Page 44 of Cracked Doll

‎Rhys doesn't answer with words. He walks toward the stage, his stride confident and predatory. I am on him still, my heart hammering against my ribs. He reaches for a control panel with the hand that was on my ass, and pushes a button. With a heavy, dramatic thud, the black velvet curtains slide open.

‎I gasp, stepping back. It looks like a twisted, immersive theatre production. The lighting is harsh, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor. And there, center stage, stands a guillotine. The heavy blade glints under the spotlight, cold and indifferent.

‎Next to the machine stands a woman. She looks to be in her thirties, with long, vivid red hair that spills over her shoulders. She’s dressed in a tattered black slip dress that barely clings to her frame, her skin pale and mapped with bruises—some deep purple, some fading into a sickly yellow. A thick, blood-stained bandage is wrapped around her head, covering a jagged wound.

‎My stomach churns. My first instinct is horror; I think she's a victim, a soul being tortured for the amusement of these masked freaks. But then I see what's in her hand.

‎A heavy leather whip.

‎Before I can process it, two female staff members drag a man onto the stage. He's wearing nothing but a pair of grime-streaked underwear, his wrists and ankles bound in heavy iron chains that clank with every desperate struggle. He looks pathetic—hollowed-out eyes, dark bags under his lids, skin sallow from sleep deprivation. He looks like a man who has already died inside.

‎The moment he sees the red-haired woman and the towering blade of the guillotine, he freezes. Then, a dark stain spreads rapidly across the front of his underwear. He pisses himself right there on the stage, the scent of ammonia hitting the air.

‎The VVIPs erupt into cruel laughter.

‎"Look at that!" the wolf-masked man cheers. "He knows exactly what's coming. There's nothing quite like the smell of a man pissing himself in pure terror, is there?"

‎Rhys gives a sharp, approving nod to the woman. She steps forward, the whip cracking against the floor with a sound like a gunshot. When she speaks, her British accent is thick, jagged with a decade of suppressed rage.

‎"This piece of shit right here," she spits, gesturing to the trembling man, "is my husband. Jacob."

‎She looks at the guests, her eyes burning. "For ten long fucking years, since the night we married when I was twenty-three, this cunt started breaking me. It started with the yelling. The name-calling. 'Bitch,' 'slut,' 'whore,' 'idiot.' I thought I could fix him. I thought it was just stress."

‎Her voice trembles, but not from fear. "Then it escalated. He’d slap me, then rub his foot in my face. He spat on me. He pushed me down stairs. Then came the punches. The shoves. He started using his belt on me, stepping on my fingers until I heard them crack."

‎I feel sick. I look at Rhys, but he’s watching the scene with a cold, detached fascination.

‎"My pastor told me to pray," she sneers, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "Told me to pray to Jesus to change him. Told me divorce was against Christian values. Well, guess what? God didn't fucking come to save me five nights ago when this animal almost split my head open." She touches the bandage on her head. "As I lay in that hospital bed, I realized I was done listening to the church. I was done being a martyr."

‎She glares down at Jacob, who is sobbing. "That evening, the coven found me. They offered me a chance to change my fate through The Midnight Menagerie. I didn't get it at first, until three days ago. I used the phrase they gave me, the token... I asked to see the real menagerie."‎

‎She looks toward Rhys. "I told the coven everything. Mr. Castellan heard my story. He used his succubus to lure this piece of filth here, thinking he was coming for some twisted pleasure. Instead, he found me."

‎She raises the whip, her face twisting into a mask of pure, vengeful hatred. "And now, I get to have my revenge on the man who ruined my life for ten years."

‎The room explodes in excitement. The guests are leaning forward, their masks reflecting the harsh stage lights.

‎"Beat him! Tear the skin off his back!" a woman screams. "Make him scream for every bruise you took!"‎

‎"Give him a proper thrashing before you take his head!" another shouts.‎

‎I stay in Rhys' arms, frozen, caught between the horror of the violence and the visceral, dark satisfaction of the woman's revenge. I feel Rhys’s holding me, his breath hot against my ear.‎

‎"See, my cracked doll?" he whispers, his voice sending a chill down my spine. "In this house, the monsters are the only ones who get justice.”

The air in this room is thick, tasting of expensive cologne, old velvet, and something metallic that makes the back of my throat itch. I’m shaking, my breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches behind the veil of my mask. I want to believe this is a show. I need it to be a fucking show. This is the Midnight Menagerie; it’s immersive, it’s theatrical, it’s designed to push buttons. Right?

But as I look at the woman, I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the draft in the room. The way she looks at the man chained before her isn't the look of an actress hitting a mark. It’s a raw, pulsing hatred that feels like a physical weight in the room. And the man, Jacob... the terror in his eyes is too frantic, too genuine. He isn't playing a part. He's playing for his life.

I glance at Rhys. He stands there, imposing and still, his gothic mask hiding his expression, but his aura has shifted. He isn't just the host of a twisted party. There’s a cold, calculated justice in the way he watches. It hits me then—this isn't just entertainment. This is a slaughterhouse for the wicked. He’s running a vigilante court under the guise of a dark carnival, turning execution into a VVIP experience.

Jacob falls to his knees, the chains rattling violently against the gold-leafed floor. "Abigail! Abby, my love, please!" he wails, his voice cracking into a pathetic sob. "Forgive me! We can start over. I swear on everything, I’ll never hurt you again! Just tell them to let me go! So we can go home together!"

Abigail doesn't flinch. She doesn't even blink. She just stares down at him with eyes that have gone completely dead, devoid of anything but a freezing, crystalline rage.

Then, she swings.

Crack!