THE REVENGE OF THE RAGDOLL

Red bulbs hung from the low ceiling, flickering intermittently, and the sound of my footsteps echoed eerily, waking me from whatever trance I’d been in.

I could hear my teeth scraping together as my jaw clenched, the sound unnerving. Beads of sweat trickled down my face like raindrops on glass. I hadn’t been running, yet somehow, I was exhausted—my arms limp with fatigue, my chest rising and falling rapidly as I gasped for breath. My heart thundered in my chest like I’d just escaped a nightmare—only this one, I couldn’t wake from.

My vision was mostly hazy, a swirling mist clouding the edges. All I could see were smears of what looked like blood on the walls and floor—whichever direction my head turned. The red light masked everything too well; there was no way to tell if the stains were truly blood or just shadows pretending to be. Everything was bathed in crimson. Dead bodies and severed limbs lay scattered like forgotten dolls, the air reeking of rot and decay. The smell was so strong, I could almost taste it.

I felt like crying. I wanted to speak. But my eyelids wouldn’t move, and my lips wouldn’t budge. I struggled internally—I tried to scream, tried to cry out—but instead, a smooth, quiet, melodic hum escaped my throat. It echoed through the dim room like a lullaby from hell as my legs moved on their own. At this point, no one needed to tell me I’d lost control of my own body.

“Please, please let me go.” A man’s voice came from a corner of the room. I wasn’t sure, but I felt like I’d heard it before—familiar and broken. “Please, you’ve taken everything—my wealth, my family. Don’t kill me,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. He sounded utterly defeated. His words slurred together like he was drunk or barely able to function.

“Hmmm, the black room greets you, sir. Won’t you answer? The black room says hello. The black room wants your eyes and arms—and it wants what’s down below.” My voice sang a haunting tune with lyrics I’d never heard before in my life.

Without my permission, my legs carried me forward. The squelch of blood beneath my feet was drowned out by the humming—my humming. Ahead, a metal table glimmered like a shrine. A spread of tools lay upon it—ordinary things: wrenches, saws, pliers, pincers, scissors—all glinting under the red glow like relics from a butcher’s dream.

But there were stranger tools too. Chains, scalpels, machetes, kitchen knives… even a pistol.

Where the hell did I get all this? Why did it feel so... familiar?

My right hand moved slowly over them, my eyes trailing the metallic gleam like I was choosing the perfect accessory. I felt my lips curl into a chilling smile as my fingers brushed a large pair of pliers—my hands savoring the cold metal.

My arms raised them with eerie slowness, and I turned to face the corner from where the voice had called.

My stomach dropped at the sight. He hung from the ceiling by his arms, chained, completely naked. His head drooped forward like he was unconscious, but he wasn’t—just too weak to fight. His body was covered in deep, raw wounds. Large patches of flesh had been peeled from his torso and limbs. Several of his toes were gone, and a section of his skull was fully exposed, as though someone had carved him open.

As I stepped closer, he let out a pained, pitiful moan. “Please… I beg you.”

“The black room adores you; it loves when you rejoice.” My voice continued its haunting melody as my hands opened the pliers. I extended them toward him until his testicles rested between the metal jaws. “The black room enjoys your pain—and the sound of your lovely voice.”

I wanted to turn away. I wanted to shut my eyes and scream. But all I could do was watch in terror as my hands squeezed the pliers shut—my smile widening grotesquely.

~Four years earlier~

I sat in a dimly lit room, my back pressed against the frame of my marital bed, surrounded by the sharp stench of alcohol, cigarettes, and blood. The sheets beneath me were soaked with red, and the floor was a graveyard of shattered ornaments, splintered furniture, and broken bottles.

My breathing was labored. My vision was blurred by the tears swelling at the corners of my swollen eyes. A deep cut split the left side of my lower lip, and blood streaked my face and white dress like war paint.

