The Doll That Shared His Agony

By the hospital window, I stared down at the street below with a single, liberating thought: If I just jumped, it would all be over.

This was my 28th hospital stay in three years, all thanks to him. The evidence was written across my bodythree cracked ribs, a patchwork of angry burns, and a constellation of deep bruisesa brutal testament to a nightmare that had no end.

It wasn't that I hadn't fought back. Hed torn up my divorce filings. Every escape attempt ended with me being dragged back to a beating more savage than the last. Hope had been beaten out of me, leaving only a hollow, desolate ache.

Then, just as I was about to give in, a package arrived from a friend overseas. Inside were two dolls, one crafted to look like me, the other like him. Tucked beside them was a thin sheet of paper titled, "Instructions for the Shared Pain Dolls."

That single sheet of paper held just a few simple rules.

"Pathetic," I muttered to myself. "Thinking a couple of dolls could save me."

I tossed them aside and started for the door, my mind set on the hospital roof.

Then my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

[You'll never know if you don't try.]

[Besides, things can't get any worse, can they?]

It was from my friend, the one who sent the package. We hadn't spoken in years. Id changed my number a dozen times since then. Yet, she knew exactly which hospital, which room I was in.

A flicker of something I hadn't felt in a long timehopeignited in my chest.

"Maybe," I whispered, "maybe this could actually work."

I snatched the instructions and read them again.

1. The dolls require a binding of blood, hair, and nail clippings from the intended subjects.

2. The first doll bound becomes the Primary. The second becomes the Secondary.

3. Once bound, the Secondary will experience all pain inflicted upon the Primary.

The dolls require a binding.

My hands moved with a sudden urgency. I plucked a strand of hair from my head and clipped a sliver from my fingernail. For the blood, I just had to press my thumb against a wound that hadn't quite healed.

The moment the three items touched the doll that looked like me, they vanished, absorbed into the fabric. The doll's posture seemed to shift, its vacant expression mirroring my own exhaustion. I could feel ita faint, thrumming connection between us.

It was real. It actually worked.

My mind, once a barren wasteland of despair, was now racing with possibilities. But first things first: I had to bind my husband, Victor, to the other doll.

Ignoring the doctors protests, I checked myself out and went home.

The house was just as Id left ita sprawling, modern mansion decorated entirely to Victor's taste. A cold, sterile palette of black, white, and grey that suffocated the air and pressed down on my soul.

Victors family was obscenely wealthy. It was their money and influence that made divorce impossible, escape a fantasy. I was a prisoner in a gilded cage.

But now, I had the dolls. I had a chance to tear this cage apart.

Victor was already home from work. He looked up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes when he saw me.

I thought youd stay in the hospital until you were fully recovered. A cruel smirk played on his lips. You know, I love it when youre broken. Its so beautiful.

At thirty-five, he was the picture of a successful executive, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. But beneath that polished veneer was a monster. A sadist.

Come here, he purred. Be a good girl.

I fought the tremor that ran through me, a Pavlovian response to his voice, and walked toward him. His fingers were like ice as they traced the line of my jaw, raising a carpet of goosebumps on my skin. I didn't dare move.

"See? If you were always this obedient, why would I ever have to hurt you?"

His grip tightened, his fingers digging into my cheeks, squeezing my face. A phantom pain, a memory of a thousand other moments just like this, shot through my entire body.

Honey, would you like some fruit? I blinked, forcing tears to well in my eyes and spill down my cheeks, dripping onto his hand. My tears always pleased him.

He released me and sat on the sofa, a silent assent.

I went to the kitchen, my movements stiff and sore. The fruit was already washed and sliced, just the way he liked it. My barely-healed injuries screamed in protest, but I pushed through, carrying the platter to him.

Your nails are getting long. Should I trim them for you?

Hm, he grunted, spearing a piece of watermelon with a fork. He popped it into his mouth, the bright red flesh a stark contrast to his pale skin. It looked like a piece of my own heart.

Fighting the urge to shrink away, I knelt at his feet and gently took his hand, the nail clippers cold in my other palm.

Ava, why are you so tense? His voice was a low murmur, laced with amusement. Look at you, sweating already. He leaned in closer. Are you hiding something from me?

His voice was a snake coiling around my neck. My breath hitched. I froze.

I struggled to keep my voice even. Im just not fully recovered yet.

It was his favorite game, a relentless campaign of questions and accusations designed to break me down, to make me so terrified of him that my body betrayed me with shakes and stutters. It didn't matter if I'd done anything or not; his suspicion was its own conviction.

Are you blaming me, then? Did I hit you too hard? he asked, his voice deceptively soft. It was just a little punishment for your disobedience.

