I always knew that I was different from the other children in my neighborhood. While they played football and climbed trees, I preferred to stay indoors and play with my dolls. My parents didn’t understand my fascination with them and often scolded me for being too girly. But I didn’t care. I loved my dolls and cherished each one like they were my own children.
As I grew older, my love for dolls didn’t waver. Rather, it only grew stronger. I began to realize that there was something special about each and every one of them. I would spend hours examining their unique features and imagining the stories behind them. I even started researching the history of dolls and found that they have been around for centuries, serving as important cultural and religious symbols in many societies.
I started collecting dolls from all over the world, each one with their own story and significance. I found solace in their company and felt like I had a purpose in life. As my collection grew, I began to see the beauty in the art of doll-making. I started attending doll-making workshops and learning new techniques to create my own dolls.
However, there was a dark side to my obsession with dolls. I had an urge to kill that I couldn’t control. It started with small animals like birds and mice, but soon escalated to human beings. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t help myself. The thrill of taking someone’s life was addictive, and I craved it more and more each day.
It was then that I got a job at the local day care. It was the perfect cover for my true intentions. I could be around children all day, without arousing any suspicions. And the best part was, I could add to my doll collection.
Every time I took a life, I would create a doll in their image. It was my way of immortalizing them and keeping them close to me forever. I would dress them up, talk to them and even sleep with them, feeling their presence all around me.
But as time passed, my killings became more frequent and more daring. The police were closing in on me, and I knew my days were numbered. But I couldn’t stop myself. The urge was too strong, and I was too far gone.
I would watch the children at the day care with a sense of detachment, knowing that they were just pawns in my game. They were innocent, but to me, they were just objects to be used and discarded. I would lure them into the storage room, under the pretense of playing a game or giving them a treat. And then I would strike.
Each time I killed, I felt a sense of satisfaction that was unparalleled. And then I would create a doll in their image, adding it to my growing collection. It was a sick and twisted cycle, but I couldn’t help myself.
As the police closed in on me, I knew that my time was running out. But I didn’t care. I had my dolls, and they were all that mattered to me. They were my children, my companions, my everything.
And so, as I sit here, surrounded by my dolls, I can hear the sirens in the distance. It won’t be long now before they catch me. But I’m not afraid. I know that my dolls will keep me company, even in death. And that’s all that matters.
Perhaps one day, someone will find my collection and understand the beauty behind it. Or perhaps not. But to me, it will always be a symbol of my love for dolls and my need to take life.