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Author's note: This story is also called The Pink Room and was inspired by Kavinisky's Nightcall

Biancadelrio

My name is Kimber Holland, and the last thing I remember is being at a gay bar. See, I enjoy hanging around gay men because they don’t threaten me. Typically behind the eyes of a straight man, there is a lustful mind undressing my physique and positioning me in various poses. However, gay men do this sort of thing with Ken dolls and really only see me for my blonde hair and makeup and my gorgeous, hazel eyes which know the pain of rejection.

If there is one thing that proves being gay isn’t a choice is that nobody in their right mind would willingly choose to endure a man’s bullshit.

During the course of the night, I would watch them gather around and drink and hug one another and slowly die inside. Because no matter how happy a homosexual male may be, there is always a hint of despair in their smile due to the heavy boulder of society. Yet, this club was a place of safety and security where they could express themselves. And it was certainly the kind of atmosphere where I didn’t have to worry about being hit on or harassed.

--

He stands in the corner of the gay club and watches every man who isn’t like him try to find happiness. In the center of a universe covered in sweat and desired testosterone, this young man is, in fact, not gay. However, his tight jeans and fitted black shirt suggest otherwise. But this is merely a disguise, because he knows somewhere out there is the perfect doll he can take home.

The predator, in the past, tried to pick up women in straight bars., but his physical makeup makes him look too fem and not masculine enough to lure a woman in. Despite his sadistic intentions, the young man would approach women with a polite demeanor and they still turned him down or walked away with another man.

"It’s because you’re a pussy," his dead sister’s voice would say in malice words.

“Shut up, you, shut up!” her brother would scream out loud, as he banged the sides of his head. And while doing this, he would forget a female was in his presence and she would run off.

He has developed a reputation for being a psychopath in straight local bars, which has resulted to him coming to the gay ones. It is all an elaborate scheme, because this troubled young man is aware that women fear the idea of being perversely touched, and he knows it's easier to catch them off guard and build their trust by pretending to love men.

It is then he notices a young woman standing alone. Her height is average, her hair is fair; a blonde rainbow of highlights, and her skin -- it reminds him so much of Jenny.

--

And while I stood by myself at the bar, I noticed a handsome fellow staring at me from the corner. He wore a black shirt that matched his jet-black hair, and his eyes; those sharp glazers, they were powerful much like a straight guy’s glare.

He approached me and, in a timid, soft voice that carried wisps like a gentle breeze, asked for my name. Of course, I didn’t know him and I had no intentions to start a friendship, so I lied and replied, “Joan, my name is Joan.”

I enjoyed creating fake names in bars, because it was almost like I could be a different person for the night. You know, like how a soot-covered maiden can put on glass slippers and an sky blue dress and be Cinderella for the night. Only, I didn’t clean out chimneys, but instead worked for a damn call center. By being Miss Joan with the fabulous eyeliner, I could escape reality and be a star for the evening.

“Like the martyr?” he asked.

“Yes,” I told him. “And like Joan Crawford.”

At first, I thought he would laugh and make a joke about wire hangers. Many gay men adore Mommie Dearest’s wicked ways and announce proudly how Christina isn’t a fan of her Miss Crawford. I waited for him to chuckle; however, his facial expression fell flat with confusion as he asked, “Who is that?”

Silence befell me for a moment. I let out a small laugh and informed him that she was a glamorous actress, a fierce icon and Bette Davis’ mortal enemy. I then jokingly added, “Are you sure you're gay?”

--

“You’re a horrible actor!” his sister screams within his mind.

He cringes a little at this harsh, internal wave. He ignores his sibling, lets out of a chuckle and tells Joan that his name is Randy. But what “Joan” doesn’t know is that “Randy” knows she is lying about her name. He can sense it. Besides, it takes a bullshitter to know a bullshitter, because his name is actually Gregory.

Liar Joan then asks. “So, what kind of guy are you looking for?” she adds.

Gregory, whose eyes are completely fixed on this girl’s face, tells her that he is looking for a person who is blonde, about her height, and has a skin tone that is translucent and soft. In his pants is a raging device powered by disturbed fantasies. For example, he imagines the lying female stuffed and dancing rather robotic like a plaything. Gregory imagines her blossom down below replaced with a Barbie doll crotch and, if he could, the young man would replace her blue gems with Jenny’s eyes.

He likes to think of this girl is in a manic kingdom where he can be both a queen and a king, and rule his plebeians with narcissistic power.

--

There was something odd about Randy.

After telling me what kind of guy he was interested in, he sort of blanked out and went silent in his own thoughts. It was almost as if Randy had submerged himself into a world only he occupied. After a couple of seconds, I asked with concern, “Are you okay?”

Randy then blinked and snapped back to reality. For a brief moment, he noticed I was a little creeped out. See, I have never been able to control my facial expressions or how I feel, and there was something about this guy that didn’t hold up a rainbow flag. Instead, a red flag started to emerge rather slowly.

“Sorry,” Randy replied. “Sometimes I get caught up in my own day dreams.” He paused and then added, “It’s just been hard since my sister passed away. You know?”

“That’s terrible,” I replied. “What was her name and when did she pass?”

Randy’s face became a little broken as he told me his sister’s name was Jenny. “She died when I was eight years old,” he added.

Now, given his physical appearance, Randy appeared to be twenty-six or so, and the way he made it sound it came across that his sister had just died. Don’t get me wrong, when my father died I was fourteen and, even though the pain is still evident, at the age of twenty-three it felt more like a dull echo than a recent happening.

I didn’t want to say it, but the passing of his sister that long ago should have been dealt with by now. I decided it was time to end this conversation and said, “I’m sorry for your loss, but I’m gonna go around and socialize for a bit.”

“You can’t go,” he abruptly replied. “I mean -- I just -- I don’t know, you seem really nice.”

