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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

Revenge is a dish best served cold

Submitted: June 30, 2018

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Submitted: June 30, 2018



When she thought of killing her sister so as to marry her husband three weeks later, she never thought about the outcome of having a guilty conscience. She performed the act with finesse and delicacy, as if she were painting one of those masterpieces that hang in the hall of the gallery art.

She stabbed her sister sixteen times with a carving knife, and as her victim did not die immediately, she poured some bleach on her wounds to make her suffer till the very end. Before her sister closed her eyes, she saw her looking at her, pleading for mercy. She dug a hole in the backyard, spit into it and then buried her half alive. It was drizzling by the time she finished.

She decided to get rid of all of her belongings. She did not want her husband to find anything that could bring back memories of that woman who had left him to run away with God-knows-who, she used to say to their friends. It was only a matter of time before no clothes, no perfumes, no jewels, no photographs, no reminder of her existence could be found in the house. Her sister had been deleted from the world, as if she had never existed.

She only kept a porcelain doll that their father had given her sister when she turned ten. She had always wanted that doll for her, and now she had it. Now she had everything. The husband, the house, the doll, the last name. Everything her selfish heart had coveted for so long. She used to sit on the bed and stare at the porcelain doll and admire its perfect uncanny face.

The morning she died, she got up at 7 as usual and felt that everything had changed beyond recognition; she could not say what had changed, but something had certainly done so. Drastically. It was not something that could be perceived with the senses, it was something within. She found the note her husband had left her; I love you, it said. As usual. That had not changed. But there was something that had indeed. She just could not say what.

She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the porcelain doll. Isn’t it bitterly sad to feel this lonely for no reason? Isn’t it unfair to feel trapped in such a confined space living in a mannor of epic proportions?, she asked herself over and over again.

Time runs differently when one is miles away; she thought she had spent several hours pondering about life and calling her fate into question, but when she looked at the wooden clock, she saw that only fifteen minutes had passed. It was 7.15. She scratched her forehead and hit on the left side of her head; this could not be happening to her, there had to be something wrong. She was 100% certain that she had spent at least two hours gazing at that freaking fearsome doll.

Suddenly, her heart stopped beating. Time froze for a split second. It only lasted less than three seconds and a half, but she was sure that the doll had moved its eyes, almost in a way that implied no movement at all. No, that cannot be true. Dolls do not move their eyes. My slumber must have been terribly disturbed last night and now my head is playing tricks on me, she tried to convince herself.

She grabbed the doll and dashed downstairs. She was determined to stop this state of insanity she was being driven towards. She threw the doll into a trash can and lit a match. She stared at the doll and got lost into its hypnotizing black eyes; it was as if she could not take her eyes from the red thulian lips that seemed to smirk every time she blinked. And those eyes that glistened like a pond; it was sickening to stare at it. She closed her eyes and opened them slowly; the doll was still into the can, and the grin on its face had vanished.

Now she was tired. Thinking so much about her life and the events that had taken place lately was consuming her, and she needed to rest her head. The wooden clock said it was 7.23.


She tottered towards the kitchen and firmly held the bleach container that was under the sink. She stood in front of the mirror. The reflection showed the porcelain doll sitting on her shoulders with its hands covering her eyes, although she could see perfectly. She saw the doll placing its right index finger in its lips, and then she heard a deathly hush. She drank the bleach container empty. Her skull hit the floor before she could let out a cry of horror that was stuck in her throat, too raw to be given voice. She heard the doll grunt and then everything went black.

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