A woman cannot take a man's seed into her body unwed.
If you don’t drink God’s nectar, you will be damned to Hell for all eternity.
Don’t fuck without being married, but oh no, if you don’t suck on my cock, you’re the unholy one.
I snapped when I saw an innocent woman dead because of a deranged man. If anyone was crazy—it was Daddy. He wasn’t listening to God's voice in his head. He was listening to Satan’s.
So I killed him. I grabbed the same knife that he stabbed into that woman's ear and turned it on him. I stabbed him well over a hundred times, until I was sitting on two hundred pounds of meat and bone, and I couldn’t physically lift my arm anymore.
And then I set everyone free. Most were angry and cried. But I saw it deep in their eyes—they were relieved, too. They were just angry that they had to find their own purpose in life instead of blindly following the purpose that was handed to them by the devil.
“The other employees that worked in the dollhouse. Did any of them have friendships with your henchmen?” Dr. Rosie asks, bringing me back to the conversation.
I shrug. “Not that I know of. They stayed to themselves. They did their jobs and then helped me with mine.”
Out of anger, I told my lawyer that I had help from my henchmen. My lawyer said they would look into it, but since then, he refused to talk to me about what’s going on with them. If they’ve ever been caught. Or if there’s an active manhunt for five deadly men.
He says I need to focus on myself right now, and he'll worry about the rest.
There’s no point in trying to protect them now. They didn’t protect me, and law enforcement already knew I had help since they were chasing after them, too.
“What about you? Did any of them know about you?”
I scoff. “No, I stayed inside the walls. The less they knew about me, the better. If no one ever saw me, then they wouldn’t be able to pin anything on them in case I was caught.”
Dr. Rosie hums, writing more baseless words down in her leather notebook. I wonder, is she one of those girls who write in their feelings in journals? Does she take a pen to paper every time she’s called a bitch by a patient? Does she talk about how unappreciated she is in her job, but if she could help just one person, it would all be worth it? I scoff again.
“Sibel, did you ever see your henchmen interact with other staff?”
I frown, furrowing my brow. “Why—”
“Just think about it. Humor me.”
Irritation flares but I do it anyway. I think back to all the times during operation hours. I’d see staff look at them, but they always passed on by without talking to them. Everyone always seemed to look through them. Like they were so insignificant. My henchmen never seemed to notice or care.
“I guess not,” I finally answer, confused on where she’s going with this. So what if others didn’t talk to them? Maybe they were scared of them.
“Why do you think that is?”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. “What kind of question is that?” I snap, my irritation growing. But it’s not just irritation I’m feeling. Its fear, too.
My heart kicks into overdrive and Dr. Rosie eyes me.
“Do you think they’re real?”
I jerk back with widened eyes, taken aback by her question but yet, not surprised by it. That question is exactly what I was fearing.
“Why the hell would you ask me that?”
Dr. Rosie shifts, as if she’s settling in for a long conversation.
“Sibel. We found your henchmen.”
Whiplash. She's jerking me back and forth. I can’t keep up.
“Okay, and?” I snap. “Have they been apprehended?”
Her lips tighten into a thin line. “Sibel,” she starts again. “They’re mannequins.”
My world tilts on its axis. A rock forms in my throat, steadily growing until I feel the need to claw at my throat. I can’t breathe past it. My hands dart to the armrests, gripping them so tightly, my nails start to crack. Everything is spinning and Dr. Rosie's clinical voice is muffled, sounding like I’m trapped underwater and she’s yelling at me from above.
“Sibby? Are you with me?” Her voice comes raging back, loud and abrasive.
I flinch away, but finally suck in a breath. “That’s not true,” I whisper. My chest is tight, and my eyes can’t focus. “That’s not true!” I say again, shouting the words.
Dr. Rosie rises from her seat and gently prods me to bend over. I listen and tuck my head between my knees and just try to breathe. I need to claw at my chest, my throat. Tear at the muscle until it lets me breathe again. Dr. Rosie holds my hand, reminding me that I can breathe.
Over the next several minutes, I’m completely seized by the panic gripping onto me like a leech. Until finally, I feel my chest loosening and my breathing evening out.
This isn’t the first time I’ve found myself in this position in Dr. Rosie’s office. It’s why I hate coming here.
“You’re wrong,” I gasp, my breath still erratic and choppy.
Dr. Rosie sighs and makes her way back to her chair. “Sibel, you’ve had enough today. Let’s continue this next week.”
“No!” I roar, my spine snapping straight. It makes me dizzy but I power through until my doctor’s blank face comes back into focus. “Tell me what you mean. Now.”
She stares at me, seeming to contemplate if she should continue. She sighs again, but humors me. “All of the men that match the description of your henchmen—they’re mannequins. They are mechanical mannequins that move, but they're not… living.”
I shake my head, the
