My Doll, My Own Doll..

(Present Day)

I couldn't sleep. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't sleep. My mind was racing, thoughts swirling like a hurricane.

I rose from my bed and made my way to my desk. The light of my computer screen illuminated my workspace, a cluttered mess of books, papers, and objects. Among the clutter was a small wooden box, its lid adorned with intricate carvings. I opened the box, revealing a sight: a rat doll, a relic of my past.

I picked up the doll, its stitched-together limbs and vacant eyes, I had created this creature as a child, an experiment in life and death. Now, it served as a symbol of my nature.

I turned my attention to my laptop, my fingers flying across the keyboard. I delved into the world of serial killers, exploring their psyches and their horrific crimes. I was particularly fascinated by the Sculptor, a mysterious figure who had captured the public's imagination.

I searched the internet for information on sculptors, both past and present. I studied the works of Michelangelo, Rodin, and Bernini, marveling at their skill and creativity. But none of them could compare to the Sculptor. This killer was a true artist, a master of their craft, well at least Michelangelo never turn a human body into a sculpture, I would be interested.

Frustration. I was determined to find the answers, to the mystery of the Sculptor.

I checked my email, surprised to see a message from Rebecca. "Who on Earth is sending emails at this hour?" I muttered to myself.

The email read:

Hey Heinrich,

I hope this email finds you well. I'm writing to express my deepest condolences for the tragic loss of Sarah Miller. It's a devastating loss for all of us at NovaTech.

I'm a bit annoyed that you didn't give me your phone number. I had to dig up your email address from your job application two years ago. You didn't even put your phone number on there, as if you didn't think you'd get the job!

The company has sent a letter of condolence and a monetary gift to Sarah's family. We're all deeply saddened by her untimely death.

Regarding work, we'll be starting at 10 AM tomorrow. Due to recent events, the higher-ups have decided to put the FindMe app project on hold.

I'll see you tomorrow.

Best, Rebecca

"On hold? What do you mean, on hold?" I muttered to myself. Of course, Sarah Miller was all over the news. Her murder, a gruesome act of violence, had shocked the nation.

I quickly typed up a response to Rebecca's email.

"Hi Rebecca,

I'm sorry to hear about Sarah. It's a terrible loss.

Regarding the FindMe app, I understand the decision to pause development. Given the circumstances, it seems like the right thing to do.

As for my phone number, here it is: XXX-XXX-XXX

Please let me know when the funeral will be. I'd like to pay my respects.

Best, Heinrich"

Within minutes, my phone buzzed. It was a text message from Rebecca.

Hi, she texted.

"Hi," I replied.

"I'm not sure about the funeral arrangements yet. I'll let you know as soon as I find out."

"Okay, thanks," I responded.

I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Sarah's death than met the eye.

My phone rang, and I saw it was Rebecca. She picked up, her voice soft and inviting.

"Hey, Heinrich," she said, her voice laced with a hint of flirtation.

"Hi, Rebecca," I replied, trying to keep my tone neutral.

"So, about the FindMe app..." she began, her voice trailing off.

"What about it?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.

"Well, it seems the higher-ups at NovaTech have decided to put the project on hold," she explained. "There's been a bit of a dispute, apparently. The LAPD wants to form their own development team, or perhaps outsource the project to another company."

I was taken aback. The FindMe app had been a promising project, a chance to make a real difference. But now, it seemed to be doomed.

"That's disappointing," I said. "I was really looking forward to working on it."

"Me too," Rebecca replied. "It was a groundbreaking project, with the potential to revolutionize law enforcement. But bureaucracy, you know?"

We continued to discuss the situation, speculating about the reasons behind the decision. It was clear that the higher-ups at NovaTech were facing pressure from various stakeholders, each with their own agenda.

Why can't I have nice thing?..

I was bored, restless. The weight of the world, or rather, my insignificant existence, pressed down on me. I walked over to my gramophone and placed a record on the turntable: Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2. The melody filled the room, soothing my troubled soul. As I listened to the music, I drifted off to sleep.

