~ d e s c r i p t i o n ~
Blue eyes fluttered open, shy as they looked into worried brown. One eyed blinked, loose like a doll's, and the brunet grimaced.
"Am I perfect yet?" The doll whispered.
"... not yet."
In which the Dollmaker will never be satisfied until he creates perfection.
"You're my doll, I'm not sharing with anybody."
"But... I don't want to be a doll. I want to be pretty."
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⚠️ c o n t e n t w a r n i n g ⚠️
This will contain mature themes such as;
- blood/gore
- violence
- manipulation
- psychotic themes
- murder
- abuse
- yandere themes (aka psychotically obsessive love)
- horror themes
- thriller themes
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1. SOFT BROWN SKIN, WILD BROWN EYES
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They say the Dollmaker is the shadows of a moonlit night, copying your every move and following your every step.
They say he watches from the darkness with wild black eyes that follow you home, and his nails are as long and sharp as a hawk's talons.
Some people tell of a gorgeous man dressed in the finest of tailored suits, with sleek black fabric and neat slicked hair; eyes so entrancing they capture the essence of your soul and entrap it into the endless void of existence.
Others say the Dollmaker is a foul beast, a fiend with red hot eyes and rotting skin who feeds on the flesh of the living with an ungodly snarl.
But those who have lived in the small town of Varen for little over six years know that he is nor beast nor human, but only the Dollmaker.
A being of unfathomable evil, a creation of pure darkness forged from the deepest darkest pits of Hell and forced upon the surface land.
Those who have come face to face with the Dollmaker have lived only to whisper his glory as they bled to death upon the town.
Michael Clifford, on the other hand, had more pressing concerns than some legacy of a doll maker man.
For instance, Michael was currently stuck in a treacherous battle of mind and heart; fighting valiantly one against the other as he stood in an aisle of silence among the darkness of a pitch black night.
In other words, he was standing in the noodle aisle of his favourite supermarket at three in the morning—dressed in black sweatpants, worn brown ugg-boots, and a light grey hoodie he knows has a ketchup stain on it but doesn't care.
His battle was one of righteousness, he could either take the seven dollar large packet with extra flavour or he could buy the four pack with terrible flavour and suffer the cheap five dollar range. More for less.
Only the most pressing decisions passed Michael's mind with the upmost of importance, and weighing his options he took the four pack with a heavy heart.
Savings over indulgence, he supposed; adjusting his hood over his scruffy mess of streaky brown/blond hair.
With a bottle of Mountain Dew in one hand and two-minute microwaveable noodles in the other, there wasn't a doubt in his mind that maybe his stupid eight grade teacher was right.
He should've become an engineer or a doctor, or something—anything—other than a goddamn writer.
YOU ARE READING
Stories I Never Finished
FanfictionAn entire collection of stories I once began to write and never managed to finish/lost motivation and hope for I decided they were better off here in one place for anyone who wanted to re-read some old classics or have a look at the stories I never...
