"Ragdoll: The Story" by Katherine Nicole ´dys´ VanHoorn

He blinked, blearily, coming to, and felt the pain in his face, horrible. It was rhythmic, though. Like someone stitching... His eyes opened wide and he felt rather than heard himself scream as he looked right into the smiling mouth of a faceless man, white hood pulled far down as if to create shadows but he was faceless anyway so it didn't matter so much. The little demon was giggling and laughing and he saw something glint and realized it WAS stitching. They were sewing something into his face.... and it hurt, it hurt so badly... he screamed again and this time could hear it over the roar in his ears. Felt something wet on his face. They stuck something over his mouth so he couldn't move it and strapped it down. The stitching continued and he made soft tortured noises, unable to truly scream. He grunted a few times, pressing his head back into the padding of whatever he was strapped to, trying to get his mouth and face away from them but they simply kept at it, three small faceless men, black form head to toe. Not the mahogany brown most people consider 'black', but truly black. Wearing white coats and large orange boots and scared him. Everything scared him.

The stitching took hours, they were careful in their work, the small men, and once they had finished his face they moved onto a little of his neck, his chest, back, ribs, waist, legs, hips, everything. They even sewed his fingers and toes with tiny stitches. Each one hurt and he felt the blood dripping from him like liquid pain, felt his screams from his throat. Once they had done his ribs his screams choked, and stopped, and he gasped for breath. He couldn't breathe... He couldn't BREATHE... it was so hard to just get air into his lungs... they kept sewing, the faceless black men, while he heard them giggling and laughing, probably recording his pain to listen to later. He tried to kick but his legs were stuck, strapped down as well, with his knees slightly up to make stitching behind them easier. When he stopped screaming he thought the men might be slightly disappointed. It served them right... ah, ow... it HURT.... it HURT between his toes and fingers and he threw his head back, feeling it smack against the padded chair he appeared to be in and let out the cry of a banshee, tortured and lonely, wailing, two voices, one high and one low. It would have struck fear into the hearts of anything human. The faceless men just poked each other and laughed and kept moving, working until they were truly finished.

He had passed out at some point. He knew that because when next he opened his eyes he was in a small gray room. There was blood leaking from stitches all over his body. And he ached.... oh he ached. He could barely move, and just put one hand up against his other arm and sat still, staring down at the blood on the floor. It was so sad looking. Some of it had already begun to turn brownish, meaning he had been passed out for a while. He looked around. He was on a tile floor. There was a cot nearby, with an old raggedy quilt, nice white sheets, and nice pillows. There was a toilet in the back, and a sink next to it. He blinked. Got up, feeling his legs protest, and walked to the sink.

He washed most of the old blood off, using the sheets from the cot to make bandages for the things bleeding the worst. He hurt; and he was tired but didn't dare sleep. You never knew when someone would come, when someone would come and just hurt him. He stood where he was. Staring off into space. There was no mirror, but he thought he could imagine what he looked like. A great big bloody walking rag doll. He felt the tears prick his eyes again, he thought they'd be too dry by now... he found there was black in his hair and did his best to get it out, sticking it under the sunk so it hung in his face and clung to his scalp, rather than slightly sticking out the way it usually was. He sighed.

"I'm ugly now," he said to himself. "And no one will ever want me again."

"Au contraire, said a voice behind him. "You are VERY beautiful, young one." It was a purring, female voice, and he hated to turn and see who it was. He did, anyway.

She was lovely. Faintly Asian, with a tilt to her eyes and a certain shine to long black hair pulled into French braids on either side of her head. Her lips were full, bee-stung lips. She was smiling and wearing something red, VERY low cut, something he didn't want to look at. She was smaller than him... "You're beautiful this way. A doll for us...."

"Us?" He found his voice wavering and swore mentally, pressing against the wall. The stitching there hurt much worse and he jumped away from the wall. Oh, he hurt all over.... and she was laughing at him, behind her eyes. He could SEE it, could see her hiding the laughter that wanted to come out of her. He hated her. She was horrible. Right.

"My brother and I. We're both in love with you." She spoke with a soft accent, he realized, something she appeared to be hiding. Or trying to hide. "My brother wanted the stitches. I think they make you beautiful. I think they make you better than ever before. We have followed you for so long..." She reached out to touch him, long fingernails painted deep dark red and he pulled away from her, back into the wall, hissing at the pain, so intense, so hateful, and tripped, onto the bed.

