Phoebe huddled over the little clay doll, clenching it in her hands and hoping that he felt the constricting tightness of her grip. She wanted to crush him. To boil his blood and grind his bones to dust and dance on his ashes, naked from head to toe, feet blackened with soot and dirt. Nothing short of that would be suitable punishment. Nothing short of that would assuage her anger.
She squeezed the doll until it cracked and crumbled in her hand, turning to dust. She threw the dust on the fire, and watched it flame out. But nothing happened.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Technically, a voodoo doll isn't a homunculus, I don't think. Especially one that doesn't work. Oh well.