It was then I knew something was wrong. I mean, in a bar full of beautiful, chiseled men, why did Randy feel so compelled to speak to me and only me? Why did he stare at me the way guys had been staring at him? And I realized not only was Randy straight, but that something as legitimately wrong.

“Well, thank you,” I nervously told him. “But -- ”

Suddenly, out of the blue, Randy started to argue at a person who wasn’t there. “No, she isn’t a dyke; she’s a real girl,” he sharply hissed.

Multiple red flags appeared above his head like a crown and, right at that very moment, the bartender who had been watching us said to Randy, “Hey, she doesn’t want to be bothered. Get lost.”

Despite his neon-pink tank top and bleached hair, the man behind the bar looked as though he was an angry hornet about to sting Randy. There was a momentary, aggressive silence from the both of them and, in a voice that didn’t seem like his own, he growled at the bartender, “Go munch on shit, faggot.”

This homophobic insult slapped me in the face and club worker let out a rhetorical, small laugh. The man brought his strong hand to his chest and, rather astonished, he asked, “Excuse me?

At this point, I had slipped away quickly and vanished into the crowd. I didn’t want to get into the middle of the confrontation and, most importantly, this was my chance to escape Randy and make my getaway.

--

“You heard me,” Jenny's voice taunts through her brother’s mouth. “Eat shit.”

The gay worker puts both his hands on the counter top, leans over, and retorts very sharply, “You got about five seconds to get your bigoted ass out of here before I jump over this bar and rip off your face off.”

Gregory looks over and notices “Joan” is nowhere to be found. This causes him to unravel even more as tears build up in his eyes.

“One!” the bartender yells, resulting in the surrounding chitter-chatter to quiet down and listen in on the situation.

Gregory turns his head around frantically to find the liar Joan, but is instead greeted by the horrified and anger expressions of homosexuals.

“Two!”

There is a siren that goes off in his head accompanied by his sister screaming. He hears a wooden bed creaking in the distance and his father’s beer breath whispers, 'Don’t worry, Jenny and your mother never have to know.'

And before the bartender can complete the warning countdown, Gregory covers his ears and shouts frantically, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop IT!” Immediately, all the guys in the bar become silent. If it weren’t for the electronic music pulsing like a loud heartbeat, one could hear a pin drop to the floor.

Even the club worker Gregory insulted, he, too, has dropped his hostility and is now just terrified. In the middle of a crowded room, “Randy” is yelling and screaming and hurling insults at himself. He calls himself a dirty, dirty boy and cries.

The last time any of these men saw a real meltdown in this club was a year ago when a drag queen didn’t win a pageant; and even that in comparison to this horror show seemed extremely under control.

What is equally just as creepy is how fast Gregory scurries away after having a manic episode. He practically knocks people down while escaping his own cyclone of a mental break from reality.

In Gregory's mind, each one of the men standing in his way morph into disturbing, grotesque individuals. Although they are quiet, he hears their mocking words and realizes that is, in fact, only Jenny's voice.

“You’re an idiot!” she yells. “You’re a no good, horrible idiot who can’t even get a girl!”

Her brother busts through the club doors and bumps into a drag queen. This goddess, whose auburn wig is close to God, she sparkles like a red velvet galaxy of ruby rhinestones. “What the fuck is your problem?” She asks.

“Can you hear it?!” Gregory yells in a state of both mania and confusion. “The dolls! The dolls are calling my name!”

The drag queen laughs brutally and says, “Honey, are you tripping a good line or what?”

He has unraveled to the point where he doesn’t even look human anymore. His eyes are beyond psychotic and Gregory is dripping sweat. And the expression on his face, there isn’t a proper way to explain how horrendous it looks.

Without answering the queen’s rhetoric, he proceeds to the parking lot to escape anyone’s sight. When out of view, the lunatic collapses in some shrubbery and wallows frantically in the dirt.

“Look at you,” Jenny scoffs. “You're acting like a fool.”

“Please,” Gregory whispers, desperately. “Please, leave me alone.”

“I will always be here,” his sister growls. “Never ceasing and never dying. I will even be around in Hell, and haunting you after death.”

Snot oozes from her brother’s nose and tears pour heavy as Gregory whines, “All I wanted was a perfect doll and you ruined everything. You ALWAYS ruin it. Why, Jenny? Why can’t you just let me be happy for once?”

“You are SO selfish!” his sister screams. “Even if you had caught the toy, you wouldn’t share her with me. It’s only about what Gregory wants.” Inside his head, Jenny pauses and adds, “What you need to do is man up and go in for the kill. Get up out of this bush, get in your van, and wait for that cunt to leave the bar. When she’s all alone in this parking lot, you can grab the bitch and take her back to the pink room. Got it?” Gregory’s silent response annoys his sister, and she yells, “Do you understand?!”

“Y-yes,” he stutters.

“Good,” she replies, coldly. “Now, get up and be a big boy.”

And with that, his sister goes quiet and cannot be heard. Gregory snaps back to reality and realizes where he is, but not exactly sure how he got there. After years of fighting the proverbial wall in his mind, Gregory simply accepts it and moves forward into the dark spiral.

He obeys his sister’s command and walks to his grey van parked way in the back behind the other clubber’s cars and gets inside. Within the automobile are mountains of trash, aluminum cans and old food. However, what is strikingly odd is parts of a department store mannequin on the floor of the passenger seat, and hanging from the review mirror is a melted Barbie head whose hair has been cut short.

Gregory stares at the rear entrance of the club and, beneath his breath, he growls, “I will get you, my precious little manniqueen.”

--

I ran to the bathroom and entered a stall. After closing the door behind me, I whipped out my iPhone and updated my Facebook status to, Omg what a creeeeeeep.

About ten seconds later, my co-worker, Morgan, commented, Wassup?

I replied to her comment with, Nothing. I came out to Legions tonite and this scary guy like tried to hit on me and threw a total crazy ass fit like wtf?