A little punishment?

Three cracked ribs were the mark of his foot. The tapestry of bruises was the art of his fists and open palms. The burns covering my back were the answer to his question of whether I was faking unconsciousness, tested with a full kettle of boiling water.

I wanted to scream. To fight back. To make him feel every ounce of the agony hed inflicted on me.

Instead, I let my trembling hand guide the clippers, intentionally cutting a fraction too deep, drawing a speck of blood from under his nail.

Im so sorry, I I started to apologize, instinctively clenching the nail clipping in my fist.

The slap came so fast I didnt see it. The force of it sent me sprawling to the floor. Before I could recover, he grabbed a fistful of my hair and hauled me up, his other hand striking my face again and again.

The warm, metallic tang of blood filled my mouth, a taste I knew better than any other.

He dragged me closer by my hair, forcing me to look at him, a predator admiring his broken prey.

Dont think I dont know what youre doing, he hissed, his face inches from mine. This is your pathetic little revenge, isnt it?

I squeezed my hand tighter, protecting the precious clipping. Does he know about the dolls? How could he? How do I get out of this? Do I have another chance? Should I run?

A storm of panic raged in my mind.

He stared into my wide, terrified eyes, and then a horrible, slow smile spread across his face.

This is your grand rebellion? Nicking my finger with a nail clipper? He let out a sharp, ugly laugh. Youre like a kitten, Ava. So adorable. He tugged on my hair, sending a fresh spike of pain through my scalp. This is what I love. This is what makes it fun.

He straightened up, releasing me. I crumpled to the floor in a heap.

The more you fight, the more interesting it gets, he said, his voice a low growl. So go on. Run. Fight back. Lets have some fun, Kitten.

He turned and strolled out of the room, humming a cheerful tune, completely unconcerned by the blood welling on his fingertip.

This was my chance.

After a particularly bad beating, he always gave me time to recover. He wouldn't kill me outright; he preferred the game of cat and mouse, of breaking me, letting me heal, and then breaking me all over again. The slaps were the end of it, for now.

I scrambled back to the bedroom, half-crawling, and slammed the door shut.

I pulled the dolls from my bag. I found one of his hairs on the bedsheet. Then, with shaking hands, I placed the hair and the bloodied nail clipping onto the second doll.

A crimson light flashed, and a new connection sparked to life, linking me to this second doll, to him.

Finally. The binding is complete.

I sagged against the floor, my body limp with relief.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound made me jump. It was Victor.

Ava, I seem to recall telling you not to lock your door. His voice was dangerously calm. Are you being disobedient again?

My hands fumbled, trying to hide the dolls behind my back. But before I could, I heard the click of a key in the lock. The door swung open.

Victor stepped inside, his eyes immediately landing on the dolls I was so clumsily trying to conceal. He strode over and snatched the one that looked like me.

He held it up, examining it with a critical eye. Not bad. The resemblance is uncanny. His gaze flicked to me. What are you up to? Why so jumpy? Don't tell me you're playing with voodoo dolls.

He roared with laughter, carelessly swinging my doll by its leg.

I have to admit, it even captures your current, broken-down state. Who knew you had such a talent for crafts?

His fingers tightened around the doll, twisting its limbs, crushing its fabric body.

A jolt of pain, faint but real, shot through me from the doll. An idea, brilliant and terrifying, sparked in my mind. If I feel what happens to the doll does that mean the damage works both ways?

I glanced at the doll in my handhis doll. It was already beginning to reflect the state of the Primary.

It would work.

I flicked the switch.

Instruction #4: The Primary can turn the pain-sharing connection on or off at will.

A strangled scream ripped through the room.

Victor collapsed, his body hitting the floor with a heavy thud. The sudden, alien agony that flooded his system was so overwhelming he couldnt even process it.

Call an ambulance! Call a damn ambulance! he shrieked.

The intense pain forced his hand open, and my doll dropped to the carpet. He curled into a tight ball, his towering 62 frame crumpled in a desperate attempt to lessen the torment.

So this is what you look like when youre in pain, I murmured, a strange sense of calm washing over me. For the first time, he didnt seem like an invincible monster.

I ignored his pleas and picked up my doll, the Primary. I needed to know: was the pain he felt just a reflection of my own injuries, or could I inflict new pain through the doll itself?

The doll was mangled from his abuse. I looked at its face, so much like my own, and without a shred of pity, I bent its leg backward until it snapped.

A sickening crack echoed in the quiet room.

Aaargh!

Victor clutched his knee, letting out another piercing, agonized howl.

It works, I whispered.

What works? What the hell are you talking about? he gasped between screams. Ava, I told you to call an ambulance! Did you hear me? Do you want another beating?