I woke with a start, the alarm clock blaring. It was 8 AM. I rushed through my morning routine, showering, dressing, and gulping down a cup of coffee. As I hurried out the door, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease.

I walked past my neighbor's door, the one where the tragic suicide had occurred. But as I passed, I saw something that chilled me to the bone. My neighbor, Quincy, just opened his door, a shovel raised high. He swung the shovel, and I felt a sharp pain in my head.

I jolted awake, drenched in sweat. It was 2 AM. I had just experienced a terrifying nightmare. I couldn't shake the feeling of dread. I took a cold shower to calm my nerves.

What's going on with me?..

After my shower, I returned to my room and turned on my computer. I decided to distract myself by browsing online for a new car. I had been saving money for a while, and I thought it was time to treat myself. After much deliberation, I settled on a classic Jaguar E-Type. It was the perfect car for a man of my tastes.

Exhausted but excited, I climbed into bed. I couldn't help but smile. Tomorrow, I would be the proud owner of a beautiful car.

The morning. I groaned, rolling over and reaching for my phone. The screen lit up, displaying the time: 8:15 AM. I was late.

With a start, I leaped out of bed and rushed to the bathroom. A quick shower, a breakfast.

A knock on my door interrupted my hurry. I opened it to find a police officer, a woman seems to be in her late thirties.

"Mr. Van Stownmann?" she asked, her voice polite but firm.

"Yes, that's me," I replied, my heart pounding.

"I'm Detective Harper from the LAPD. I'd like to ask you a few questions about your neighbor, Quincy."

I invited her inside. while she sat down on my couch, I try to read her gesture, seems like she's here just for some information, I'm not in any trouble, I'm never in trouble.

"We're investigating Quincy's death," Detective Harper explained. "At first, we thought it was a suicide, but now we're not so sure."

She asked me a series of questions about my relationship with Quincy, when I last saw him, and if I had noticed anything unusual in the days leading up to his death. I answered her questions truthfully, though I couldn't help to feel something is wrong here.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Van Stownmann," Detective Harper said, standing up to leave. "We'll be in touch if we need anything else."

She walked out the door, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched. I wondered if the police suspected me of something. After all, I had a unique perspective on the world, a dark and twisted view.

Detective Harper got into her car and drove away. As she drove, she felt a sense of curiosity about Heinrich Van Stownmann. He was an intriguing figure, a man with a complex personality. She wondered if he knew more than he was letting on.

You didn't do anything right Heinrich?..

What was happening? Why was the police questioning me about Quincy? We barely knew each other. We'd exchanged a few nods in the hallway, that's it. I couldn't understand why the police were involved. Was there something more to Quincy's death than a simple suicide?

It was already 9:30 AM. I had to get to work. But first, I had to buy that car. The Jaguar E-Type was calling my name. I hailed a taxi and headed to the dealership.

I sat in the backseat, my phone rang. It was Rebecca. "Hey, Heinrich," she said, her voice filled with excitement. "I have some big news."

"What's up?" I asked, curious.

"The FindMe app project has been handed over to the LAPD," she explained. "They've formed a new development team, and guess who's on it? You and me!"

I was surprised. "Me? Why me?"

"They were impressed with your work on the project," she said. "You're the lead developer now."

"That's great news," I replied, trying to hide my surprise.

"We need to meet up to discuss the project in more detail," Rebecca said. "How about we meet at The Roastery Cafe at 10:30?"

"Sure, I'll be there," I said.

I arrived at the dealership and was immediately drawn to the sleek, silver Jaguar E-Type. It was even more beautiful in person.

I shook hands with the car dealer, a friendly man named Dave. "She's a beauty, isn't she?" Dave said, gesturing towards the Jaguar.

"Absolutely," I replied, my eyes gleaming with excitement, I ask to myself, Why am I trying so hard to look normal, I never been this heavy of a consumer. "I'll take it."

