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With Dull Scissors

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Her head shone like a pearl beneath the moonlight, bulbous and crafted in curves. The blond whips that once grew like weeds from her scalp lay in pools around your shoes, heavy and clumped from the dew staining grass blades that flocked to it like hungry leeches. It had been a feat to bald her – armed with a dull pair of scissors suited for a kindergartner with violet and honey yellow rubber grips – and you treated it like the careful conception of fine art as you snipped lock after lock from her skull. She now lays motionless against the trunk of a tree, arms hollow and limp at her sides like those of a rag doll.
You raise the hammer, stiff in your hand and somehow light as air, and align it with the flat of an iron nail, its tip pressed indiscreetly to her palm. Not a sound rustles the bed of gardenias to your side, barely a significant crack discernible as the hammer plunges forward. You do the same to the hand’s twin, nail meeting tree bark none more audibly than the last. She lays suspended, bare against the bark and motionless as the crisp leaves far ahead upon the branches.
Your hands dig deep into your pockets, fingertips brushing age-old crumbs aside before they re-surface, faintly misshapen matchbox in tow. The blunt end of one flimsy stick hisses as it is struck, transforming into a steady kindle stark amidst the hushed hues of an autumn night. You hold it beneath the curve of her foot, bent perfectly in the softest of an arc fit for the hierarchy of beauty– watch the slender dip blister and the flames lap hungrily at her ankle. You raise it to her chest, hold the match to her navel and concentrate how the flicker warms dull against her belly, melting and casting flesh-colored drips down the length of her legs to gather at her toes. You become impatient, finicky with the interlude, and at long last raise the match to her face, engulfing the shallow rise of her petite nose and making cheeks as malleable as fresh dough. Little by little, the once beautiful features deform, baby blues of eyes smeared not artistically, but abhorrently abstractly with the pink tones of her lip, brows becoming curdled and distorted.
You feel, eventually, that punishment has transpired past its prime and pull the flame away, discarding it into the hollow pit of her stomach, gaping in abysmal. Satisfied, you turn the way round, not once remorseful for your actions, after casting one final glance at a newly mutant face to whisper, hush as the night wind: “Goodbye, Barbie.”





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