Almost immediately, Morgan replied, Omg hope he isnt a serial killer jk.

It was then I heard a male voice from the outside the bathroom shout, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop IT!” And I quickly caught that it was Randy. Oh my god, I thought to myself. What the fuck is going on?

I wanted to go out to see what was happening, but, in all honesty, the guy scared me and I didn’t want to even look at him; especially seeing as he rudely called the club employee a faggot.

Suddenly, I heard someone enter the bathroom and I froze like a fountain during the winter. For a moment, I thought perhaps Randy had entered the restroom, but I recognized the voice of the same bartender call out, “Hey, you in here?”

I opened the stall door and asked, “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes, I am,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” I replied. “I just don’t know what that guy’s problem is. Do you know him?”

The bar worker shook his head and said, “No, I don’t. I’ve seen him maybe once, but that’s about it. Fucking trash if you ask me.” He rolled his eyes and then added, “Why don’t you come on out the bathroom? He’s gone now.”

“Good,” I said.

“And I want to apologize for what happened,” he told me. “Legions is a place where people should feel safe and not worry about assholes. You’re more than welcome to watch the drag show tonight AND I will hook you up with a free drink of your choice.”

I blushed and replied, “Oh, you don’t have to -- ”

“I insist,” he politely interrupted. “By the way, my name is Andrew. If you need anything, just let me know.”

After Andrew exited the bathroom, relief blossomed inside me. I thought to myself, Good, I can finally enjoy the rest of my night without that weirdo bothering me. I took in a deep sigh and let my nerves settle like white flakes in a snow globe that was shaken violently. When I stepped out of the lavatory, the gays greeted me and wanted to know all the details about what went on.

To be honest, I didn’t exactly know what happened. Yes, I had dealt with sleazy men hitting on me in the past who viewed me as nothing but a vagina to penetrate for the night, but there was something different about Randy. Something horribly different. In his presence, one could feel a sordid darkness that blanketed him, and the claws of this blackness pulled around the intuition and nestled it perversely.

Really, the only thing I could tell these fabulous men is that the guy was a creep, a weirdo, and I didn’t know what the hell he had been doing there.

I went to the bar and obtained my free drink, which was a liquid Marijuana. I adored how it’s aqua-blue color, and the taste felt sweet without the strong burn of alcohol. But this would be my first and last drink of the night, because I don’t condone drinking and driving. However, after the events which had happened less than ten minutes ago, I needed something to take the edge off.

I then left the bar and followed a group of guys to the stage area of the club to view the show. On the way there, I heard them speak of the queen performing, and one said to the other, “Oh my God, I can’t believe Interia Decor will be doing a number tonight, I ADORE her.” The other guy, with emeralds for eyes, responded, “Yes, that bitch is fierce as fuck!”

Interia Decor? I thought to myself, while turning over on internal chuckling. The pun in this queen's name amused me and, not only did I like it, I loved it.

The theater room was full of men who waited eagerly for the red curtains to open and present the illusion of a female. A couple of minutes passed and after finishing off my complimentary drink, a voice from the speaker above announced, “Ladies a gentlemen, cops and queers, tops and bottoms, we introduce the one, the only, all the way from Charlotte, North Carolina, Miss Interia Decor!!”

Instantly the crowd cheered and the heavy beat and synth of the mysterious song Sweet Dreams by Euryhemics pounded the theater floor. The curtain opened and a spotlight revealed the art form of a man who exaggerated both Rita Hayworth and Elizabeth Taylor in fine elegance. This queen, her tall, auburn wig massive as a mountain and her contour sharp as a butcher knife, wore a striking a red velvet dress with ruby gems glued to the fabric.

Around her wrists and neck were replicas of diamonds and crystal chandeliers dangled from the starlet’s ears. She was perfect as a doll, and from her overly-drawn lips, the queen mouthed the opening lyrics, “Sweet dreams are made of these, who am I to disagree? I travel the world and the seven seas, everybody’s looking for something.

She stuck a fierce pose, pointed out a beautiful boy in the audience with her long, crimson nails and mimicked, “Some of them want to use you, some of them want to get used by you, some of them them want to abuse you, some of them want to be abused.

At that moment, the boy pulled out a dollar bill and Interia Decor’s massive hands took the offer rather seductively. She twirled around while keeping her composer and collected more bills from the men who adored her.

My eyes took in all of this. I enjoyed the beauty, the performance, and any despair I felt earlier quickly diminished due to her magic. And then I thought to myself how sad it was that, in this truly wicked world, where straight men call these guys faggots, this was their outlet for happiness. It gave them hope, it made them feel better, and it certainly made me feel better.

When the song reached the point where it end in thirty seconds, Interia Decor took off the dress to reveal yet another outfit. This one, the same color of red, was a swimsuit. The audience cheered even louder and, I know it sounds silly, but my eyes went straight to her crotch. I thought to myself, Where the hell is she hiding it all?

I suppose some things should remain a mystery.

--

Inside his van, Gregory looks through the pictures on his phone.

One image shows a female on a bed; she is stretched out, naked, and her vulva appears to be tucked and stapled shut. He zooms in on this, fingers the screen and says, “Good little Barbie, good little girl, you’re a nice dolly.”

His manic face is illuminated by the cell phone and, in the darkness, it is distorted. The young man bites his bottom lip and between Gregory’s legs is a hardening sensation which makes the denim even more tighter. He breathes heavily and swipes over to the next picture. It’s the same girl, only this time she is a wearing rubber baby doll mask.

Jenny’s brother unbuttons his jeans and slips his fingers inside his boxers. He feels around for the organ’s head, and his sister’s voice says, “Yeah, you like this, don’t you?” Gregory closes his eyes and imagines the dead girl in the picture alive, but not able to think for herself. In his head, she merely can only respond as he pleases. The doll cannot object and, while on her knees, she looks up to the king and nods her head slowly.