After signing the paperwork, I was the proud owner of a classic sports car. I drove out of the dealership, feeling a rush of adrenaline as I speed down the highway.

I arrived at the Roastery Cafe a few minutes early. Rebecca was already there, sipping on a latte. She looked up as I walked in, her eyes widening in surprise.

"Whoa, Heinrich," she said. "What's with the new ride?"

I grinned. "I decided to treat myself."

We sat down at a small table and began to discuss the FindMe app. Rebecca introduced me to the other members of the team, Jared and Sabrina. Jared was a brilliant programmer, a bit of a tech wizard. Sabrina, on the other hand, was a talented designer with a keen eye for detail.

We talked for hours, discussing the project, our hopes, and our fears. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, a chance to make a real difference in the boring world.

As the day drew to a close, Jared and Sabrina excused themselves. "We'll be in touch," Jared said, shaking my hand.

"See you tomorrow," Sabrina added, giving me a friendly smile.

Rebecca and I were left alone. "Want a ride home?" I asked.

She smiled. "Sure, why not?"

I opened the passenger door for Rebecca, a gentlemanly gesture. As she slid into the car, I couldn't help but admire her. She looked stunning, as always.

"So, what's the model of this beauty?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"It's a 1967 Jaguar E-Type," I replied, a touch of pride in my voice. "I've always been a fan of classic cars."

"You have great taste," she said, smiling. "And you know, you're pretty cool yourself."

Her compliment took me by surprise. I wasn't used to being praised. "Thanks," I mumbled.

"So, Heinrich," she began, "have you ever been in love?"

I hesitated. "Not really," I replied.

"Why not?" she asked, her eyes filled with curiosity.

"I don't know," I said. "I've just never met the right person."

We continued to talk, the conversation flowing easily. As we pulled up to her house, a  two-story building, I feel a sense of longing. I wanted to spend more time with Rebecca, to get to know her better.

Rebecca got out of the car and turned to me. "Thanks for the ride," she said. "I had a great time."

"Me too," I replied.

She smiled and waved goodbye. she walked towards the front door, I couldn't help but notice her mother, a kind-looking woman with a warm smile. She waved at me, inviting me to come in.

I hesitated, torn between politeness and my own desires. In the end, I declined her invitation, making up a lame excuse about having work to do. I drove away, I had made a mistake.

I arrived home and parked my car in the street. I needed to find a garage to store my prized possession. I called my landlord and asked him to arrange for a parking space.

I called my landlord, Mr. Peterson, a gruff but kind man in his fifties. "Mr. Peterson, I need to rent a garage space," I said. "I just bought a car."

"A garage, huh?" Mr. Peterson replied, his voice thoughtful. "Well, I do have one spot left. It'll cost you a bit extra, but it's secure."

"That's fine," I said. "I'll take it."

Later that day, Mr. Peterson showed me to the garage. It was a small, cramped space, but it would have to do. I parked my Jaguar, Mr. Peterson approached me.

"You know, we've got a new tenant moving in next door," he said. "A young woman, pretty as a picture."

I nodded, feigning disinterest. "Sounds nice," I replied.

I walked back to my apartment, I'm feeling that something exciting was about to happen. And I was right.

I saw a young woman struggling with her luggage. She was petite, with long, flowing hair and a radiant smile.

"Need some help with that?" I offered, stepping forward.

She looked up, surprised. "Sure, thanks," she replied.

We worked together, I couldn't help but be drawn to her. She was intelligent, witty, and incredibly charming.

After a while, we managed to get her belongings into the apartment. As I helped her unpack, I couldn't resist a playful touch. I pretended to trip, accidentally bumping into her. She laughed, a sound that is just...

Suddenly, we were on the bed, oh no, I want to skip this part.

Have fun, Heinrich..

I woke up with a start, disoriented and confused. The room was unfamiliar, the scent of perfume. I looked around and realized I was in bed with a woman. A beautiful woman.

"Who are you?" I asked, my voice hoarse.

