She's Dark Now

Summary: When Ernie died, I knew he was my last chance. And they all have their little bisque dolls. It's always just a matter of breaking the toy. The tricky part is, you have to be careful not to break the man as well. I learned that the hard way.

Author's Note: Natalie seemed to have an Electra-like love for Ernie Dell. It makes sense to me, particularly with her line in Living Doll how it's "always about her" that when Ernie died, instead of mourning his death she would instead transfer her attentions to a new, appropriate target more out of necessity. As psychopaths tend not to linger on emotional attachments, this also fits with her psychological profile. If you're interested in the painting described in the second paragraph, here (remove the space betwee . co): http://image.www.rakuten. co.jp/ny-poster/img10551120242.jpeg

"My painting is visible images which conceal nothing; they evoke mystery and, indeed, when one sees one of my pictures, one asks oneself this simple question 'What does that mean'? It does not mean anything, because mystery means nothing either, it is unknowable."

—René Magritte

The first time I saw him, I knew he was different. He was so meticulous, taking in every detail. He stared at my work in awe, with the eye of a dumbstruck connoisseur. It was inspiring. He was the only one who could ever truly understand me. I used to build them for Ernie. But now, I build them for him.

Watching—I always watch. Watched him. I watched for a long time, mesmerized by his attention to detail and— oh what exquisite taste in art! A Magritte painting hangs in his kitchen. It's one of my favorites. The eagle carved into the mountain staring at the eggs on the stone windowsill that it can never fly to. Le Domaine d'Arnheim. It's a poster, but it's framed in ebony. There is a tear in the bottom corner of the poster that creeps up under the frame. More than once, I've tried to mimic his apartment. But I found that I couldn't— have you seen his apartment? It's… it's just incredible, it's— but I couldn't do it. It's too sacred, it's too— it's too perfect. Though his apartment is the haphazard mess of a genius with too little time, everything is in its right place, always in the place where it's supposed to be.

Oh, and the music! Oh the happy music! The Mozart CDs stuck between the Beatles and Bob Dylan. The happy mess! The files strewn across the coffee table, papers falling on the floor. Books pulled out randomly, laying open on the dining table, on the kitchen counter, on his end table. His bookshelf has gaps in it— Vonnegut, Kerouac, Salinger— due to the books placed randomly around his apartment— Beckett, Hugo, Hemmingway— I have memorized the title of every book on his shelf— Eliot, Plath, Woolf— His taste in literature is equally as brilliant as his taste in art.

But that Magritte painting— swirls of color blending vividly on the canvas— is hypnotizing. After I saw it, I went out and bought my own. It hangs in the exact same place in my kitchen as it does in his. Right next to the refrigerator.

His fridge— that's a story all on it's own, but his fridge!— it has a chipped wooden handle while mine is crisp and metallic. His sink is full of dirty dishes while mine is always empty. His counters are never clean while mine are immaculate. But it's nice to have that one identical detail. It makes me feel more connected to him.

As I watched, I began to see things… out of place. Wrong wrong wrong, it was all wrong somehow. The files became organized. The CDs, alphabetized. The gaps in his bookshelf disappeared. His dishes were washed. His counters were cleaned. Somebody was taking care of him. I didn't like that. Everything was perfect. Nothing was to be touched. She ruined everything…

But— she doesn't really matter now anyway— I pushed her to the back of my mind and through the next months, as I led, he followed, like children—following the leader!— and I believed that he was watching me, too, when he looked at my work with fascination. It was our little game, and how I do love games. Oh the pretty things he did, the way he always put everything back where it was. I crafted, and he admired. It was how we connected, he and I, how we… He loved me. I was sure of it, like a daughter, an oh-so beautifully deserving daughter anxiously awaiting his kiss! Oh what a delicate thrill! He flattered me too much, and because of that I got careless. Ernie delivered my miniature wearing that adorable train shirt he has, and somehow my clever prince—for he is, you know, royalty, I'm certain he is royal— found out. In a way, it was I who killed Ernie, my sweet, sweet father, my first father, really, first love, first song, first… first… but I don't really mind too much. If Ernie was willing to die for me, well I could accept that— Fathers die for daughters, liars live for lovers— So long as I still had him. My own little aficionado. My biggest fan.

