4. Dollie—present day #2
Any of it.
But it’s clawing at me, dragging me back in time for the first time ever. And then I’m in my house, trying to piece together broken memories.
A flash shows Ambrose in my room. I sit up in bed.
The sheets pool at my waist, but my focus is on his face and the scars that give him a permanent smile.
He’s deathly pale, which isn’t his natural coloring.
He holds a phone in a bloody hand, and it looks like the one that belongs to Dad.
My phone buzzes on my nightstand, and he nods for me to answer it.
There’s a sadness in his eyes that almost pulls me from my bed.
Another flash before I get to him, and then I’m crouched at the side of my parents’ bodies, screaming hysterically.
A bloody hand locks in mine, sticking us together, trying to pull me from the scene.
I stare down at my phone in my lap as it falls to the ground.
The bang is white noise. The message that came from Dad’s phone, but not from Dad, stares up at me on the bloodstained screen.
We have to leave now.
I whip around, my vision blurred with tears, barely making out Ambrose and his hand in mine, pulling me from the reason for my despair.
Another flash has a cop in my face, asking questions I can’t answer.
Then another, and Ambrose is in the police car, ready for the drive away. It was the last time I saw him.
“Lancie, come on.” Shane’s hand touches my thigh, pulling me back to reality. “Let’s not get heated over that fucking monster.”
The nickname I hate lingers in my head as Ambrose’s perfect face morphs into William’s frown.
He never looked like a monster, even with all those scars.
Blinking him away completely, I bat Shane away and shoot him a warning glance, just in case the flush on my cheeks doesn’t alert him to my building anger.
“I don’t want to be touched right now, and this isn’t a conversation I want to have over dinner.”
“You’re not even eating.”
“I don’t feel well.” Once again, stomach issues prevent anyone from asking questions.
“As soon as I’m done, we’ll hit the road.” Shane returns to his steak, his knife sawing through the semi-raw meat until blood leaks out on his plate.
Avoiding their eyes on me from the other side of the table, Miranda and William’s lingering stares make me feel as if they are waiting for me to say something. So, despite my knowing it’ll annoy Shane, I do.
“Ambrose wasn’t well.” My words are so cold for the boy who once gave me all his warmth…
then took it away. But that doesn’t change his history.
He’d spent years in an institution, battling demons and painful memories of clowns.
“He had no idea what he was doing, clearly. He wouldn’t have hurt them if he did.
He loved our parents. I know that. The only thing I don’t know is why he threatened me.
We had always been a safe space for each other, and that changed everything. ”
“You think it was completely out of character for the murderer to threaten to murder you?” One of William’s eyebrows climbs almost to the top of his bald head.
I keep my trembling hands under the table so no one sees just how edgy I’ve become. The thread on my glove keeps me in the moment as I talk, the soft feel calming me slightly.
“Yes. It was out of character.” But it still terrifies me, and it still created a void inside me that sucked away all my hope, all my dreams, and left me feeling vulnerable and lonely.
“You almost sound like you still care about him?” Shane asks this question too often, and ever since the very first time, it always straightens my spine with nerves because he never likes the answer.
“He isn’t someone I can hate, Shane. I’ve tried.”
“I just assumed you’d hate him after that letter.”
The one and only letter I ever got from Ambrose that warned he’d slit my throat when he got out if I ever contacted him.
“I don’t hate him. I’m just afraid of what he’s become in that place.”
“Before that place,” Shane corrects me. “He was scum before prison. A murderer, Lancie.”
Tears burn my eyes over both his words and his nickname for me.
Seeing my upset building, Shane pulls back.
But before I can relax, Miranda pipes up again. “Shane is right. He probably won’t even want the house. So, don’t worry about him right now. But if you have to contact him, outside of a lawyer?—”
“Which I will, because of money.” I swipe the tear that falls, remembering all the times someone else’s hand did it with a much gentler touch.
Ambrose .
“Then you won’t have to do it alone. It’s not safe for you. Now come on, no more talk about murderers or money when we’re out for a nice day.” Shane smiles a false smile.
I hate it, and I play with my ring again, those same thoughts and feelings rushing back for the third time.
“As I was saying, just tell him about all the vandalism. He probably won’t want to return then.” Miranda is literally just using Shane’s words to continue the conversation I don’t want.
And I can’t help but retaliate.
“Those are cruel taunts and will be gone long before his release date. I’ll be making a formal complaint to the town when we arrive.
They don’t just affect Ambrose. They’re about me, too.
And there is no one in that town who can think that what that creep did to us is okay.
It wasn’t okay. What Ambrose went through daily was not okay.
Me having to bring him back to life as a terrified seven-year-old was not okay, and by allowing that awful graffiti, the town is promoting our abuse.
It’s a joke. And driving through that place and the idea of going back gives me chills.
” I collect my wild emotions, reigning them in to prevent people at nearby tables from hearing my life story.
“What happened to both of you was terrible. And you use that as an excuse for his behavior. It shouldn’t be, but you’ve done it many?—”
Nope, she doesn’t get more opinions on this.
