"So pretty…" I mumble, running a leather-clad hand over the long hair. Gripping it between my fingers, I tug, and run an old fashioned-razor against the doll's temple. Matt whimpers, biting down on the rag wedged between his teeth.
"Now, now," I whisper, stroking Matt's face, "you know screaming would just get you into trouble. You don't want that, now, do you? Because you'd hate me to get angry with you, wouldn't you?"
Matt nods his head, tears dribbling from his eyes. I shave away a chunk of his hair, and pull out a new instrument, dangling it tantalizingly in front of his face. Matt's eyes widen with fright, and he gnaws at the rag in fear.
"I'm not going to lie to you," I say calmly, "this is gonna hurt a bitch."
Pressing a lengthy tuft of red hair back onto the temple, I position the stapler, and…
Matt screams, the pained cry muffled and choking in his throat.
"Shh… shh…" my glove strokes at his wet cheeks, "It'll all be over soon, I promise."
I staple another couple of tufts back onto his head, Matt screaming helplessly every time. I then run a hand down his leg, and shove my fingers into his boot.
"Let's see," I muse, "PSP, a lighter, couple of emergency fags… aha! Knife!" I flick my wrist, "Oh… a switchblade? We're in England; these are illegal."
Matt growls, then reverts back to whimpering as I climb onto his lap, straddling him, and rest the blade on his forehead.
I press the blade in deep, and Matt stops struggling. I run the knife down in a diagonal line, crossing his left eyebrow and down his nose. Matt's breath is ragged, nostrils flared.
I continue slicing his face: a cut on his cheek, and a bloody red line from just under his chin to his lip, slicing the lower lip open. Matt howls, tears running with the blood down his pasty face.
I kiss him gently on the nose, and reach for the needle and thread. "Don't worry," I say, treading the needle, "I'm good with laces," I give my crotch a quick tug, "tying and threading things and the likes. People often say skin is similar to leather."
Matt whimpers and shakes as I sew his wounds closed. His emerald eyes keep begging, and he tugs repeatedly at the cord around his wrists.
I stand back and admire my work. I smile, then kneel down and start pulling at Matt's boots. They slide off, revealing a number of spare fags, lighters, and even a pale blue Gameboy Advance.
"You really don't grasp the concept of pockets, do you?" I laugh. I lean forwards and unfasten his trousers. He tenses, and I laugh again. "Don't you be getting any ideas!"
Trousers discarded, I stand. "Are you going to be a good dolly, or do I need to keep you tied down?"
Matt tugs harder on the cord. Smiling dryly, I unfasten the knot, and Matt cradles his bruised wrists, before reaching up and gingerly prodding at his face.
"Mels…" the rag falls to the floor, Matt's voice hoarse and dry, "Mels, what are you doing."
I open a box, and pull out something denim. "Take off the vest."
Matt gazes forlornly at me. I growl, and he obeys, water still leaking from his eyes.
"Oh, shit," I slap my forehead, "I forgot!"
Taking up the razor again, I press Matt back into the chair. He pushes, and fights, until I pin his skinny hands under my knee, and run the razor down the edge of his eye.
"Mels…Mels, what are you are you doing? Mels, Mello, stop!"
I step down, and Matt clutches his eye. I kneel again, and start to pull the denim up his legs. Grabbing his shoulders, I drag us both to our feet, and fasten the dungarees over his shoulders.
"Matt…." I say, slapping his cheek gently.
"Fuck off."
I cuff him, and he falls to the ground. I throw a pair of white shoes at him, and pull another white fabric from the box.
I position Matt in front of the mirror, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, "Y'see?" I slur, "Just like Chuckie and Tiff."
Matt doesn't speak; he simply plays with the white lace falling over my legs.
"You're the only one," I continue, "the only one who's seen my feminine side."
Matt pulls on the skirt.
"Does it still hurt?"
Matt's hand reaches up to the leather jacket, and plays idly with the zip.
"Matt…"
Matt doesn't answer.
I gaze back into the mirror. "Y'see; that was why I always had my hair the way it was. From a young age, I've always wanted to be a girl. I think God made me wrong."
Matt pulls on my jacket.
"I've always loved girly things….dresses….dolls…boys….and then we watched that film…Chuckie….Bride of Chuckie…."
Matt's hand drops, and scratches at a staple on the side of his head.
"I wanted a Chuckie doll after that. But then I realised; I kind of already had one. A red-headed, stripes-wearing, clever….that's all you really have in common with Chuckie. The rest of you is more….Tiff-like."
Matt gingerly strokes his scars.
"You're loyal to a madman….you're caring, yet gothic…you don't mind using people…and you'll do anything to impress the man you love," I lean closer to him, "even let me drug you and knock you out."
Matt glares at me in the mirror.
"Should I be Chuckie?" I ask, resting my head on the lanky man's shoulder.
Matt turns his head away from me.
Picking up the stapler, I press the hollow black device to my palm, and press.
"Ow!" I hiss. Tugging the metal from my hand, I raise the cut to Matt's face.
Matt keeps turning away, and I growl again.
Matt's shoulders slump, then turns to give my hand a kiss. I smile, and snuggle into his side.
We only look like Chuckie and his bride. Our personalities are the other way around.