“Am I fragile?” the doll girl asks. “Do you want to break me, master?”

Gregory grips the tender but stiff area and slowly moves up and down. At first, it is gradual; however, the thought of the girl’s skin causes him to become more aggressive with the gesture. She says to his highness, “What is my name? Tell me my name, master.”

He groans and informs the girl that her name is merely Plaything, and that Plaything must do as she is told. It smiles through bloody gums and says, “You are God, and without you I cannot exist.”

The stench of self-pleasure and sweat hangs around like a humid sauna. After five minutes or so, Gregory’s pulling and jerking becomes so strong that he reaches a climax. At once, there is an explosion of both pain and tenderness in his palm. However; when he looks down in his hand, it isn’t the liquid pearls of semen, but instead, it is blood.

The excitement of the doll girl and her servitude begin to slowly vanish and in his lap is just a mutilated girl on a cellphone screen. Tears form in eyes as he wipes the blood in a Burger King napkin, and he tosses it out the window.

Gregory stares deeply into the abyss of his existence and has no idea why he is like this, or how he even finds this kind of depraved fantasy acceptable. But a driving force inside him doesn’t allow Jenny's brother to feel remorse or badly for his actions. The only thing Gregory feels is the cold sting of own misery, and enjoys bringing others down into it.

Which is why he wants to find another doll to use and abuse. His sister says to him, “It’s a matter of time before that bitch has to come outside.”

Gregory nods his head in agreement, feeds a scratched up mix CD into the van’s stereo system, and the song I Want Your Love by Chromatics starts up. Between the three points of desire, frustration and sadness, he twitches his left eye and slowly grinds his teeth.

“It’s only a matter of time,” Jenny says again.

--

After the drag show, I walked out the smoking patio and lit a Marlboro light. I inhaled the cigarette and exhaled slowly. The only people outside along with me were two guys, one black and the other white, and they made out passionately. I unlocked my phoned, checked my Facebook and noticed I had a notification.

On the status that was posted earlier, my cousin posted a meme of Norman Bates. It was the picture of him from the 1960s film, staring deeply into the camera and, in bold, white Arial font, it read: “Wanna come back to my place and meet my mother?” I laughed and liked the comment.

It was then the patio door opened to reveal Interia Decor, whose wig just about hit top of the threshold. In her jeweled hand was a cigarette and, in a male voice, she asked, “You got a light, sweetheart?”

I nodded my head, reached into my pocket and sparked up a flame for her. “I gotta be careful,” she told me. “There’s enough flammable products in my hair to cause another Great Chicago Fire.” Interia held the cigarette close to the fire, took a big drag and blew out smoke. After a moment of nicotine relief, the queen said, “You’re a cute girl, where are you from?”

I blushed and replied, “Thank you, I live about three miles away.”

“And what’s your name, sugar?” she asked.

I didn’t bother lying to her, and instead told the queen my real name.

“Oooh, Kimber, I like it,” Interia said to me. “My drag mama’s name is Kim.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” the goddess continued. “She’s down in Charlotte doing a benefit show." Interia paused for a second to take in some smoke and added, "So, you’re the girl who put up with that little asshole earlier at the bar, right? Andrew told me all about it, and the freak just about hit me with the door on the way out.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Mmm-hmm,” she said, rolling her beautiful eyes. “And believe me, if he had busted my face, I would’ve stuck this size 13 heel right up his ass.” The queen looked over and saw the guys making out, glanced back at me and asked, “Isn’t gay love just cute?”

Judging from how sloppy the two were acting and the spilled drink on the black man’s lap, I replied rather cynically, “I don’t believe that’s love.”

Interia shrugged and added, “Hey, as long as they use protection, I don’t care if they’re in love for ten years or ten minutes.”

I looked at my phone and noticed it was 12:55 in the morning. I said to the queen, “Shit, I gotta get going.”

“It’s only one a.m.,” she told me. “You’ve got another hour before last call.”

“Yeah, but I gotta go to work at ten in the morning,” I said. “Besides, everyone’s pretty much wasted and I’m not, so it’s not really fun anymore. However, it was really nice watching you perform tonight.”

Interia smiled and replied, “Thank you, darling. I’m glad you could come out tonight.” She tossed the cigarette down and extinguished it beneath her large heel. The drag performer then humorously added, “Between me and you, the duct tape holding up my ass just about snapped during the second number.”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

The two of us shook hands and, before abandoning the smoking patio, Interia warned me to be careful.

“I will,” I told her, as I dropped the cigarette butt and proceeded back inside the bar. Within the club were drunk gays gallivanting and laughing carelessly. I made my way around a corner, passed the bar area and walked through the exit doors. Before leaving, the doorman told me to have a great night. I smiled and relied, “Thank you.”

When outside, I strolled through the parking lot while I uploaded a selfie from way earlier to Instagram. It was a picture of me outside Legions beneath a blue light. The filter made the photo more contrasted and shadowed. Almost immediately, I gained fifteen likes and it brought a grin to my face.

I approached my silver Sudan, unhooked the keys from my pants and unlocked the car door. Suddenly, I heard the sound of footsteps behind me. When I turned around to see who it was I was shocked to see --

--

Gregory hits “Joan” over the head with a lead pipe and knocks her unconscious. Her keys and phone hit the concrete along with the girl's body. He looks around quickly, left to right, and places his hands under her arms. The young man drags her back to his van, opens the back door and plops her body inside.

He, too, gets in the rear of the van and starts to sniff her hair. It smells of coconut oil and it’s soft and silky. Gregory then proceeds to remove the girl’s wallet and checks her ID. He reads the name Kimber Snow Holland and, like a depraved beast, growls, “I knew you were a lying bitch.” The unstable guy feels her legs and curves and breasts and maniacally whispers, “But that’s okay, because you’re a perfect doll.”

It is then Gregory catches a glance of four drunken men leaving the bar through the windshield. They are unaware of what’s happened and carry-on walking through their oblivious existence.

