Lucy The Doll

Lucy The Doll

Hello, my name is Eddie and I was told to write this diary by the nice man who makes me feel calm whenever I feel bad. He said I’d feel better if I write down my feelings in this. Well, I don’t know how I’m feeling; I feel alright I guess… so I don’t know what feelings I should write about. 

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I’m fine.

Eddie is totally fine. 



I like fire.

I like the heat.

I’m happy. 

I’m very happy but people all over are sad. 


I want to fight.

Fight their sadness.

I want to pull it out of them. 

I want people to be happy like I am.

Happy like Eddie.

Happy with Eddie.


I wonder if the man who told me to write this diary is happy.

If not…

Maybe I can help him.

Maybe I can pull the bad out of him.

The man who gave me this diary read the first entry and said he’s pleased with me expressing my emotions. I have no idea what he was talking about; I don’t remember expressing my emotions there. Anyway, dear diary let me tell you about myself, I’m living in this fancy hotel for a while now. A few years, I think… I don’t remember. The staff says I can’t leave. They say I’m not even allowed to leave my room on my own. I don’t mind, however; I have here everything I need. There are books, a nice ol’ TV and even a laptop. I rarely use that… It’s kind of hard for me to deal with the small buttons on the keyboard.

I’m kind of lonely, I wish I could talk to someone, but the hotel staff says I can’t. They won’t tell me why. They get angry when I ask them over and over. I don’t like it when they are angry with me. It makes me feel bad. I don’t like feeling bad because when I do, I can hear people say sad things under their breath. They sound very depressed to me when I feel bad.

good thing my sister shows up a few times a day to give me food and talk to me.

Well, she’s not really my sister, but she’s the only person who talks to me regularly.

She makes me happy and I find it funny how she always wears this white coat. I wonder why she keeps wearing it inside, it’s pretty pleasant in here. I might ask her the next time she shows up.

Dear diary, last night you spoke to me. 

You’ve said some nasty things. 

It made me feel bad. 

But you kept saying nasty things. 

Really nasty. 

Why would you want me to hurt myself? 

Why would you want anyone to hurt? 

I thought we were friends.

I guess I’m not gonna use you for a while.

It’s been a while since I’ve written to you, my diary. Today was nice. My sister came to check up on me. I even got to hug her. Which is very nice. I’ve missed being hugged so much. I felt my eyes welling up when she hugged me. I felt like I was being hugged by mom again. I couldn’t help myself, and I asked her when I could see my parents again. I know, I know, she hates when I ask these kinds of questions. I don’t why, but I know she does.

I mean, it’s weird she gets upset when I do but oh well, there are many oddities in this world. Maybe my sister doesn’t like her own parents. Maybe her mommy was abusive and told her that girls are bad. Maybe her daddy wasn’t there to protect her when her mommy hit her for being a girl. Maybe it’s something else. I don’t know. I’m not sure I should ask.

My sister got this sad look in her eyes when I asked her about my parents and told me that I can’t for now. She apologized and started asking me about my week and what not. Turns out she is about to have another child.

That’s so cool.

I’m happy for my sister. It’s sad, though, because she’ll be gone for a while soon. I hope she’ll be back quickly.

I enjoyed talking to my sister today. I hope we can do it more frequently; she is the best.

It’s been a while, diary.

My back and legs hurt.

I don’t feel so good.

Doctor came.

Said I have Arthritis… odd… don’t only old people get that?

I don’t think I’ve overused myself… I mean… I’m that active.

It hurts a lot.

Doctor said he would get me more medication in a couple of days.

I wonder why he said "more", I don’t recall taking any medication for ailments.


Today I’ve had dreams about the Labrador with the human teeth. Felt weird, but this time he was telling jokes. He was mean. He wasn’t covered in red this time. I’m not sure what to do. Maybe I should tell my sister about that. Or maybe the man who gave me the diary. 

He doesn’t read it anymore. 

Says I’m not writing enough.

Says it’s good for some reason.

Apparently, I don’t have many bad days anymore.

