I know it’s here somewhere, hidden amongst the cleaning supplies and Daddy’s special hunting equipment. There, at the back of the cupboard behind the boot liners and cable ties…. an old re-appropriated biscuit tin.
I choose the bestest cleanest looking ones from the assortment in the tin. They’d clearly collected them over the years. These were people that made-did and mended, stuffing the farm cottage cupboards full of “just in case” things. In case of little accidents, just like today.
“I didn’t mean to.” I tell her this as I fix her up. Big plasters for each of her weeping eyes and one for her broken lips.
“I didn’t mean to…” part apology, part defence. I wrap some bandages around her broken arm. It covers up the unsightly bone sticking out from the skin. Much better, much cleaner.
I didn’t mean to. I just kind of forgot that she was a little bit breakable.
Maybe it’s not my fault? Maybe if she wasn’t so breakable this wouldn’t have happened.
It’s not my fault, my other toys don’t break so quickly as that. When I teach the little plastic animals their flying lessons in the barn they’re always intact when I pick them up from the ground. They never complain, hurting my ears like she’s doing now.
“Stop it,” I plea, “You’re making the plaster all bloody and it won’t stick!” She needs to stop using her mouth so I can fix her up all better. Daddy puts plasters on my boo-boos and then they go away. She just has a lot of boo-boos.
“You need more plasters. Plasters make it all better. Daddy says so.” I explain, nodding furiously. I dig around in the tin for more but there are only little ones, the teeny ones Daddy puts on my heels when new shoes rub. They will have to do.
One by one I stick them over her face, creating a patchwork of fake skin tones. I work fast but not fast enough to counteract the impact of her jaw moving, deep pained wails that are making it much harder. Stupid dolly, doesn’t she know I’m trying to help? At least she can’t move, her legs bent at an unnatural angle are working to my favour.
I’ll plaster and bandage her up all better and Daddy will never need to know that I broke another one. He’s tried to teach me to be careful with my toys, keep them nice so I can keep them longer and I do try but they’re just so weak and stupid sometimes.
Why do I have to look after them?
Why do I have to learn how to care for them?
Why do we need a whole flock?
Maybe it would be better just Daddy and me… If he looked after me and I looked after him and that was it.
I hush the grumbles, drowned out by the cold shudder that accompanies the knowledge “Daddy knows best.” Daddy wants me to learn and right now I’m being a good little nurse.
When we play vets with the animals Daddy shows me how you can cut and slice and dice them and they’re OK after, better even, modified to fit our needs. This is just like that, except she’s even more useless now. Stupid dolly, she’s going to get me in trouble.
I can’t get in trouble, not again. I have to be good, everything’s OK as long as I’m good.
I quell the panic with a plan. A genius little plan of simplicity. One that implicates more of the stupid animals instead of me. It’s lucky I’m so much smarter than they are.
I knew it. I knew they wouldn’t be able to resist.
They were cautious at first, sniffing around her wailing body, flinching at the blood-curdling sounds from her distorted mouth, the sticky plasters doing little to prevent the caterwaul.
The one that forced his mouth over hers. Was he doing it to shut her up, or to create some intimacy, some closeness congruent to the act to follow? Was the pitiful beast so well trained in the steps of formulaic foreplay that kisses must precede the hard cock now rutting inside of her?
Regardless, the screaming is drowned out as the others move in, encouraged by the ease of access of their pack brother. The sight is glorious, their animal passion stirs my own, my hand creeping down into my panties.
The studs do as they have been bred to do. Silly beasties, spreading your seed in all those different holes, no wonder the flock is failing to breed as Daddy would wish.
Perhaps I should tell him? Perhaps I could help him train them better?
Excited at the prospect to help Daddy, to show him that I’m a good girl I bounce up, barely flinching at the crunch of bones from the pen below me.
Now they feed.
But wait… how will I explain how I know? Curses!
I don’t have time to formulate my answer before Daddy bustles in, bringing the scheduled feed on top of the amuse bouche I provided.
Standing stock still doesn’t stop him seeing me. “Blade” he demands, “what are you doing here?”
“Looking for my dolly Daddy.” I explain, crossing my fingers behind my back and swinging from side to side innocently.
He smells the blood before he sees it. The bulls have slunk back to their beds on the far side, satisfied with their fill. The girl is a decimated pile of leftovers. Daddy smells the blood and moves towards me, still sniffing.
My stomach flips, a cold dread prickling all the way up to my ears. He’ll smell her on me.
“Maybe she’s in here?” I question, throwing myself over the fence and deliberately landing close to the slowly drying sticky puddle before Daddy can get close. “Dolly…” I mock call, pretending to wait for an answer.
“Ewwww…” my acting extends to finding the remains, tacky under my feet. I reach down to cover my hand in a slick of her innards. There, now he’ll never know.
His face darkens, “What has happened here?” muttered under his breath.
As he approaches the fence I feel the boy studs recoil, fearful and for good reason. They’ve learnt, these ones learned fast. Daddy and his special medicine, Daddy and his scalpels, Daddy experiments that hurt. One day they’ll realise it’s for their own good, so they can benefit the farm, play their part. Cows taken for milk and beef don’t complain, they know their place.
I tut in their general direction, attracting the attention of an otherwise distracted Daddy. Having vaulted the fence too, he’s pulling something from the wreckage, it might have been sparkly once, before drenched in dark tar blood.
“Dolly’s tiara.” I confirm. “There she is!” Before catching myself, no wait… how should I act? Upset, I should be upset. I start to sob, burying my face in my hands, fingers wide enough to watch his expression. “She must have escaped.” I explain, “I only left her side for a second. Oh no… my dolly! Oh I shall miss her. Naughty beasts, naughty, naughty beasts!”
“Oh.” That’s all he says. Just “Oh.” Picking up remains of plasters from the floor and turning them over in his bloody hands.
He looks up to me pained, confusion fringing his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s OK my darkling, you can go now…”
I take the dismissal, scampering away into the yard, ready to skip my way back to my room and to the intact toys that live there. I mended her, I mended dolly good, I mended Dolly and now Daddy will never know. I smile at my little secret, confident in my deceit. Daddy will never know. I mended it good.