She laughed, a sound that was both playful and alluring. "I'm Anya," she replied.

"I should probably get going," I said, feeling a wave of embarrassment.

"Okay," she replied, a hint of disappointment in her voice. "I'll see you around."

I rushed out of the apartment, feeling a mixture of guilt and excitement. What had I done? I had just slept with a woman I barely knew. It was reckless, impulsive, and completely out of character.

Back in my own apartment, I took a long, hot shower. The water washed away the physical residue of the night, but it couldn't erase the mental fog. I sat on my couch, staring blankly at the television. I couldn't focus on anything. My mind was racing, replaying the events.

I turned on the television, hoping to distract myself from my thoughts. But the news report that greeted me was anything but distracting. Another body had been discovered, another victim of the Sculptor. This time, the victim was a young woman in her twenties, found in an abandoned warehouse. Her body had been transformed into a statue, a chilling Greek statue of the Crouching Boy.

The police were baffled. The killer's identity remained a mystery. 

"Perhaps I should visit the LAPD," I mused to myself. "As a developer on the FindMe app, I could gain access to sensitive information, information that could help me track down the Sculptor."

I returned to my desk, focusing on the user interface for the FindMe app. I designed a clean, intuitive interface, easy to navigate even for the least tech-savvy user.

Exhausted, I closed my laptop and headed to bed. The night was young, and the darkness was calling.

Can't sleep..

I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. My mind was racing, filled with thoughts of the Sculptor and the FindMe app. I reached for the sleeping pills on my nightstand, a tempting solution to my insomnia. But I hesitated. I didn't want to become reliant on medication.

Instead, I decided to take a drive. I slipped on a coat and headed out into the night. The cool air I drove through the empty streets. The city was quiet, the only sound the hum of my car engine.

I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. I ended up at a pub called "The Last Chance." It was a classic dive bar, the kind of place where secrets were shared and deals were made. I parked my car and stepped inside.

The bar, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke. I ordered a whiskey, a drink I rarely indulged in. I sat at the bar.

A woman approached me, her eyes filled with desire. "Ready for some fun?" she purred, her voice low and seductive.

I nodded, a smile playing on my lips. I led her to my car, a sense of anticipation building within me. We drove to a secluded spot, a deserted parking lot overlooking the city.

"Here," I said, gesturing towards the car. "Let's do this."

She seemed eager, oblivious to the darkness that lurked within me. As she leaned over the car, I seized my opportunity. I choked her from behind, my grip tight and unrelenting. She struggled, but it was futile. Her life force was slipping away.

I tied her hands and feet, securing her body with rope. I dragged her unconscious body into the trunk of my car. Back at my apartment, I gathered my tools: a surgical kit, a set of knives, and a roll of plastic wrap. I donned a pair of rubber gloves and a surgical mask.

Let's get this done quickly..

I returned to my car, I needed a place, a secluded location where I could work undisturbed. A place where I could give life to my vision.

A memory surfaced, a news report about an abandoned office building, a place where the Sculptor had claimed their first victim. It was the perfect location, a desolate, forgotten place, a fitting stage for my first performance.

I drove, my mind raced. What had possessed me to do this? Was I truly a monster, a creature of darkness? Or was I simply an artist, a creator of beauty and horror?

I arrived at the abandoned building, a husk of its former self. The broken windows and graffiti-covered walls added to the atmosphere. I parked the car in the deserted parking lot and opened the trunk. The woman, still unconscious, lay motionless.

I carried her body into the building, careful not to wake her. I laid her on a cold, concrete floor.

Suddenly, the woman stirred. She groaned, her eyes fluttering open. She tried to scream, but I quickly silenced her. I knew I had to finish what I had started. I injected her with a powerful sedative, plunging her back into unconsciousness, time to move her somewhere.

I laid her on a sturdy wooden table, her lifeless body is like a canvas to me. I wear a pair of surgical gloves and picked up a scalpel and a saw.