“You better get out of here before someone catches you,” Jenny warns.

Her brother realizes this is true and crawls over into the driver’s seat. He starts up the van, and then pulls out of the Legions parking lot. When Gregory is on the main street, he takes Kimber’s ID and stashes it away into the glove compartment along with five other girl’s licences.

Each one of these females are previous victims of Gregory’s wrath. For example, Gretta Pearson. About five months ago he met her at an art exhibit downtown. Much like Kimber, Gretta was blonde and had blue eyes that were fixated on the artwork which hung massive from walls.

As a matter of fact, it had been a Rembrandt show and Miss Pearson observed the artist’s work entitled ‘Slaughtered Ox.’

Gregory, who that night was going by the pseudonym of Chad, walked up next to the female and said, “He was such a talented painter.” And “Chad” made sure to make his voice sound gentle and soft with a forced lisp.

“Wasn’t he?” Gretta states. “And it’s hard to believe how old this picture is. I mean, it’s practically an artifact from a different world.”

“Yeah,” he responded. “It’s sad that my boyfriend couldn’t come out tonight.” He put on a disappointed face and added, “But I really, really love this picture.”

At first he hoped she would talk to him more since he was acting gay; however, Gretta seemed to not really care. Instead, the young woman continued to gaze deeply into Rembrandt's masterpiece.

Gregory also stared at the picture depicting a poor animal sliced down the middle and ripped open for the world to see. He felt a sensation rotating like a carousel within him and it brought on a sordid glee. Gretta shook her head a little and added, “I think the subject matter is rather macabre and saddening.”

She walked away from the painting and Gregory proceeded to follow her from a distance.

When the girl decided to leave, she walked to the parking lot to call a cab and enjoy a cigarette. It was then “Chad” came up behind Gretta and bludgeoned her with the same lead pipe. just like his current prey of the night, Miss Pearson fell victim to his abduction.

Back to the present moment, Gregory merges onto a highway and begins to descend into the outer rural areas surrounding the city. “Take her back to the house,” Jenny demands. “Let her have some playtime.”

“I can only go but so fast,” her brother retorts. “If I speed, I run a chance of a cop pulling me over.”

“You don’t think the police aren’t going to catch up to you?” his sister asks. “What about her keys and cellphone she dropped? Did you bother picking them up? What about her car? What about your bloody cum in a napkin?” Jenny laughs. “You’re such a stupid, stupid idiot!”

Gregory turns the music up to drown out his sister’s voice; however, part of him knows she is right. How much longer can he keep this up? And despite the lunatic’s fear of getting caught, there is a deep desire for all of this to simply end.

Jenny’s brother takes exit 40 and pulls onto a country road. It's long and dark like the devil’s tongue twisting through tobacco fields. After driving for a good fifteen minutes, he turns down a dirt path that is half a mile from the road.

In the headlights appears an old, dilapidated farmhouse. It’s white paint has chipped away to reveal decaying wood and, to the everyday average person, it looks to be completely abandoned. Over its windows is plastic tarps and covering the house’s face is large shrubbery and trees that haven’t been trimmed in ages.

Gregory parks the van, looks back at Kimber’s body and says, “Welcome home, dolly.”

--

It was a massive headache which woke me up, a kind of pain that felt as if my skull was an anvil that had been hit with a sledgehammer. Above me was a piercing white light. It stabbed my retinas like razor blades and a familiar song could be heard. The tune was Doris Day’s Que Sera, Sera.

Underneath my body felt like a sticky, wood floor which reeked of dried urine. My vision, at first, was blurry; however, it quickly came to full focus. What seemed more bright and painful besides the florescent lighting was the color pink.

For the walls of the room I found myself in were painted vibrant, flamingo fuscia, as well as the ceiling. This shade felt just a sickening as the immense anxiety, fear and confusion swirling within my stomach that made my guts feel like clothes in a washing machine.

I pulled myself to my feet, which I realized were bare, and I noticed on the floor around me were baby dolls with melted faces. There were also Barbies and their faces had also been hideously disfigured, and some of them had missing arms and legs.

At the corner of the room appeared the source for which the music was coming from: A small, rose-tinted boombox with peeled off flower stickers. But what seemed the most terrifying about this room was a large, black metal door with no knob on it. If anything, it reminded me of a prison cell door.

I walked over to the sealed threshold and banged frantically on cold iron and screamed, “Hey! What the fuck is this?!” There was no answer, so I pounded harder until my fists hurt and I yelled, “Let me out of here!!”

My anger suddenly dropped to absolute despair and tears began to build up in my eyes. “Please!” I shouted. “Please, let me out!!”

A voice came from the other side. “It’s a nice little playroom for a nice little plaything,” said someone who sounded male, and I quickly matched the voice to the weirdo I met at the bar earlier. There came a small laughter and the guy’s tone took on a rather manic sound as he said, “She’s a pretty dolly. Can I comb her hair?” His voice changed back and he answered, “Not right now, Jenny. We will play with her later.”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!” I screamed. My voice was so loud and massive that it practically shook the room and I just about split my vocal chords.

There came a deep silence followed by light sobbing from Randy. At this point I started to hyperventilate and, after a good ten seconds, a small window on the door slid open to reveal the creep wearing a rubber baby doll mask. On his head appeared to be a scalp of long, blonde hair that hung in front the plastic face. The shock of seeing this just about pulled all the oxygen from my lungs and I went white as a full moon.

The monstrosity of a man snarled, “Have some dinner.” And he tossed through the opening a rotted hand. Its fingernails were painted purple and on the pointer finger was a mood ring turned black. Immediately I let out a harrowing wail as my eyes became huge like a two gas planets. I backed away quickly and collapsed in the corner of the pink prison. Hell, I couldn’t even hold back the contents of my stomach.

