks and cracks of the house.
Sometimes, while watching TV, Miss Nancy would open Betsy’s box. She would often take a gentle whiff of the ashy aroma, just long enough to fill in her phlegmy lungs. After delicately licking her pinky finger, she would ever so carefully tap the top layer of ashes. A thin coat of ashes covered her finger, and after sticking her salivating tongue out, she ran her finger from the top down to thetip of her thrushy tongue. She liked the chalky, earthy taste of Betsy; it made her feel more connected to her.
Miss Nancy thrived in routine. From morning to night, every day looked relatively the same. She enjoyed three cold beers before bedtime, a recent habit she had developed. Now that she was older, her care for her health had deteriorated alongside her. Nearly every night after dinner, she would pop two or three beers into the freezer. She loved the ice-cold glass bottle against her crusty lips; an unexpected pleasure would fill her brain after the first icy sip.
That one night, after finishing her beers and her TV show, Miss Nancy stumbled towards her room. She landed gently on her bed face down, her feet dangling off the side. A sudden crack on the floorboard drew her incoherent attention. She saw a shadow approaching. With blurred vision, she tried to look up to see what it was, but her eyes were too heavy. Without fighting it, she quickly fell asleep.
“Pin Pon es un muñeco,
Macabro y pálido.
Se lava su carita,
Con sangre y ácido.
Pin Pon se desgarra el pelo,
Invocando un gran llanto,
Aunque se lo arranque todo,
Él no para aquí.”
The lullaby filled the empty sounds in the air, waking Miss Nancy. Groggy and confused, she opened her heavy eyes. She realized she was back in her red recliner, feeling concerned and unsure of how she got there. It wasn’t until she noticed that she was tied to the chair that she began to panic. After struggling to break free, pain intensified at the end of her arms.
When she tried to open her hands, it dawned on her that her hands were gone. The skin at the end of her arms was sewn together with the same thread she used for her knitting, and worse, the flesh had been stitched directly into the arms of the recliner itself, pinning her in place. Small drops of blood seeped through each stitch and onto the ground, weakening her by the minute. She recognized the same tones of red she personally chose for her projects, and the long sewing needles sat on the end table next to Betsy’s box.
From behind, a raspy, playful voice sang a tune she had never heard before. Sounding like a child’s song, she grew wearier. “Who the fuck is there?” she barked, as she continued to wiggle within the stitches. Shock dulled her mind, muting the pain for a moment.
“It’s just me, don’t you worry. I will take great care of you,” Belinda said, as she became visible to her.
“Oh, you demon child. I should have known! You did kill those poor squirrels. Let me go now. What did you do to my hands?” Miss Nancy barked, rage and horror tangling in her voice.
“Shhh. If you try to scream, I will use those same needles to sew your lips shut.”
After seeing Belinda’s black eyes, she could no longer recognize her, and fear began to shake her. “I won’t tell anyone, not a soul. Just untie me, and I’ll figure out how to leave,” Miss Nancy begged, her lips trembling.
Belinda, now dressed similarly to her doll, wore a satin burgundy dress, and her dark hair looked even darker at night. She went back around Miss Nancy and took out the clip that held her thin hair bun in place. Short strands of white and gray cascaded over her delicate shoulders. Belinda played briefly with Miss Nancy’s hair, exposing the aged bald spots on her scalp.
“You’ve got soft hair, softer than my mom’s,” Belinda said.