Survival of the Cutest

// dolls, murder, delusions, mental illness

Admittedly, you were never a very good doll. That’s why you had to do it. You had to, there was no other way. 

Your witch was so kind and loving, she tried so hard to help you, but you never really trusted her, never really trusted anyone. Well, look where that’s gotten you now.

She never meant for you to be her only doll, she always told you she intended to start a collection, but despite always assuring you that she cared, the thought deeply unsettled you.

Obviously it was only a matter of time before she was going to replace you.

You told yourself that she was going to replace you over and over, until it was as certain as the turn of the world.

It was an upsetting but unavoidable fact, you just wished she’d hurry up with it. What were you saying? Of course you didn’t want that.

She was lying of course, saying you were irreplaceable and special, she was a liar through and through, fucking witches, amirite?

You got angry, you slammed doors, you hit her, you were going to force the truth out of her. Why was she being so kind to you?

Of course you knew right away when your replacement appeared. You recognized the spark in your witch’s eyes while watching the doll laugh and socialize at a party. 

Hate. Fear. Despair. You knew. You knew it was coming with the certainty of the dawn. You were as good as trash.

Of course you tried to deny it, and it worked for a time. It worked while your witch cozied up to the new doll and took her on dates, but it was cracking day after day. 

She was going to replace you. She was going to replace you. You had to do something. You had no choice.

Of course the doll trusted you, you were her friend. Why wouldn’t she trust you? It was too easy really, just one quick thrust.

You watch the light leave her eyes, her face filled with confusion, sorrow, and betrayal. You had to do it.

The sound of her body slumping to the forest floor is far too loud for the silence. You can hear her blood dripping onto dry leaves.

You’re covered in it. There’s so much. You actually did it. Why didn’t she stop you? Why didn’t you stop yourself? Oh fuck she’s really dead.

Glass eyes stare lifelessly up at you. She was so pretty, far prettier than you. She was clever and kind. A good soul, your witch had said she had potential. 

Well, if she had so much potential, why was she dead? Oh right, you murdered her. You drop the knife as if it bit you.

You had to do it. You tell yourself you had to do it over and over as you drag her body into the shallow grave and bury it along with the knife and your bloodstained clothes. 

You tell yourself you had to do it when picking bits of her from under your nails makes you puke.

You tell yourself you had to do it as you lie to your heartbroken witch and tell her you don’t know what happened to that doll.

You know how it is with those street kids, total nomads, probably just hopped a train out of town.

You tell yourself you had to do it as you sit in your room and pour yourself another shot. Her lifeless corpse stares at you behind your closed eyes. 

You had to kill her. You had to. Just keep drinking and don’t think about her eyes. 

You’re a good doll. 

You’re a good doll.

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