His voice, usually a tool of terror, was now music to my ears. No wonder he loved to hear me scream and beg. It was a beautiful sound.

You want me to call an ambulance? I stepped closer, looking down at him. Then beg me, Victor. Beg me, and maybe Ill make the call.

My face was still swollen, the burn dressing on my back a constant, throbbing reminder of his cruelty. But in this moment, I held all the power. I held his pain in the palm of my hand.

You bitch! Youre deadAGHH!

He didn't finish his threat. I pressed down hard on the dolls chest, and Victor immediately began to choke, his breath catching in his throat.

Ava please, he wheezed, his voice cracking. Call an ambulance. Im begging you.

The pain had broken him. Tears and snot streamed down his face, painting a pathetic picture.

I pulled out my phone and dialed for an ambulance.

Just like Victor said, the game is only fun when theres resistance. Besides, I needed to know if a hospital could find any physical cause for his injuries.

The paramedics arrived quickly, loading the still-screaming Victor onto a stretcher. The staff at the local hospital knew me by sight; they must have assumed I was the patient again. They were in for a surprise.

From now on, the ambulance would only be for Victor.

After they wheeled Victor away, I slept. For the first time in three years, I slept through the entire night without waking up in a cold sweat. The wounds on my body still ached, but for once, my mind was at peace.

I woke the next morning to a strange sensation. The connection to the dolls felt stronger.

They had leveled up.

Instruction #5: When the Secondarys pain reaches a certain threshold, the Primary may upgrade. An upgraded Primary can amplify the pain felt by the Secondary.

The sustained agony from the night before must have triggered it. My control over the dolls felt sharper, more intuitive. The hospital, predictably, had found nothing wrong with Victor. Painkillers hadnt touched the phantom agony.

He came home that afternoon.

The moment he walked through the door, he roared my name. He sounded unhinged.

I stood at the top of the stairs, looking down on him.

Was this you? he snarled, his face contorted with rage. Some kind of trick? Its those dolls, isnt it?

They ran every test imaginable and found nothing. Nothing! The doctors think Im having a psychotic break. He pointed a shaking finger at me. Ava, I underestimated you.

I said nothing, letting him burn himself out with his impotent fury. Constant, unexplained pain can shatter a mans composure. He was already losing his mind.

But this was the pain I had lived with for three years.

Does it hurt? My voice was as cold as the marble beneath his feet. Good. So do I.

And the painkillers don't work, do they?

Instruction #6: The shared pain cannot be mitigated by external means, such as medication.

So it was you, he seethed, his teeth grinding together. Fine. If it hurts, it hurts. But now, Im not just going to make you hurt. Im going to kill you.

The calm, controlled mask he always wore was gone, replaced by a terrifying, wild-eyed madness.

I activated the upgrade. A 130% pain amplification surged through the connection. He gasped, his strength instantly draining away, and staggered against the wall. But even through the agony, he lunged for me, his hand closing around my wrist like a vice. A corresponding jolt of pain shot through his own wrist.

What the hell did you do? he growled through gritted teeth.

I just stared back at him, my silence a wall he couldnt break.

Go on then, I challenged him. Kill me. Lets see who dies first. You from the pain, or me from the beating.

He let go, his mind racing. Then, a look of realization. The dolls! Its the dolls. Where did you hide them? he yelled, tearing the house apart. You tried to hide them yesterday, I knew it!

I tried to stop him, but even in agony, he was stronger than my injured body. My attempts to create new pain by digging my nails into my own skin only seemed to fuel his desperation. He was willing to endure anything to find the source.

Finally, he found them, tucked away in my closet.

He snatched up his doll, the Secondary, and a triumphant, cruel smile returned to his face.

I have to admit, Ava, that was a clever little trick. You taught me a lesson. He held the doll up. But now that I have this, lets see how you fight back!

He stormed into the kitchen, turned on the gas stove, and without a moments hesitation, tossed the doll into the open flame.

The fire roared to life, engulfing the small figure.

Victor turned to me, a look of pure, malevolent victory on his face. He cracked his knuckles, already planning his retribution.

But in the next instant, his triumphant expression twisted into a mask of pure horror. The searing, blistering agony of being burned alive consumed him.

The doll, made of what looked like simple cloth, was completely unharmed by the flames.

He collapsed, screaming, his face turning a blotchy red as the phantom burns spread across his body.

I started to laugh. It was a beautiful thing, wasnt it? To give someone a flicker of hope, only to snatch it away and plunge them into absolute despair. It was the exact same feeling I had every time I thought Id escaped, only to see his car pull up in front of me.

Instruction #7: The bond can only be broken by death.