Experience taught him that the best tattoo art began with detailed prep work. And knowing Destiny deserved the best, he took his time, first cutting off her brown hair, then shaving her head and eyebrows until the skin was as smooth as glass. Next he applied alcohol to clean the skin so there’d be no risk of infection.
Only when the canvas was ready did he reach for the first tattoo gun loaded with the finest of needles. It took a full day of meticulous work to cover the key portions with the base coat of white ink. And though there were times when his hands ached and his back stiffened, he refused to rush. Finally, when all the pale color had been applied and the blood wiped clean, he tattooed gracefully arching eyebrows. Next came the rosy blush of color on the cheeks. Stippled freckles. Heart-shaped lips. He saved the eyes for last, permanently lining the upper and lower lids with a steady hand.
Toward the end of the transformation, she began to wake, so he set up a fresh IV bag of propofol so she drifted off to sleep again.
After the job was complete, he wrapped her head and face, knowing that the healing process was critical to the best tattoo work. Infection and neglect ruined tattoos. He changed her bandages twice daily, knowing his work at this stage was akin to an open wound.
For her safety, he kept her drugged and hydrated with the IV bag that hung over a special reclining chair. And as she slept, he spent hours embellishing and ironing the clothes that would match her flawless features.
Once, he had allowed his doll to partially wake so she could see how beautiful she was becoming. She had roused from her deep slumber and immediately tried to sit up.
Her long delicate fingers tried to rise to her bandaged face. “What’s wrong with me?” she said, her lips still swollen.
Gently he laid his hand over hers. “Shh. You’re safe,” he soothed. “You’re fine. Your body just needs time to heal.”
“My face.” She tried to raise her hands but discovered straps bound them to the chair. “What’s going on?”
“No touching yet,” he said.
She stared at him through a haze of drugged confusion. “My face hurts.”
He reached for a bowl of oatmeal and ladled a small amount on a spoon. “I know. It’s healing. Soon you will be just fine. But you need to eat now. You won’t heal properly if you don’t eat.”
Panic brightened the color of her eyes. “What happened? Was it an accident?”
He teased her mouth open with the spoon and she opened, like an obedient child. “I’m making you perfect. Don’t worry. I am taking great care of you. When you wake up again, it will be over.”
She ate a few bites before she shook her head. “I can’t eat any more.”
The Dollmaker looked in the bowl and saw that she’d almost eaten half. Not as much as he hoped, but sufficient. “Enough for today.” Setting the bowl aside, he reached for the nearly empty IV bag and replaced it with his last bag of propofol. Soon she was in a deep sleep.
As the tension relaxed from her face, he couldn’t help but be pleased. The extra sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose was exactly the right amount, and he was glad now he’d not added more.
Ten days had passed since he’d first done the work, and he now stood back and studied her. All the hours of labor and the extra days of healing had been worth it. The colors were vibrant and vivid, the lines clear and sharp.
He’d dressed her in a plaid skirt and a white top that was formfitting but not overly tight in a vulgar sort of way. He turned toward the collection of wigs and vacillated between blond and auburn. Finally, he chose the blond wig with long locks that curled gently at the ends. All the wigs were natural, the best on the market. He’d even taken extra care to trim the bangs on this particular model so that delicate wisps of hair brushed the tops of her painted brows.
The Dollmaker carefully settled the wig on her head, centered it, and braided it into two thick strands. He slowly rolled on knee socks, savoring the silky smoothness of her calf, then folded the white cotton neatly at the top. He slid on patent-leather shoes and fastened the buckles so that they were snug but not too tight.
The finishing touches included a small bracelet with a heart charm on her left wrist, and on her right hand, a delicate ring on her pinky finger. He painted her fingernails a pale pink, fastened on delicate earrings, and dabbed hints of perfume behind her ear and on her wrist.
He stepped back, pleased. She was his living doll. A perfect mate.
He lifted her listless body and placed her on a red couch in front of a photographer’s screen. He angled her face to the side and propped it up with a silk pillow. He arranged her curls around her shoulders and fluffed her skirt. Reaching for his camera, he snapped a couple of pictures. Glancing in the viewfinder, he frowned, not liking what he saw. Her eyes were closed. And to have the right effect, they needed to be open.
Time to wake up.
“Destiny,” he whispered close to her ear. “Time to rise and shine.”
When she didn’t stir, he pulled an ammonia caplet from his pocket. But before he snapped it, he stopped to admire her again. He ran his hand over her cheek, along the smocked edge of her blouse, and over the swell of her round breast. Drawn by her seductive lure, he squeezed her nipple. His body hardened, and unable to chase away temptation, he slid his hand under the skirt and touched her between her legs.
She wasn’t ready for him yet. But she soon would be. He needed to wait.
Drawing his hand back, he snapped the caplet, and held it close to her nose. She inhaled sharply as the acrid smell chased away the haze.
His doll glimpsed her creator with a lovely face of bewilderment. Yes, her open eyes completed the look.
He snapped his fingers. “Time to wake up.”
She stirred and her eyes fluttered, but the sedatives still lingered. She was confused as she stared up at him. “Where am I?” she asked. “Am I getting better?”
“You’re perfect.”
She blinked, focused, and looked down at her hands, now tattooed white like her face. She tried to rub off the ink, and when it didn’t smudge, confusion turned to worry. She pushed off the couch, but her legs wobbled as her head no doubt spun.
“Not too fast, Destiny. It will take time for the drugs to clear.”
She staggered a step, crumpled to one knee. “What’s happening? What have you done to me?”
“I’ve made you perfect.”
She looked at her delicately painted fingernails, and as her gaze rose she caught her reflection in a large mirror he kept in his studio. She froze, shocked. Tears mingled with disbelief. “What have you done!?”
He didn’t like the judgment in her voice. A perfect doll didn’t judge. It didn’t get angry. A perfect doll was still.
“Shh,” he said. He put his camera aside and reached for a drink cup with a straw. “It’s okay. You’re fine.”
With a trembling hand, she touched the wig and then her bow lips. “I look like a freak!”
Worry crowded out his happiness. “Don’t say that. I’ve made you perfect.”
“I’m a monster!” Her hands began to tremble. Red-rimmed eyes spilled more tears.