With a steady hand, I began to dismember the body. First, I severed both hands at the wrist. As I sliced through the flesh, I was struck by the beauty of the human anatomy. The tendons, the muscles, the bones each part a marvel.

Next, I removed her legs at the hips. I examined the joints, the way the bones fit together, the way the muscles contracted and relaxed. It was a fascinating study, a ballet of life and death.

With the limbs removed, I turned my attention to the torso. I made a precise incision, cutting through the skin and muscle. I exposed the internal organs, each one I saw, it is truly masterpiece of nature or God if u believe in that tale. I studied the heart, the lungs, the liver, fascinated by their complexity.

I removed the organs, one by one, placing them on a tray. I then turned my attention to the skin. I carefully peeled it away from the muscle and bone. The skin, was surprisingly strong and resilient.

With the skin removed, I was left with a skeletal frame. I studied the bones, tracing the contours of each one. I had always been fascinated by the human skeleton, its structure, its perfect form.

I picked up the severed hand and began to sew the fingers back together. It was a process, requiring a steady hand and a keen eye. I stitched the skin, muscle, and tendon, bringing the hand back to life, or at least an imitation of life.

The Clock Is Ticking...

Four hours. It had taken me four hours to complete this task. I was a mess, blood spattered across my clothes and tools. But I had done it. I had created a masterpiece.

I began the process of reassembling the body. I sewed the limbs back onto the torso, each stitch. The skin, now dry and leathery, was difficult to work with. I had to stretch and manipulate it.

Once the body was reassembled, I hung it from the ceiling, a trophy. I stood back, admiring my work. It was a brutal, sloppy, disturbing figure, a creature of my own design. I had transformed a human being into a work of art.

I cleaned up the mess, I feel relaxed, everything that I was feeling for the past few days, boring, unable to sleep, I finally found the cure. I had pushed the boundaries of what was possible, I was a creator, a destroyer, a god.

The body, once a vessel of life, now hung lifeless, a puppet on a string, I wondered, what it meant to be human? What separated us from the animals? Was it our intelligence, our empathy, or our capacity for both love and hate?.

Perhaps we are all capable of great evil, It takes a certain spark, to ignite that darkness. In my case, it was a curiosity, a thirst for knowledge, and a desire to push the boundaries of human experience.

Exhausted but satisfied, I returned to my car. I needed to rest, to recharge, maybe I come back after my nap to take a look at the body and maybe keep its hand and then dispose it. The night had been long and demanding, but it had been worth it. I had created something truly special, something truly horrifying.

The road stretched out, a dark, winding ribbon. It was late, nearly one in the morning, and I was still wide awake.

I pulled into my garage and parked the car. I stepped out, I unlocked the door and enter inside.

The first order of business was to clean up the mess. cleaning the trunk of my car, my tools, I stripped off my blood-stained clothes, tossing them into the washing machine. The cold water washed away the physical evidence of my night of madness, but it couldn't erase what I have done.

I stood under the shower, the events of the killing replayed in my mind.

I emerged from the shower, feeling refreshed. I dried myself off and got dressed. I sat on my couch.

I decided to distract myself by watching TV. I flipped through the channels, but nothing caught my interest. I felt a sense of restlessness, a need to create, to destroy.

I stood up and walked over to my desk. I pulled out a notebook and a pen, and began to sketch. I drew a designs, a plan perhaps, something I would do to my next victim.

What would become of me? Would I continue down this path or would I find a way to redeem myself? Only time would tell.

I walked over to my bed, exhaustion pulling at my limbs. I lay down, my mind is full. Who was I? A monster, or simply a man lost in the darkness? I had crossed a line, a line I could never cross back.

I had always been a seeker of knowledge. But my curiosity had taken a turn, leading me down a path of destruction. I had become a puppet master, hah, that name sounds funny and ironic.

But what was the point of it all? Was it simply to satisfy my own desires? Or was there a higher purpose, a grand design? perhaps.

I closed my eyes, hoping to find solace in sleep. "Goodnight, Heinrich," I whispered to myself.

End