Archive of Our Own ^beta

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She's pretty like this, you think, angelic. There's no pain, only peace on her face. It's captivating, that way, and you brush her hair out of her face tenderly. You're not like father, father caused pain, you take that pain away. You are innocent that way. Things are prettier when still, happier when unmoving. In her slumber this girl knew nothing of the outside world nor its harshness, in slumber she was free.

So you'd make sure she'd sleep forever.

Her eyes were the most beautiful ones you've ever seen, you think, as you carefully move the scalpel around her sockets. Youll make sure no pain came to her, no horror, and persevere her innocence and naivety. That's something that father didn't understand, true beauty couldn't be achieved through pain, but through the stopping of pain. Under your care no one would ever feel bad again. No one would ever feel like your fathers victims did, or how you did, not ever again.

No one would ever feel anything.

You would preserve this worlds beauty, just like your father aimed to all those years ago.

Dolls felt no pain, so you'd become a doll maker.

It was in your blood.

Before you painlessly punctured her heart, you leaned down and gave jean a soft kiss, like one would a loved one. In a way, she was a loved one.

You love all of your dolls, after all.

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You hum, hands interlacing behind your back as you smile.

You sit down in the garden, slightly calloused fingertips on dainty hands reaching out to grasp stems, twirling them in your pressure filled hold.

The stems snap, and die.

You interwive flowers together, still humming that same tune along the way.

You could never hate father; even if all he does is surrounded by corpses, laced in madness.

Father understands, the feeling of a stem between your grasp, he understands that, so you could never hate him.

You hope he will like his new crown.

You fall asleep to a melody of screams.

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Your scalpel glided across their skin, and you smile.

It's quite a beautiful thing, to cut open and expose all the raw part of one's heart, to see what they're made of—it's what's on the inside that counts, after all.

You'd like to use a chainsaw for this, the vroom like a melody to your ears, but you needed more precision, so you're left with this sharped digging into their flesh, ripping into them.

You wonder, briefly, if the anesthesia worked. You heard about it before–some people who are perfectly aware during their operation, who have to feel everything, but cannot move, cannot scream out. It's intriguing, really, in a way. To think that you could hold ones life in your very hand, to be the one who decides what they experience—they have to trust you as their doctor completely, so they're completely at your whim. It's a powerful feeling, really.

You remember your father's victims, how he reduced them to that all by himself, and– and it's exciting, really. To think that you could affect people like that, like him.

Like him?

You don't want to be like him, though, you decided long ago, so you shake your head, hands that stopped during your pondering resuming.

Pain isn't beauty—maybe it's something else, you can tell from excitement that courses through your veins, but it isn't beauty.

You would preserve the world's beauty, nothing less, nothing more.

Still, though, the thought of holding power over someone, being the one to decide if they should be in pain or not, lingers in the back of your head.