I remember when they brought her to me. She had scarcely turned eleven and already she was beautiful. Of course she was beautiful. She had my eyes, my lips… even her nose was a miniature of my own. Only the dark curls that framed her round face gave any indication that there was any other who shared the responsibility of her making. We stared at one another. There was no joy in our reunion. Unlike my own parents I would not tell her that I was proud, or that I was pleased with how much she’d grown. I think she hated me a little less for it. It was only a cold and bitter silence that lay between us.
I walked away unable to stand the sight of the creature that had been brought before me. She wasn’t me and yet she was too much like me. It was what they wanted. Another little prodigy. They were greedy in their hope to create perfection. I thought all of these things as I sat next to her bed studying the lines of her face. I watched her tiny chest rise and fall gently with each breath, her little fingers clutching the edge of the sheet. An hour passed, maybe more, as I watched her. The peace of her sleeping form hid the cunning and spite she bore for me.
It took her a moment to rouse when I slid my fingers around her throat. I could have used a pillow, I suppose, but I wanted to see the look in her eyes as I pressed against her windpipe slowly robbing her of precious breaths. At first she was confused. As sleep left her and clarity washed over her the confusion turned to fear and I drank it in. I smiled down at her with all the warmth and tenderness any mother would show a child. I smiled as she panicked, as she began to struggle clawing at my arms in desperation. Her nails dug into my arms drawing blood but I didn’t care. The joy I felt at her destruction drowned out any pain she could have caused.
I held onto her tiny neck until she began to blue around her lips, long past the point of unconsciousness. When I finally released her there were already deep bruises beginning to appear where my fingers had been. Her eyes stared up at me in frozen in horror. There was no peace in this death and I laughed, delighted at my cleverness. She would never be the family’s favorite, never take my place as their golden child. I closed her eyes, and her mouth and her nose. When I was finished all that lay before me was a child-sized doll, featureless and cold.
I found the girl on the street. She was hungry and chilled to the bone and when I opened my doors to her she entered without hesitation. I closed her mouth while I molded her. The rearranging of a face is a painful thing and I didn’t care to hear her scream. At last I gave her perfect little lips. She was darling, an exact replica of the child I had destroyed just the night before. I showered her with affection easing the torment I had caused her. I was sad, though, that my hard work would go to waste. She had no Zantosa blood running through her veins. She didn’t even have the breeding of aristocracy nor the learning. When they took her back they would destroy her, erase her. The world would never know of their failure or of my triumph.
This is fantastic. Beautiful.
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