No idea what he’s talking about. 

Other than my aches I’m feeling great all the time. 

The good doctor gave me some medication for my aches. It feels better now. 

My sister is taking a vacation. She’s now got a big belly with a child inside. I’m happy for her, but I’m kind of sad that she’s leaving me. Nobody else here is as nice as she is. I mean, they are all very nice, but she is the nicest. 

I hope she’ll come back soon. 

She left me a doll as a parting gift. 

It’s a lovely doll. Looks a bit like a ghost with her pale coloring and a long white dress. 

I’m gonna call it Lucy, after my sister.

Yes, Lucy, the doll… The spirit. 



Dear Diary, Lucy, the doll, started talking to me.

She sounds very sad.

She asks me for my help.

I don’t know how I should help a doll.

Dolls don’t live, do they?

But Lucy, the doll, is talking to me.

So maybe she is a special living doll.

Oh, I’m not feeling so well again.

I feel very bad again.

The doll is outright depressed.


She wants to die.

But she doesn’t live.

It’s a doll.

Dolls don’t live.

They can’t be depressed.

She is.

Doll is sad.

Ask to be torn apart.

I feel bad.



I don’t know.

The doll wants to be torn apart.

Wants to end suffering.


I want to help.


I don’t know.

Feeling awful.

I bit into the doll.

I bit into the doll really hard.

I tore her head off.

I tore her insides out.

She asked for this.

I tore the doll apart.

I ended it.

I ended the suffering.

I was feeling bad.

I bit into the doll.

I tore her head off.

I tossed it aside.

I feel good.

The man who gave me the diary was shocked when he saw what I did to the doll.

He said he didn’t expect me to relapse like that.

I don’t what he’s talking about.

I feel good.

The man who gave me the diary asked me if I remember why I came to the hotel. I told him I do. I told him nice men in uniforms and fancy suits brought me here. 

I told him they brought me here after I was in jail for helping the neighbor. 

I was shocked they put me in jail for helping.

I thought helping is good. 

The neighbor was talking under her breath, saying she was sad and tired.

She said she wanted to stop struggling.

Like the doll.

I heard her say she wanted to be torn apart.

So, I did.

I helped her.

I did as she told me under her breath.

I cut her up.

I tore her open with a big, big knife.

When I did, I saw her face contort into a scream.

But quietly she was praising me.

Saying she wanted me to pull out the red, slimy strands of sadness from her belly.

I did.

She stopped screaming.

She stopped talking to me.

I figured I had helped her.

I did something bad, though.

I felt tired after helping her, and I asked her if I could sleep on her couch for a bit.

She didn’t say anything.

So, I just laid down on her couch and slept.

I woke up to screams of violent men.

They were screaming something about a murder.

I didn’t murder anyone.

I was just helping.

I listened to them and did as they told me.

Eventually, that’s how I ended up in this hotel.

I’m not sure how I feel anymore, diary.

I kind of feel bad.

Different kind of bad.

I feel sad.

Like when mommy used to beat me for talking to girls at school.

I hate mommy. 

Bad Eddie.

Can’t hate mommy. 

She birthed me. 

Bad Eddie.


Maybe I should just lay down. 

Maybe someone will help me too. 

I hope they do.

I’ll ask the nice birdman in the corner of my room if he can.

He looks like is a good person. 

Something is very strange about him, though. 

He sounds like the Labrador with human teeth from my dreams. 

Dear Diary, I woke up today with scratches on my arms. 

I’m not feeling good. 

The birdman didn’t help. 

He told me I should scratch myself.

I told him no.

Maybe he scratched me. 

I don’t know.

I’m not feeling so good.

The bed sheets are talking to me now.

They say they want to be a rope. 

I’ll help them.

I’ll make them into a lovely rope. 

I’ll tear them up like the doll. 

I’ll tie them together again.

Into a fancy rope.

I don’t feel so good.

Tearing them might make me feel better.

It will distract me! 

I want to feel good.

Submitted May 25, 2019 at 04:37AM by BloodySpaghetti

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