Acidic mush poured from mouth in both terror and repulsion, and my legs were covered in digested lasagna. Randy closed the small opening and presumably left, leaving me alone with a decaying hand. God, how I shook violently. At this point I wasn’t even screaming; all I could do was sob uncontrollably.

I held the sides of my pulsing head and tried desperately to stop the ricocheting marbles in my cranium; however, nothing could stop them. I looked over the walls and wish I hadn’t. On them were scratch marks which indicated that I wasn’t the first person to be trapped in here. And then came a more horrific thought: What if I wasn’t the last person? What if this lunatic would do to me what he did to the others?

The unknown came soaring in like vultures. What exactly did Randy do to the previous occupants of this pink room? Judging by the severed wrist, he obviously killed them. Or did he? What if the girl this hand belonged to was still alive? And did he rape them?

All of these horrific possibilities swarmed in my head like violent bees and for the first time in years, I whimpered, “Please, daddy, please help me.”

Of course, there was no response, but there was nothing more I wanted in this world than for my father to open the door and say, Don’t worry, it’s just a bad dream. You can wake up now.

However, this wasn’t a dream, and it felt more like a waking nightmare. Sweaty bullets escaped my pores and drenched my hair. I could feel my body shaking, but it didn’t feel like I inhabited it. Where ever my mind was, it definitely wasn’t in this room.

Que Sera, Sera ended and the next song that played was... Que Sera, Sera.

I picked up the boombox, hit the NEXT button to skip to track 8 and, again, it was the same Doris Day tune. As a matter of fact, every song on the CD consisted of only Que Sera, Sera. I then hit STOP and took the disc out. Written on the front of it, in metallic Sharpie, read the words: For my Sister, Jenny.

Without the music, the silence of the room felt cold and stale. I could hear my heart pounding and the blood rushing to my brain. And the hand, that nasty, rotted hand, it stunk to high Heaven and made me even more nauseous. Had I not regurgitated everything within me, I would’ve been more inclined for round two.

And then it dawned on me... what if this room was my final resting place?

--

Down the basement of the house, Gregory sits at a desk surrounded by generators. Above him is a deep, purple black light and he is wearing a doll mask. In his hands is a mannequin head with a pair of human lips and a severed nose attached to it.

“She’s beautiful,” says his sister. “Add more doll parts.”

He puts the head down and opens the desk drawer. Inside, there is a shoe box with the words, ‘The pieces of Jennifer’s body’ written on it. He opens the top of the box to reveal two nipples, a vulva, teeth, toes, fingers and whatever other small parts that once belonged to Jennifer. Now, this isn't the parts of his sister, but, coincidentally, another female who shares a similar name.

Gregory recalls meeting her in a parking deck a year ago. It was near a gay pride event, and the girl was walking to her Jeep Cherokee after attending the festivities. He remembers sitting on a curb and forcing himself to cry. When Gregory’s sobbing caught the young woman’s attention, she walked over and asked, “What’s wrong?”

Through the two palms which covered his face, Jenny’s brother choked up a lie. “My... my boyfriend of three years j-just broke up with me!” He exclaimed.

Jennifer’s heart melted. She sat down next to him and, with a voice full of sympathy, replied, “Oh, honey, don’t cry. It will be okay. What’s your name?”

Gregory sniffled and told the girl his name was Jason.

The female said to him, “It will be okay, sweetie. There’s plenty of guys out there.” She stopped for a moment and asked, “Did you drive here?”

“Jason” nodded his head and responded, “Yeah, over there is my car.”

He pointed over to his van and when Jennifer turned her head to look at the automobile, Gregory grabbed the lead pipe he was sitting on. He rose to his feet and whacked the young woman over the head.

Back to the present moment, Jenny's brother glues the nipples onto where the mannequin’s chiseled eyes are located and says, “It can see me now.” He takes off the mask to reveal a happy, maniacal expression and he adds, “I gave it sight; I really am God.”

From the ceiling of the basement comes the sound of Kimber beating the floor. It startles Gregory, which causes him to accidentally drop the mannequin head to the ground. He picks it back up and realizes that the nipples and nose have fallen off.

This makes him extremely angry.

Gregory storms up from the basement and enters the above part of the house, which is a nothing but a hoarder's wasteland. He stomps to the pink prison’s door, beats on it and screams, “What the fuck do you want?!”

“Please,” Kimber begs. “I will give you anything. Money, drugs, whatever you want. Just please, please let me go.”

Gregory then notices that there is no music on the other side of the door. Through her brother’s mouth, Jenny asks, “Why aren’t you listening to my favorite song?”

“W-what?” Kimber asks, trembling.

Jenny’s brother punches the door and yells, “Put the goddamn song back on!”

Within the pink room, Kimber is paralyzed by fear. At first she doesn’t move, that is, until Gregory growls, “You have until the count of five to put the music back on, or I will go in there and rip out your tongue with a pair of pliers! One... two... THREE...”

Suddenly the sound of Que Sera, Sera can be heard starting up and Doris Day sings, “When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, what will I be?”

Jenny's brother begins to dance whimsically and his sister sings, “Will I be pretty? Will I be rich? Here’s what she said to me... QUE SERA! SERA! Whatever will be, will be...”

Meanwhile, Kimber coils up in fetal position and starts to cry again. She covers her ears to try and drown out the music, but it fails. The young girl even shuts her eyes to keep the sickening pink from burning her pupils. And on the other side of metal door, her captive continues to twirl and skips around to the song, singing loudly, “When I grew up and fell in love...”

“I asked my sweetheart, what lies ahead?” Jenny chimes in. “Will there be rainbows, day after day? Here’s what my sweetheart said...”

“Que sera, sera!” Doris Day’s voice echoes through the speakers. “Whatever will be, will be. The future’s not ours to see...”

“Q-q-que sera, s-sera,” Kimber whimpers, as her sanity slowly unravels.