The red came from bruises—on my cheeks, nose, mouth, arms, legs. It felt like my whole body was one giant ache.

I wanted to scream, to cry, to beg for someone to pull me out of this nightmare—but I had no strength. I’d cried so much already that my tear ducts were dry. I scraped together what little energy I had to glance at the divorce papers in front of me. A golden-handled pen lay beside them, its polished body catching the light of the flickering candles. It mocked me—mocked everything I’d endured.

This is what it had come to.

After five years of being trapped in this godless marriage—five years of praying things might change—I was being discarded like a toy a child no longer wanted. I had become nothing. A broken thing.

Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open, and my dear husband backed into the room. I didn’t need to lift my head. His scent gave him away—so did the presence of his guest. A woman’s red heels flashed from the doorway, and my stomach twisted. This wasn’t the first time Richard had brought someone home, but this time… something was different.

Those heels were unique. Exclusive. Only a select few in the entire state owned a pair.

I heard them kiss. Heard the wet sounds of lips and tongues colliding. Heard her soft, breathy moans as Richard groped her like he’d never touched a woman before. Each moan stabbed into my chest. My blood boiled with rage, sorrow, and something darker. I thought I had no tears left—but they came, slowly, painfully, slipping down my cheeks.

I forced myself to look up—and our eyes met.

Just a beat passed before the woman’s lips curled in disgust. “Ew. What is she still doing here?” she sneered, her voice thick with contempt as she stared at me like I was filth. I never knew she was capable of making such a face—not at me. Her eyes brimmed with pure hatred, and for a moment, I wondered if the person standing before me was really my best friend.

Richard turned to me sharply.

“You still haven’t signed the divorce papers?!” he barked; his voice laced with fury. He stormed toward me. I tried to back away, but the fucking bed blocked my path. Trapped, I turned again to face him, my eyes wide with terror as he pulled his right fist back.

That final second of silence—staring into his blazing golden-brown eyes—was enough to confirm what I’d tried to deny for far too long: marrying him had been the worst mistake of my life. This was my punishment.

Without a flicker of remorse, he swung his fist toward me like I was nothing but a ragdoll.

~Present day~

“So, what do you do for a living?” Harold’s voice cut through the haze of my memories.

I blinked, snapping back to the present, and stared into his night-black eyes as if frozen in time. The warm glow of the restaurant’s amber chandeliers danced across his face, highlighting his sharp, masculine features—as though the universe itself was trying to tell me he was the man of my dreams. For a long time, I had prayed for a sign like this. But fear... fear never let me dream too far.

“What?” I asked, not having heard him clearly.

“I asked what you do for a living,” Harold repeated, swirling his wine glass gently, a flicker of concern in his eyes.

“Oh, umm... I’m a surgeon. Basically, I fix what’s broken in people. Sometimes it’s a long process, sometimes short and simple. You could call me a biological mechanic,” I replied.

He chuckled. “You’re a funny one, aren’t you?”

“My… friends say I have a weird sense of humor,” I said with a small laugh of my own.

We fell silent. Just... staring. Eyes locked, like we were peering into each other’s souls—his eyes black as midnight, mine golden-orange like firelight glinting in the sun.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Angel,” Harold said gently. “But I can’t help but notice—you’ve had a rough past. That’s why you’re so distant.”

“Me? Distant? I’m right here,” I said, forcing a smile. “What are you—”

I stopped. His expression told me everything.

“When I arrived, I tried to kiss your hand. You pulled away. I reached to pull your chair out, but you rushed to do it yourself. And you haven’t touched your food or your wine in fifteen minutes.”

He leaned forward, fingers intertwined, and asked softly, “Tell me about your past.”

My past... I stared at him blankly, the question echoing in my head. I reached for my purse and stood up.

“My past is my past. Don’t meddle,” I hissed, then turned and walked away.

Even as I stepped out into the cool night air, I could feel his gaze—silent, curious, lingering.