"I think you're crazy," He said, voice wavering and on the verge of all out sobbing. She walked over to the bed and used her fingertips to push him onto his back on the bed. Her fingers ran across some of the stitches across his ribcage, and she listened to him hiss and make a soft 'unh' noise in the very back of his throat and smiled. She lifted her fingers so he could see them, stained red with his blood, and licked it off her fingers, relishing the taste. She was no vampire, but blood was sweet sometimes and the best to drink, human or no. He looked like he was going to gag, or be sick all over her.

"Hey..." He said, softly, and she quickly got more blood, sliding fingers over his stitches and pressing down to cause him more pain. The blood was on her fingers and she smiled at him, and then pressed her fingers to his lips, opening his mouth so he took his blood from her. She massaged his throat, forcing him to swallow, watching the face he made at the bitter blood. "Oh you are so beautiful," she purred, her eyes flashing cat-like and he stared at her.

"Stop it..." He was whimpering now, before her. He watched her with his huge eyes, hazel, a mix of brown and green and lovely eyes. They looked like marbles, glass marbles in his head. He truly looked like a living rag doll. "My brother will want to see you..." She purred and stood, walking to the floor, blood all over her dress but she seemed not to notice. She got outside, and called an order. The men came in, the little grinning faceless black men who grabbed him by the arms, chuckling as he cried out in pain in their soft little munchkin voices. They were small, he realized; they only came up to his shoulder. But they were STRONG... they dragged him down the hallway, a hospital like hallway, white all around with a smell to it of disinfectant and old medicine, the slightest odor of feces and blood. It made him wrinkle his nose as they led him along. Pain was numbing, their hands were so tight. They must have been pinching his nerves or something.

They came from the hallway into a new one, with a lush blue carpet, which drops of his blood fell into and stained a dark purple. Walking it felt like on fur and his head lowered submissively as he was marched. He saw her glance back, the slight smile on her face. She thought this would make him give in. Oh no. He was waiting for his chance...

The room was huge, with ceiling nearly 20 feet above them. The walls were white, so bright it hurt to look at them. Paintings of every size and shape hung from the walls, with a hundred mirrors among them, all the way to the ceiling, to the point where all the mirrors could reflect was each other. The furniture was big and furry, and blue, all of it, matching the carpet. His blood fell into it here too and he stared down at it, watching a single drop spread to make a stain at least three times the size of the drop itself. There might be hope in that. He would have smiled but there was stitching just above his lip and it would have hurt and nearly torn the stitching out. He didn't want to try that...

"Ah, so this is our newest dollie," Said a lithe male voice. He lifted his head to see someone lounging in one of the chairs. Darkish brown hair hung in his eyes and he casually brushed it away, with a hand filled with rings. Silver, gold, every kind, lots of jewels in them. He was handsome, but... "So, little rag doll, what is your NAME?" His voice, soft and smooth, carried across the room quite well.

"My name..." It hurt to even speak, the stitching above his lip stretched and made him ache. "M-my name is... Nicodemus." Or it HAD been. He thought he might have to change it now... He didn't want that man to know what his name was. Still he kept his head somewhat lowered. He had to wait for a moment when they left him alone and gave him a chance to run... it would hurt, with the thread in his legs, but he could do it. He knew he could.

"Nicodemus, hmmm? We'll call you Nic, for the sake of keeping you lovely in my eyes." The man walked over to him, long legs almost bare in ALMOST see-through shimmery white glittery pants. He ran his hands across Nic's body as well, feeling the blood, lifting it to his lips to taste. "Oh you are lovely little doll.... and mine, ALL mine..." His sister coughed and glared at him and the man blushed. "Ours. I mean all ours, of course, darling sister..." She just kept her glare up, and grabbed him, pulling him out of the room to have a 'talk' with him, it seemed. Leaving Nicodemus. The faceless black men scuttled up, giggling all the way, out the door. Leaving him alone in this room. Alone with only the buzzing inside his head.

There was a window. A window by the other wall and he moved, so painstakingly slowly it seemed, his legs hurt as he stretched the threads and they wanted to break. Somehow they didn't. "Magic," he whispered. Magic existed, even in this world. He knew that. He found the latch on the window and pushed it, hearing the slight creak of its opening, barely daring to breathe, turning to look around. They weren't back yet. He could hear the woman screaming, though, that he belonged to BOTH of them. He shuddered, though that made his stitches hurt more, and climbed out the window, holding back the sounds of pain he wanted to make.

He fell, from there into a bush, a rose bush, and ignored the pricking thorns, they did nothing to him. He then took off, at an odd, sliding loping gate that could only be described as clumsy and in pain, and ran through the trees nearby, skirting the guards near the gate with no fence and getting out. Just getting the hell out.

Just. Run.

END CHAPTER ONE (I think there will be more....)