I watch her, from a distance as always. Her every move, every breath, every little gesture, nothing escapes my eyes. I feel I understand her more deeply than anyone else ever could. Her motives, her heart, her lonely soul, the empty smiles she offers the people who think them real. Yes, I understand her like no one else can. Without her knowledge, I hold her fragile life in my hands, and it's perfect this way. She is mine, as she should be, and all is well with the world. Right up until the day something shifts, and there is something about her, in her demeanour, her whole being, so different from before. She is... happy? Yes, there is a tiny wrinkling around her eyes that speaks me the truth in deafening volumes.
I seethe with rage. She is mine!
Overwhelmed with such intense hatred I cannot stand it, I follow her with my gaze, hungrily devouring every feature. I realise she is ugly, now. I want to make her cry, I want to make her beg for her life, and trample all her fresh hopes, her dreams, to the ground. Spit in her face and laugh. My hands are fisting on the fabric of my shirt. It should be done.
Alone with the doll dressed in tattered remains of a beautiful gown, I giggle. She is delicious, even like this. Her face is a mock of her earlier smile, twisted in a horrible grimace. It suits her. Oh, how pretty she is now. I cradle her head in my hands and press a passionate kiss on her blueing lips.
Like this, it is perfect.