Despite her wickedness she remained just a child, with wants and needs as any other. She still craved close embrace as a social beast, enveloping her in warm, familiar arms. This was the reason she carried around her stuffed rabbit, casting love on the inanimate object where she couldn’t otherwise inflict it on anyone or anything else. She cherished the toy, even if she tore it to pieces until her mother would sew it back together again for her. She destroyed what she loved—it was her only method. No one else would dare touch what was her’s—her damaged, broken things, held so close to her heart.
She was the pretend princess, commanding a tea party amongst cobwebbed corpses with cracked, broken china. She’d smile a crooked, yellow-toothed smile, pouring another cup of viscous, jet-black muck. Her face was angelic, carved from perfection, but within her small body bad, tainted blood pumped steadily through blackened veins. She pulled her head away, peering up with yellow eyes, nodding her small head even as she gave one last regretful sniff.
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