When Ernie died, I knew he was my… my last chance. But as I watched him, I quickly discovered that she was a growing problem. He already had someone to look after. His special girl. He was just like Christopher— oh cruelly creeping Christopher and his capricious Chloe doll! Christopher and Chloe, no room for little Natalie, no no, tomorrow sweetheart, always tomorrow, today for Chloe, and tomorrow we'll love you. But they all have their little bisque dolls. It's always just a matter of breaking the toy. The tricky part is, you have to be careful not to break the man as well. I learned that the hard way. But it's all just a game really, and I do love games. I'm good at them. I always beat my opponents at any game. I beat my sister all the time, and I would beat her to death all over again if I could.

And then— and then there's her all over again, Chloe interfering, all over my prince, my biggest fan, her slimy hand on his cheek— as if she deserves him! I see the looks he throws her way when he thinks they're alone. The way his touch lingers on her arm or her hand just a little too long. The way he pays just a little too much attention to her subtle shifts in moods. Yes, I see it all. It was exactly like Christopher and Chloe. Ernie and Katie. The problem with men is that they love their toys a little too much. The ties need to be severed, and they need to grow up. Fast. They need to learn that not every little girl can be a perfect porcelain doll.

Chloe fell out of a tree. Katie fell down the stairs. Falling, falling, falling, always falling, like angels tumbling into hell. Pretty little wings on fire. One way or another, the little doll gets shattered. When Chloe broke, I fractured Christopher and he was never the same— Humpty Dumpty fallen and cracked and all the kings horses and all the kings men— as if horses could put a broken doll together again any better than a man could! But Christopher had no room in his heart for anyone else after that. He abandoned me. And I was lost. Until sweet Ernie found me. Then it was just a matter of dispatching of Katie. I learned that the important thing is you have to pretend. But pretend games are fun. I'm good at pretending. Pretend you understand their grief, their alien emotions. And when Katie died, I played the good daughter, holding her Daddy's hand while her Mommy was laid into the ground. I think, somewhere inside of him, he knew that I had done it. But he wouldn't admit it. And I was his favorite. Out of all the other children, I was his absolute favorite. I was his special girl. Now that Katie was gone, he cared only for me. So tender. So soft. I reveled in the attentions he gave me. I relished his touch, his gentle caress. I longed for his soft kisses, lips and eyelashes fluttering lightly against my cheek. It sent a wave of euphoria through me. A sense of wanting. But this was a new kind of wanting. I was used to wanting. Wanting things dead. Wanting things gone. But Ernie, no, I wanted him in a whole new way…

Until he died.

But it didn't matter. Because by then, I had fallen in love with this new prince. He was the only one who could really understand me. Ernie, for as much as we loved each other, had no idea of my true nature, not even when he decided to die for the nothingness in me. I have pretended a lot of things, but I never pretended I was anything but empty. I just never understood why it was such a bad thing, to be this way.

Still, she presented a problem.

She was beautiful, in her own, little way. She possessed plain features and a slightly interesting character, but after watching her for long enough she began to bore me. Although there was something in her that I coveted gravely, a spark of something… different. Despite her average appearance, she held something bright inside her, something defiant, something secretively sweet. And I wanted to play! I longed to learn that secret, to seize it from her and claim it as my own, and maybe then he would look at me as he looked at her.

Her. It was always about her.

And so I did it. I stole her from him. Buried her in the mud under metal and glass. And he'll never find her. Never never never never never—

And he'll be mine forever. And he won't lie. I stole the light from her and swallowed it whole. I became everything he loved in her. She's dark now. Her flesh will be washed away by the rain. And soon, I will become her. Plain little Sara. He will call me by her name and hold her with my hands and he will love me and protect me like a father should.

And then, he will lay me down, and when we kiss, she will finally die in me and I will consume all of him.

This is how all fairy tales should end…