Gregory walks away from the door and down the hallway. He is now only humming the song and makes his way to the filthy kitchen, where barrels containing acid sit. Inside one of the drums is female corpse dissolving.

On the counter is various Barbie doll boxes. One box is of a limited edition Christmas Barbie from the year 2014. This is Jenny’s favorite, because her brother bought it for her. As a matter of fact, all of the dolls were specifically purchased for Gregory’s sister.

The punk rock Barbie, which comes with a small, plastic guitar, another one of her dressed up as a witch for Halloween; there is even a pregnant Barbie that comes with an attachable pregnant belly. All of these were simply Jenny’s demand.

And if Gregory objects to going out and getting his sister a new dolly, she will make him do horrible things to himself. For example, one time her brother refused to go out and venture to Toy-R-Us in the city, so she made him take a staple gun to his genitals.

“If I have to live in pain,” Jenny says. “Then YOU will live in pain as well.”

--

I had no idea how much time had passed, or what was going on the real world. Somewhere between the awful smell of the limb, the endless pink and Doris Day, I lost all touch with reality. "How’s my little Kimber doing?" asked my father.

“Daddy... is it really you?” I asked.

He appeared in the corner of the room alongside with my mother. They were dressed in mid-90s fashion, and my mother said, "We’re really here, Kimmy."

I exposed my teeth through a desperate smile, for I was no longer in the pink, but instead back in my childhood home. The smell of my mother’s lavender candles and her cooking erased my current state of misery.

“Are you hungry?” she called from the kitchen.

I nodded my head and replied, “Yes, mama." And walked to the dining room to find my mother, father and older brother sitting at the table. Daniel, that’s my sibling's name, was wearing a Bush shirt that read ‘Machinehead’ and half his face was covered by oily, grungy hair. Daniel looked at me and asked, “How was school? Did that bitch bully take your glasses again?”

“Watch your mouth, son,” my father sternly warned.

“What?” my brother asked, showing a little attitude. “If I were Kimmy I would totally punch that girl in face.”

My mother rolled her eyes and said to me, “Kimber, don’t listen to your brother.” She turned back to Daniel and said to him, “Danny, do you care to tell your father about the D you made in science. Speaking of which, we need to discuss the proper punish - ”

“Stop, please,” I interrupted, taking my place at the table. “Don’t argue. You have no idea what Hell I’ve just been through and, honestly, I’m just glad to be here. So, can we eat and act nice?”

A surprised look came across my father’s face. “Sure, honey,” he said. “Your mother cooked this lovely pot roast with carrots and mashed potatoes.”

I smiled, glanced down the table and suddenly went blank. For sitting in the dish was not beef, but instead the hand Randy had thrown into the pink room. I stared in horror and heard a voice from my fears say, “It’s my favorite doll part.”

I looked back up to my father’s seat to find Randy sitting there. He was wearing the doll mask and, in a demonic sounding voice, he yelled, “Eat up!

Immediately I shot awake and, to my gravest disappoint, realized I had merely drifted off. And that song, that damn song, it became a pure loop of torture. God, how I wanted to turn it off, but there was no telling if the beast was outside listening in to see if I hit STOP.

Now, let me be the first to say that I do believe in God; however, I couldn’t tell you the last time I prayed. But it was then I got down on my hands and knees and said, “Lord, this is Kimber. I know I haven’t spoke to you in a while, but please let me out of here... I beg of you.”

Silence.

“And God,” I continued, “I feel so alone and scared and I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry for anything I’ve ever done or said in the past that may have hurt you. All I ask is that you answer me. “

Silence.

My heart sunk and I cried quietly, “Please, say something... just this once.”

Out of the great despair, I heard a small voice say, “Hello, Kimber.”

I felt a cold feeling come over me. I searched up at the pink ceiling in disbelief and asked, “Oh my -- God? Is that you?”

“No, down here,” whispered the voice.

I looked down at bottom of the left wall and noticed a small vent. The size of it was only big enough for one to put their arm through. I took my chance and turned down the volume level on the boombox. I got on my belly, placed my mouth to the vent and asked, “Are you really there?”

“Yes,” replied a female voice. “I’m really here.”

Now, I can’t really tell you exactly how I felt. In some sense, I was relieved to not be alone, but on the other hand I questioned my sanity. Coming through the small duct was the rancid odor of feces and I asked, “What’s your name?”

After a brief moment of quietness, the female voice responded, “Plaything.”

At first I didn’t know if I had exactly heard that correctly, and then it dawned on me that whoever the girl was might have been brainwashed. “How long have you been in there?” I asked her.

“Master says there is no time,” Plaything replied. “He keeps me in chains and feeds me.” There came a small moan of pain and she added, “I bow before him, because he is the one true God.”

Icicles formed inside of me and my lower jaw trembled. What has he done to her? I thought to myself. I then shook my head and said, “Listen to me, you are NOT a plaything and that sick bastard is NOT God, and I promise if I get out of here, I WILL come back with help. Do you understand?”

A silence came between us and she whimpered, “H-he is God a-and he is my ruler.” I could hear her start to cry and the girl added, “H-he’s stitched me up so I can never give birth again, because he says only whores bleed from their pussies.”

The mental imagery of this made me cover my mouth in shock.

“I can hear him coming,” she groaned. “It’s time for dolly to worship him.”

Followed by this, I heard a door open from the other room and the sound of Randy hiss, “It’s time for dolly to get her hair cut again.”

The sound of scissors clipping felt as if millipedes were crawling on my skin. I pushed away from the vent, crawled back to the corner of the room and turned the music back up. Oh my God, oh my God, I thought to myself. What am I going to do?

Suddenly, I had an idea.

I looked over at the boombox and a plan started to formulate. What WOULD he do if the music stopped playing? And what would he do if something happened to the CD player? He might just open the door!

I turned the music off, walked to the metal door and banged on it as hard as my first would allow without breaking. “Hey! You sick fuck!” I yelled. “The music isn’t playing! What are you going to do about it!!”

