THE REVENGE OF THE RAGDOLL

~Two days later~

“Good morning, Miss Angel. How are you today?” Christine’s voice was calm and gentle, as always. Her tone never changed—soft, soothing, but somehow mechanical. Sometimes I wondered if she was really human, or if therapists were just trained to sound like perfectly programmed machines.

“I’m… doing fine. It’s been a rough week, but nothing out of the ordinary,” I replied, staring up at the spotless white ceiling. My body sank deeper into the lounge chair, its cushion cradling me like a lullaby. The tension I’d carried all week slowly began to melt away.

The chair rocked back and forth, so subtly it felt almost still. But like my thoughts, it wasn’t still at all. There were shifts, fluctuations. Gaps. I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly.

“Tell me about your week. Any episodes?” Christine asked.

“No. Very few of those lately. It’s almost like they’re completely gone.” I paused. “My week was... normal, I guess. I diagnosed a few patients, performed brain surgery to remove a tumor, and... I went on a date.”

“Oh? That’s new.” Her voice perked up just enough to betray her curiosity. For a moment, the calm therapist facade cracked, revealing a woman itching for details.

“It was just some guy I met Tuesday morning on my way to get coffee,” I said, the memory playing in my mind like a soft reel. “We were both rushing somewhere, and we bumped into each other outside the café. My papers went flying, and he helped me pick them up. I was going to walk away, but then… he asked for my number.”

Typical love story bullshit. The kind that always ends in tears. The universe hated me. The feeling was mutual.

“How did the date go?” Christine asked, too hopeful for my comfort.

I sighed. “I kind of… liked him. He was nice. The way he smiled. The way he spoke. The softness in his eyes—it was all so... entrancing. But then he asked about my past, and I freaked out. Walked out on him. Haven’t seen him since.”

Christine let out a soft sigh, like she was the one who’d ruined the date.

“Angel, listen. We’ve gone over this time and time again. Look at how far you’ve come. You’ve overcome the drugs, the depression...”

The chair continued to rock, and in my mind, a flicker of a memory resurfaced—me tying off my arm, needle in hand. Another image: me curled up in a dark room, sobbing, surrounded by pills and half-empty bottles.

“You’ve come so far that you’re even allowed to perform surgeries again. You’re not the woman you used to be. You’re free now. Free of your past. It’s time to spread your wings and start living again. It’s okay to share your story. Sometimes, that’s how we let go—by letting someone else carry the weight with us.”

The chair rocked again. Richard’s face flashed in my mind. That smile of his—twisted, manic, carved straight from my nightmares. No matter how many therapy sessions I endured, I could never seem to banish that face.

“Look,” Christine said gently. “He noticed you’ve had a troubled past, and he still asked. That means he cares. Don’t let this chance slip away.”

Her words cut through the room like a sharp whistle—piercing, too loud, too real.

And in that moment... I lost it.

—

“An opportunity? You’ve got to be kidding me,” I snapped. “Do you have any idea what I went through in the hands of a man I thought loved me when we got married?”

“I do, Ange—” Christine began.

“No, you don’t!” I shot up, grabbing her collar with trembling hands. “Because you weren’t fucking there! You weren’t the one getting punched over and over because the food was too salty. You weren’t the one drenched in blood after every horrible excuse for sex. You weren’t the one with a broken collarbone and a black eye, lying to his family just to stay in a marriage you knew would eventually fucking kill you!”

I hissed at her, eyes wide with fury, as she stared back at me—frozen, horrified.

—

“I ruined our date,” I murmured, eyes snapping open. “And I’m not going on another one. That one was just a mistake… something that’ll never happen again.”

Thankfully, all of that had been in my head. If I ever unleashed that part of me on Christine, she’d need a therapist.

“I see,” Christine said, sighing softly. “I guess we’re not there yet. Just remember—not everyone means you harm. Yes, there are bad men out there… but there are good ones too. You can’t lump them all together because of one man’s mistakes. It’s time to let yourself breathe, Angel. To let go of what happened four years ago.”

