The Doll's House

A sharp pain, like an iron rod, shot through her. She held her belly, more fearful than she had ever been. She wanted to cry out, but stopped herself. With her wet garments stuck to her skin, she continued walking once the pain had passed, faster than before, like a scared animal scurrying further into the dark.

The next contraction grabbed her insides like a twisted fist, shooting through her lower abdomen, before ramming her spine with the might of an iron bar.She placed both arms around her swollen belly, her stomach heaving,her dry retches fighting hard against the nothingness inside. For months she had barely eaten, needing to keep her secret safe, but now she knew that the child inside, briefly quiet, would not remain so for long.

It was with her back to a fallen tree trunk that she laboured alone for hours, before the pain became so strong that the urge to push defied everything else. Her screams came back at her through the forest walls, long piercing wails, until finally she heard the cries of another. She stared at the baby girl lying between her legs, covered with blood and mucus, relieved that that part at least was over.

Placing the baby in the large grey coat, she cut the cord with the carving knife she had taken from the house, then wiped the tiny face, clearing the mucus from its nostrils.

After delivering the child, she felt so cold, her eyelids barely able to stay open as the blood leaving her body formed a black circle around her. Ellen didn’t know she would die that day, nobody knew, but when she closed her eyes for the last time, she could still hear the baby crying, a shrill sound, calling for a mother unable to answer, almost as if she knew that part of her had been taken.

If there had been an inquest into her death, it would have found she died because of irreversible shock, brought on by haemorrhage and exposure during childbirth. The woman who burned her body didn’t care about that, taking the baby into her arms as if it were her own. It was a miracle the child survived. Questions would be asked, but none that she couldn’t answer. Everyone knew Ellen was never quite right, soft in the head, a creature more to be pitied than scorned. Her disappearance, the women knew, like her life, would soon be forgotten.

Walking back towards the village, she kissed the baby’s forehead. The child wailed, scrunching its face like a piece of shrivelled rotten fruit, a primal instinct kicking in, telling it that something wasn’t right.

The woman thought about killing the infant then, but decided against it. Instead, she held her hand tight over the baby’s face while she smiled down at it. When she finally released her grip, the infant spluttered, then wailed even louder than before.

‘Now,’ the woman said to the child, ‘I’ve given you something to cry about.’





Chapter 1: 2014


I have reasons for doing what I do. You may not know them yet, because I haven’t told you, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. It’s too early for judgement calls, far too early for that.

I’m considered attractive. I was described by an ex-lover as having an elegant face. Like everyone else, I have minor aesthetic flaws, which I’m keenly aware of. They are rarely commented upon; usually only the good bits are. I’m thirty-two. Not too young and not too old – but for what? I kill people. I could dress it up, say all kinds of stuff about it, but for now, all you need to know is that I do.

I stabbed a man recently, slit his throat and left him dead in a hotel bedroom. I tied his body up with ropes. If I told you I positioned him picture perfect, you wouldn’t understand what I mean, but soon you will.

My online tag name is Cassie4Casanova. The first time I used it was nine years ago in Paris. I was twenty-three then. I thought I knew things about the world. I guess we’re all guilty of that kind of stupidity. The man I was with had a darker side, but his badness was far easier to manage than the rest. That last afternoon, I met him at the H?tel de Maurier. I took a photograph of myself beforehand. I was standing at a bookstore window. I gave the glass a sideways glance, checking out my appearance. It was a clear reflection. I could see the shine at the end of my nose. I thought it made the image more realistic. I often do that sideways-glance thing. Sometimes my face looks questioning; other times the glance is accompanied with a smirk. That day, I seemed bemused. The reason is unimportant.