Her backpack forgotten for the moment, Amy plopped down on her bed.
Slappy was still asleep, almost comatose, and she felt a little chill run down her spine. Settling him down gently, she stared at his face.
Same rounded cheeks, rosy; meticulously neat brown curls; same black suit and red tie. Same old Slappy.
Sighing, she headed to her closet and peeled off her sweaty t-shirt. She knew it should've bothered her to have the comatose body of the doll that made her twelve-year-old life a living hell in her room while she changed but, seeing as it seemed like he wasn't going to wake up any time soon, it didn't.
The window was open, letting in the cool summery breeze and it ran across her flushed, hot skin. Shower, she decided, unbuttoning her jeans and sliding the grass stained denim down her legs.
She winced as it rubbed against her bruises and scratches from too many slides.
The hair on the back of Amy's neck unexpectedly stood on end as her jeans puddle around her ankles.
Grow up, she told herself fiercely; rolling her socks down off her toes, he's asleep.
Regardless, to be on the safe side, she gathered some clean clothes and stripped out of her bra and panties in the bathroom. While the water warmed, she tended to her bruised legs and combed her ratty hair. The air was hot and muggy, leaving her skin sticky.
How did you get Slappy back into your life, Amy? she asked her tired reflection, taking notice of the zit on her jaw and the scratch along her left temple.
Shaking her head dimly, she slid into the spray of hot water and washed herself raw, taking care to get under her nails and between her toes.
Amy tilted her head up into the hot spray, letting rivulets run down her lids and cheeks, pelt her hair and soak it. As she did so, she thought about what had occurred when she tried to tell her parents—that had been so stupid, even if she was only twelve—about Slappy.
Amy, Amy, your father and I want you to see Dr. Palmer. You aren't crazy, sweetie, but we can tell you aren't right. We just want what's best for you.
Her breath came out in angry pants as she slapped her palms flat against the tiles, droplets stinging her eyes.
Once the water ran cool, she wrung out her hair and stepped out. The mirror was foggy, and she wiped it clear to dab a bit of antibacterial ointment on the scratch on her temple.
Once she dressed in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, she headed back out, pulling her hair out of the collar. When she stepped into her room, she froze.
Slappy was wide-awake, staring straight at her with hard, ice-blue eyes.
"Hi," she said awkwardly, wiping her hands on the bottom of her shirt.
His eyes narrowed. "Is that any way to greet your master, slave?" he demanded.
Amy relaxed, fear flowing out of her. Six years ago, she would've bawled like a newborn babe and pleaded with the dummy; now, however, she didn't have the slightest inkling of fear towards him.
"Good to see you too, Slappy," she snorted.
He seemed puzzled for a split second, eyebrows drawn in confusion as he glanced around, taking in the new posters on her walls and the bursting bookcase beside the closet.
"You grew a set of tits," he announced when he turned back to her, making her flare her nostrils.
"You're as unpleasant as ever." She rolled her eyes.
"Why am I here?" he asked, rising shakily to his feet. He swayed and looked ready to fall over. Could he get wood-rot? He was a doll, but he wasn't a normal doll.
"I have a deal for you," she told him, leaning over to grab the screwdriver and scissors off her desk. When she turned back around, his eyes quickly lifted to her face. Typical man—whether it was a doll possessed by a demon or a snarky high schooler.
"I want you to be my slave but only if I fix you."
"And if I don't?" He cocked a thick, dark brow at her.
Her smile grew. "You don't have much of a choice."
She expected a big tantrum from him, throwing things, hurling insults, the whole shebang, but what she didn't expect was a quiet "Okay."
"Now come here so I can get those clothes off."
His jaw jutted, he crawled over slowly, exasperatedly sighing. Placing the blades firmly against his suit, she slowly cut off the wet, tattered fabric, save for his little shorts covering his nudity. "I'll be back soon. I just need some things to fix your finish up and get the mold off," she said and rose, heading out the door.
As an afterthought, knowing him all too well, she added, "Be good."
He sneered but didn't reply as the door closed behind her.