A window frames the back of the narrow room, thick bars striking across it. Moonlight shines during certain times of the year; during the daylight hours, the window remains in shadow, which will aid in numbing Violet’s bleak existence. Some may think it’s unusual to give a patient the freedom to view the outside world, but I had this room designed for situations where I want the patient to be aware of the passage of time.
Surveillance cameras are placed in each corner of the room, and the video feeds are linked to my office and home computers; I can see her whenever I’d like.
As I grip Violet between my arms, Oliver props open the bed cage. This particular bed—which is not much of a bed at all, though it will be where she sleeps—is a large metal contraption, propped up at mattress height. Formally, it’s called a Utica crib: a metal cage barred with crib-like sidings for every surface, including the top. It’s no deeper or wider than a coffin. I had this particular one customized with wrist and ankle restraints for especially unruly patients. It’s meant to keep them from harming themselves; I find it especially helpful when it comes to intellectual training.
I have so much to teach my sweet one.
Once the crib cage is ready and I’ve unlocked Violet’s cuffs, I wrestle her down to the metal, yank off her tattered clothes, then strap her into the restraints. Oliver waits at the door with a cattle prod, ready to assist me if she runs, but he knows not to touch her. If he does, I’ll kill him.
She pulls at her restraints, then whimpers. Hopelessness is slack on her face, her brows pinched.
It makes me smile.
I slam the cage shut, then pick up her clothes from the floor. A hard item protrudes in the pocket.
I smirk. I wonder what it is. Did my daughter find another way to try to hurt me?
The satisfying click of the cage’s lock mixes with her screams, and the melody heats my groin. She’ll never be able to get out. Not unless I’m here.
“Is this where you locked her up?” Violet cries. “While she was pregnant?”
I’m sure I have a record of her mother’s whereabouts while she was here, but decades have passed, and as I’ve lost interest in her mother, I’ve forgotten those details.
Violet doesn’t need to know that though.
“Of course it is.” I give her a playful wink. “Try to get used to it faster than she did. You need your sleep. We’ll start your training soon.”
Oliver and I exit her room while she continues to scream profanities. Neither of us acknowledges her.
I assign Oliver to work on his regular individual duties. Then I call the cemetery’s groundskeeper and give him a short command before I hang up: “You may return to fill the grave.”
For an hour, Violet’s cries reverberate through the hallways, but her mournful reactions will only last so long. It would almost be a shame for her grief to be that short…if I wasn’t excited to push her into the next phase of her existence.
Typically, I’d return home for the night to work on my personal projects or my partnership with The Pure Companion Company, but the thought of being away from Violet at such a crucial time in her development doesn’t sit well with me.
Instead, I eat a late dinner in my office underneath a glowing lightbulb, watching the footage of Violet’s room on my laptop. Violet’s red cheeks are visible through the grainy footage. Her chin bolts, seemingly for no reason. I can imagine it now: she must be jerking herself out of her impure thoughts. My gaze lingers on her breasts, her nipples firm.
The clothes.
I reach for her clothing and find the pocketed item: an orange container filled with blue capsules. I tilt my head. The label has been removed, leaving shreds of the adhesive behind.
I pocket the container. I’ll take it to the laboratory for testing tomorrow. The pills could be for a medical reason, though instinct tells me they’re not. They must be another murder attempt destined to fail. She must still think she can get away with it. It’s sad, really.
And so entertaining.
While I’ve had many children over the years, Violet is the first to reach age twenty-five and have an already developed sexual deviance like mine, which is why I consider her my first real child in some ways: the only one to be worthy of my time and attention thus far. Though I have no interest in her siblings until they reach twenty-five, I do keep track of them. At eighteen, I begin the process of tracking their behaviors. The others seem to exhibit typical interests in sex or even a complete lack of desire. Violet is different though; she is so much like me. She simply needs to accept her deviancy.
She will be so much happier as my doll.
An hour later, a guard enters Violet’s room, his erection poking a tent in his pants. He says something to her, and she squirms, her lips curled in disgust, but the woman is completely trapped. She can’t do anything. Her cunt must be sopping wet.
Red blurs my vision. I can’t stand the thought of letting another man touch her. I want to be her sole creator, the only one to mold her inner deviancy.
I want her all to myself.
I call Oliver. “Get rid of the guard,” I say.
A minute later, Oliver appears on the surveillance footage and waves frantically to the guard. The two of them hurry down the hallway.