She leaned forward a bit, her voice gentle. “I’m here for you whenever you want to talk, okay?”

“That’s because I pay you. But sure… whatever,” I muttered, sitting up and reaching for my bag.

Christine and I both rose. She extended her hand, and I shook it.

“You should keep taking your medications,” she said with a bright, almost motherly smile. “I’m proud of your progress—but you’ve still got a ways to go.”

I exhaled and nodded.

She opened her mouth again. “And I think it’s about time to reach out to your fami—”

“Don’t push it,” I cut in quickly, my tone cold and dismissive. I turned on my heel and made for the exit.

***

My house wasn’t far from Christine’s clinic. In Forest Hills, everything felt just close enough to reach but far enough to stay separate. A taxi took twelve minutes. The bus took twenty.

The cab stopped between two trees in front of my home. I paid the fare and stepped out, then stood there for a moment, just... staring.

It was a modest bungalow—brown exterior, pale yellow interior. The roof was stacked with thick, dark grey clay tiles, and a narrow chimney jutted out from the top. The walls were solid concrete brick, and the small front yard was covered in neatly trimmed grass. A low wooden fence framed the property, and a dented metal mailbox stood just outside the gate like an old friend too tired to leave.

“How did my life come to this?” I muttered, a bitter taste rising in my throat. Things might’ve been different—better—if I hadn’t disobeyed my family to marry that bastard.

Maybe Richard was the universe’s way of showing me that no one gave a damn about me. That I was nothing but a forgotten rag doll to the world.

No one came to see me at the hospital that night. Not my sister. Not my brothers. Not even my own mother.

The one person who might’ve cared enough to call… died long before the wedding.

My father.

I walked through the fence and into the yard, then approached the door. Inside, I tossed my bag onto the couch and headed toward the kitchen, kicking off my shoes at the threshold.

“Now I just have to stuff my face with ice cream until I pass out,” I muttered to myself—I needed to pass out.

I stopped cold at the entrance of the kitchen.

The chaos from last night’s breakdown still lingered like a fresh crime scene. Everything was exactly as I had left it.

But something about it felt off.

Last night wasn’t like the others. I remembered the spiral, the crash—but this time, it had felt like I wasn’t even me. Like my mind had been hijacked by something... darker. Thoughts I’d never dared to entertain crawled out of hiding and took over.

Evil thoughts.

Even now, they sent chills down my spine.

The kitchen shelves had been torn apart like fabric. Cutlery, broken dishes, shattered bottles, pots and pans scattered across the floor. Cooking oil stained the tiles, and the walls—god, the walls—were streaked with red lipstick.

One word, again and again.

“Ragdoll.”

It had haunted me ever since I said “I do.”

I took a deep breath, trying to ground myself. I couldn’t afford another outburst. I crouched to begin picking up the broken pieces of glass and ceramic.

“What caused this?” I whispered, trying to remember what had triggered me. My memories of the night were blurry—like a film with missing reels.

As I lifted a large shard of ceramic, I noticed a piece of newspaper beneath it, soaked in oil. There was a black-and-white photo on it.

I squinted. My breath caught.

I knew that face.

The trigger for last night’s breakdown wasn’t a memory or a dream. It was news.

Richard had been released from prison.

The night of the fire came rushing back like a tidal wave. I could see myself, panicked and crying, knocking over the candles in a desperate attempt to escape him. I remembered the smoke. The flames. I remembered Richard and Jennifer walking away—leaving me to burn.

Four years ago today, Richard had been thrown in prison for domestic abuse. The court ruled in my favor, awarding me a large portion of his wealth.

And now he was free.

“Richard is back...” I whispered, staring down at the paper with trembling hands.

That same haunting smile flashed through my mind like lightning in a storm.

“He’s coming for me.”