The room was dimly lit, the hard wood of the chair, on which she sat, angry against her milky skin. She pulled and twisted at the coarse rope laced around her wrists as she squinted into the darkness. She was seeking a face, any face. She was scared yet calm, she knew panic would do her no good. Suddenly she felt firm leathery hands on the back of her shoulders, they touched her lightly; almost with care.
"Kristina Frye." he breathed, his voice sticky sweet, "You are dead."
She blinked in confusion and shook her head, "I not..." she started before he interrupted, his voice firmer yet still as remote, "You are dead. You died."
"W-what?" she stuttered. Swiftly, the hands wrapped around her neck as she felt a pressure grow and the life begin to seep out of her, yet all the time his commanding voice kept whispering, "You are dead. You died. This is merely the afterlife."
Overtime as the weeks turned into months, she started to believe. It wasn't easy, however Kristina Frye had always had one foot into insanity and eventually her mind gave in and he had her heart and soul. Kristina had always wanted to believe, to see the hope her clients felt and in time she began to feel it. He convinced her to accept her new reality, to accept that she was dead and that this was merely the afterlife. With care, he urged her to retreat into her own mind and stay there. He asserted that she would be happy there, free and contented and she was. With more time she began to forget about the man with the firm leathery hands, she forgot about almost everything, she eventually found her body now of little use and she abandoned it. Kristina Frye was dead.
She sat in front of him, her hands bound with rope wrapped around the coarse arms of the chair. Her ocean blue eyes were glazed and distant. John was happy, a feeling he rarely felt except with a knife in hand and body below. He felt in himself an urge to celebrate and to have some fun. He rose from his chair and stepped into the other room. He pulled from his bag a small satchel of which he brought over to the body of Kristina Frye. She was so plaid and calm, a mere doll. He placed the tip of a needle in her arm and watched as the blood satisfyingly burst from her vein and travelled into the connected bag. When he was satiated he stopped and placed a taped cotton ball lovingly over the wound. Kristina didn't move an inch, she just sat and did nothing. John turned his attention to the wall and, using the bag, drew his signature smiley face onto the surface. After he was finished he had a funny idea. If Kristina was a doll then perhaps he should leave such a clue for his pet, Jane. He contemplated any other number of ways to play another game with Jane but John rationalised that his Kristina Doll was the perfect response; she would be returned but unable to answer a single question Jane had. She would be a clue but with no hint of a solution and of course the idea of a living victim had John elated.
The call was easy enough and disguising his voice was quite easy as well, he had done it at least once before when he had talked to Jane's face however the performance had always worried him; how convincing had his squeaky voice been? Anyway, it was unlikely that his voice would be recorded or analysed yet again it worried him. John told them where to find her and they came. Now Kristina Frye would meet the earth; Red John's dead red doll.
A/N: Okay, so this story ends with Red John giving her back, but I may change this later and make it much longer but for now it's just a drabble.