They call him the butcher. I wonder why.

I remember when I first saw him. A delectable package in a simple, well-fitted white T-shirt and low-slung dark jeans, he was attainable only to the highest bidder. I turned and stared like all the other girls, our eyes tracing his movement in unison like cats assessing the value of a new toy. Curious, but cautious.

I was surprised when his bronze eyes singled me out. With a calculated movement, he brushed his coiffed designer hair to one side, highlighting his sharp jawbone. My heartbeat switched to a low staccato rhythm on his challenge. It was one that was too tempting to ignore, one that when surmounted, would produce a victory so sweet, the bees would find it too saccharine.

No one noticed that I had stood up abruptly until I closed the distance between us and reached for him. It was electric when our fingers touched for the first time. The beautiful yet deadly dance had commenced. There was no turning back.

He raised an eyebrow. The matador had swung his cape and it cut through the air, a trailing wave. I gave him a knowing smile. Before long, we had melted into one ball of passion.

He tugged. I followed.

Eyes turned to us, riveted, and that made us bolder.

He teased. I giggled.

Then I bundled my hair to one side and arched my neck. He trailed nibbles from the back of my ear down to the hollow of my collarbone.

“Follow me,” he breathed.

***

I awoke in a soft and comfortable bed. But it had a hard spot that made my back ache terribly. I wanted to reach back and massage it when I realised I couldn’t move.

The haze of grogginess dissipated and my breathing became shallow at the sight of my surroundings. I was in a designer room for the prettiest of dolls! Pastel pink curtains, a canopy over a pristine white four-poster bed in the same shade, a Victorian-style dresser, full-length mirror and settee—it was a dream come true.

Even the air was all vanilla and sweet, reminding me of the smoothest ice cream I’ve ever had, making my mouth water.

He entered the room, beaming when he saw my bright eyes. Setting me on the dresser seat directly in front of a mirror with frosted patterns of intricate vines, he tenderly brushed out the knots in my long hair and braided it down my back. Then he loosened it and redid it thrice more.

His movements daunted me, but more than that, it drew out a sense of contentment from within me. I would have sighed if I could. Instead I sat, appraising my reflection.

Dinner was but a formality. I felt the contempt pouring out from his eyes as he set up a brown laminated foldable table and two chairs. He settled me into one, and I watched and wondered where the items came from—they were the antithesis of a moneyed guy like him. But his attention to the table setting and food made it clear that this was an important ritual for him. Still, we were both glad when he removed the set-up with startling efficiency once he had had his fill.

When he returned, soft music was drifting in from outside the room. His eyes were secretive, but he was full of glee when he lifted me up and held me close as he swayed to the slow beat.

The puppetmaster had led me into a graceful waltz. When we passed the full-length mirror, I knew this moment was a gift—I could never have danced so faultlessly.

I would remember this sight forever. Me, dressed in a finely embroidered long-sleeved dress, the perfect complement to his white tailored shirt and steel grey pants. As I admired his broad shoulders and tapered waist in the mirror, jealousy sparked when

I thought of how his modelesque physique must have come so easily. But I reigned in the unbecoming feeling. Think positive thoughts, I told myself.

Too soon, the music stopped and he set me back on the bed and thanked me for my wonderful life.

I was more than ready when he produced a syringe as thick as five of my fingers combined. Still, hot tears ran down my cheeks and my inanimate body couldn’t suppress a gasp when the needle broke skin. I didn’t know how long it was before my lower lip stopped trembling and my eyelids fell, like heavy curtains signaling the end of an act.

***

I had no notion of passing time. But eventually, the darkness was lifted with a swish. I saw myself in a mirror spanning the length of a long room, its walls lined with delicate pieces of art—portraits, sculptures, majestic animals.

My arms were above my head, crossed at the wrists. Long, slender fingers artfully arranged formed a floating diadem over cascading curls of midnight-black hair, shinier and more voluminous than what my own could ever be. Kohl-rimmed eyes and blood-red lips were the only features that stood out on the ideal canvas of flawless alabaster skin.

My maker was not a superfluous man. There was pride in his eyes as he reached up to my mount, his fingers stopping just millimeters away from my cheek. He hesitated, then drew his hand back and decided to lean forward instead.

The chill I felt was exquisite when his warm breath skimmed my ear as he adoringly whispered: “Now you’re perfect.”

He was right.