From the other side of the metal door, I heard another door shut and the maniac’s heavy feet approach the threshold. “Remember what I said before?” Randy asked. “If Doris Day cuts off, then I cut your tongue off.” He opened the small opening and added, “Do it, or Jenny will become very, very angry.”

Rebellious and fed up; I walked over the boombox, put it above my head and yelled, “Don’t think I won’t smash it!” I swallowed a ginormous, daring gulp and added, “I’ve heard this song so many goddamn times that I’m more than eager to destroy!"

Randy’s eyes grew enormous and he yelled, “You wouldn’t DARE!”

This was the biggest risk that I had ever taken in my life. There was no telling what would happen, but if it meant possibly escaping, then it was a chance I was willing to take. So I chucked the boombox with all my strength and smashed it against the wall.

--

His sister’s CD player crashes and busts, and the side of the lunatic that is actually himself freezes, while the Jenny side goes absolutely hysterical. “You BITCH!!” Gregory’s sibling screams. “I’m going to KILL you!!”

Jenny takes full power and makes her brother open the metal door.

In the opening stands the young man; however, his eyes are not his. Instead, they belong to the crazed voice that controls him. Gregory clinches his fists and says, “You’re going to regret this.”

He darts towards Kimber and grabs the young woman by the shoulders. The girl, who is operating on total adrenaline, struggles in his grip and knees him in the testicles. What Kimber doesn’t know is that Gregory’s private area has already been mutilated, which intensifies the pain of being kicked in the crotch a hundred of times more.

As he falls to his knees, Kimber picks up a Barbie leg off the floor and stabs the crazed individual in his right eye. Gregory lets out an agonizing scream, and convulses on the floor violently due to being blinded.

The young woman then runs out of the pink room and shuts the iron door, trapping the psychopath inside. Jenny brings her brother to his feet and pounds the metal. “Let me out of here, you stupid whore!” Gregory yells.

--

With the tables now turned, I now had my chance to escape. However, I didn’t know where I was or how to get out. So I ran down an unfamiliar hallway, but noticed a regular, wooden door that lead the room beside the pink one. I figured it had to be the one where the girl I spoke to earlier was being held captive.

Upon opening the door, the mental images conceived were far less scarier than the reality of it. Hell, I just about screamed when I saw it. For chained up in the corner of this room was a naked girl, but her face had been peeled off and her nipples removed. The girl’s eyes were sky blue and murky as if she had gone blind from being keep in the dark for too long.

“Is that you God?” she asked, painfully.

And I’m not entirely sure how Randy did it, but he was able to stitch her vagina up so well that it actually resembled a Barbie doll crotch. The sight was so grotesque and horrifying that I couldn’t bring myself to undo her chains.

“I’ll -- I’ll come back for you,” I told her, knowing that it was probably better if I went ahead and took the young woman out of her misery. But that, too, was something I couldn’t bring myself to do.

Instead I ventured through a house of horrors, opening one door to see where it went and being greeted by yet another morbid surprise.

One room had leopard-print wallpaper and, in the middle of it, stood a mannequin wearing the scalp and vulva of a woman. It’s face had been composed a different facial parts, such as a nose and lips, and at the life-size doll’s feet was a bundle of lit blue Christmas lights.

I continued deeper into the horrible mess of a home, tripping over old books and piles of clothes, mostly dresses, until I reached the kitchen area. On the counter appeared boxes of Barbie dolls and something on the kitchen stove was boiling. It smelled utterly rancid, and it left my imagination to assume it was human flesh.

And through the kitchen, I noticed an open doorway that lead to what appeared to be a living room. It was, in fact, a guest area, where I discovered what looked like a shrine of candles surrounding a small skeleton. Spray painted in red letters above the remains read: My Sister, the Best of ME.

Quivering in fear from all the sights I had seen, I pressed my lips tightly and forced myself to completely overlook it. It sounds impossible, I know, but given everything I had just witnessed, my idea of the abnormal and brutality had completely deteriorated much like the house.

In the living room I saw the front door and proceeded to dart out of the house, where the noon sun over-powered my eyes and I realized the location of Randy’s home was located somewhere in the country. Believe me when I say there is nothing more refreshing than the foul scent of pig pen’s off in the distance after being forced to deal with death’s aroma.

--

Locked in his own pink cell, Gregory cups his gouged eye and his sister says, “You know this is it, don’t you? Soon the world will know everything.”

Her brother continues holds his eye socket and responds, “I only did it to make you happy.”

Jenny chuckles and replies, “No, you didn’t, Gregory. You turned grandma and grandpa’s house into a big, sick world for yourself, and you wanna know something else?" She paused for a couple of seconds and confessed, "It was you who killed me, brother, and you didn’t like it that daddy treated me better and didn’t abuse me. It angered you so much that you felt compelled to murder me.”

“Please,” her brother begs. “Don’t talk like that.”

“But it’s true,” Jenny continues. “You took me out to the river that day for a swim and held me under. You told the police I swam out too far and that you tried to save me. They all believed you; however, you had no idea how much it would back-fire and you were certainly too young to know how much it hurt our mother. She killed herself because of my death.” Jenny stops and coldly adds, “Mommy killed herself because of YOU.”

There is nothing but a blank look on Gregory’s face and he wants to cry; however, all he can do is stare off into oblivion.

“The only good that ever came from you, Gregory, is that you finally reported daddy for touching you and had him locked up,” Jenny tells her brother. “Other than that, you infected the world with your own special brand of misery.”

Her brother is dead silent. He tries to think of a way to properly respond, but can’t find the words. Somewhere beyond the walls of the pink room, Gregory hears police sirens and asks his sister, “What do we do now?”

Inside, she smiles and says, “Well, you can sing my favorite song for me.”

Gregory laughs psychotically and starts to sing Que Sera, Sera.

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