Sally held Baby Doll. “You said you couldn’t get the parts anymore and I should think about buying a new doll. Now, she’s perfect.”
“I know, someone must’ve found some spares. It’s quite remarkable,” said Richard, the doctor at the toy hospital, as he admired the doll. “She looks so real, her eyes . . . so familiar . . . lifelike.”
The doll stared back, a thin smile spreading across her mouth. Richard blinked. On opening his eyes, the doll now had her usual lifeless stare. “Anyway,” he said thrusting the doll back to Sally, “glad you’re pleased.” He walked away, closing his office door behind him, sitting at his desk. Rubbing tired eyes couldn’t rid the image of the doll.
The computer screen opened up, drawing Richard’s attention. An image filled the screen; a kitchen, just like his. The same appliances, tiles, paint . . . it was his kitchen, last night. There was his wife, sitting at the table, her dinner untouched that he had cooked before leaving for work. The camera zoomed in, Richard choked. The doll was on the table, blooded scissors in her hands. She looked directly at the screen.
“You told Sally to buy a new doll!” she spat as she plunged the scissors into his wife’s eye. A piercing shrill filled Richard’s ears as his wife’s eye was ripped from her socket. “ I will not be replaced!” the doll screeched as she did the same with the other eye. Richard cried. Blood poured down his wife’s face as she sobbed, enveloped in permanent darkness. The doll placed her new blue eyes in her sockets. “Perfect fit!” she hissed. “No one will replace me! I am perfect! Except . . . Sally will love me more if I had . . . a heart!”
“No!” Richard roared as blood splattered across the screen.