“He’s a person who suffered a psychological break, Miranda, and he did something he’ll regret for the rest of his life.
I know him enough to know that. And for that, he isn’t welcome home, but if you’re a child abuser, you’re celebrated with artwork all over town?
Where is the sense? Tell me, in your professional opinion, where is the sense? ”
She, who works with those with mental health struggles, stays silent. Finally.
“It all happened because of him. Without that freak, my parents would be alive, and I wouldn’t be terrified of my brother. I’m done with this conversation, and I’d appreciate it not being brought back up again.”
“Personally, I think some things shouldn’t be forgiven.” Miranda chastises. “And as I tried to say earlier, but you interrupted, trauma isn’t an excuse for his evil behavior. That’s my professional opinion.”
Well, that shows how much she knows.
I sit silently, with flaring nostrils showing my agitation, because I have no words.
I gulp my glass of water, mostly to avoid the urge to dump it over Miranda, and I look away from her over-washed sweater dress.
Birds chirp at the window, making me smile as I admire their pretty colors.
Staying silent, I sit back in my chair and try to relax while the others finish.
As expected, the rest of dinner is back to our usual interactions, meaning blanket silence until it’s over and we travel our separate ways.
Anxiety washes over me as soon as I slump into the passenger side of Shane’s car.
The bumpy ride home is quiet for half of the journey, and I wait for him to lose his patience.
I break that silence. “You in a bad mood?”
“I’m fine. Are you?”
“No, but don’t ever ask me to do that again.”
“I’m sorry. I guess you’re still stressed about that lump?”
“I’m stressed because today has been awful. Dinner was awful.”
“Yeah. I am sorry dinner was uncomfortable for you.”
Wanting to keep the conversation away from my past and an argument from brewing, I make light of the situation and say, “I kinda knew it was off to a bad start when your mom was trying to set you up with the woman she’s clearly attracted to.”
A side glance hits me, staying on my face for so long that I shrink in my seat with discomfort. “She wasn’t trying to do that.”
Because she never does anything wrong, right? I don’t ask that. We both know she does a lot wrong.
All I say is, “Eyes on the road.”
Shane pulls my hand from the center of my lap and squeezes. My fingers don’t close around his hand in return, and he says nothing about the glove he’s so familiar with.
“Come on, let’s not fight again. Tomorrow is the start of the rest of our lives. We fix up that big house, buy another somewhere in the suburbs, and have the wedding of our dreams.”
“Right now, I’d kinda rather elope. No guests and no reason to go home.” Or maybe just not get married.
“You don’t want a big event with all our family and friends.”
“I don’t have either of those things. I have one friend in the whole world, and I never see her. Let’s elope.”
“Tempting, but…” he trails off without ever finishing the sentence. “You’ll be fine, and you’ll have a family once we tie the knot.”
Another reassuring squeeze, and everything is all better. Except it isn’t…and a clawing feeling in my chest—anxiety or something else—tells me things will only get worse once I arrive home.
Shane pulls over on the quiet road, and I wonder if this is it, the moment he finally shows some compassion, finally notices me and my struggles, or if it’s because his phone is constantly buzzing beyond the radio.
Pulling it out of his pocket, he checks his messages. His eyes stay on them, scrolling, as he says, “Look, I’m sorry for what happened at the apartment, too. Sometimes, I just feel like you hate my parents.”
Figuring the message is from them, I don’t ask.
“Sometimes, you hate your parents,” I remind him. “And you hate my brother, too. We’re even,” I tease. “And I don’t actually hate them. It’s definitely the other way around. I can feel it.”
“Is that with your witchy ways?” Shane finally tucks the phone away.
“Don’t be an ass.”
Shane thinks my love of Wicca is a phase, but it’s one I haven’t grown out of for fifteen years.
“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes on me, and if I could look right into them, I’m sure they’d be as lust-filled as his voice.
“You’re not forgiven just yet.”
“Oh, no? What do I have to do to be forgiven? This?” He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his lap.
The tenting of his jeans makes it obvious he’s aroused.
His lips find my neck, kissing and suckling sensitive areas. His fingers find my breast, but only through my dress and padded bra. I close my eyes to the hints of sensation. My fingers grip his shoulders, encouraging him to give me more than he does.
This won’t get me off.
Another kiss touches between my jaw and throat, and he grunts, dragging down his pants and shorts.
The noise grates at my senses, and I picture him differently—a silent lover.
Within seconds, a condom slides over his length, and my panties are pulled to the side.
Guided into position, I close my eyes. Images of scarred hands and lips exploring my body, guiding me down on his, fill my mind as I take the first couple of inches.
My dress tickles Shane’s hips as I rock slightly, waiting for feelings of arousal to catch up.
Guilt gets there first.
These thoughts shouldn’t be in my head.
But they won’t leave, comforting me as Shane slams into me rough and fast when I need slow and hard.
I envision that. Slow and hard and deep. And a different man.
Those scarred hands move up over my hips and slip under my dress. The most unique eyes show no disgust over my imperfections.
I stare down at the man before me, and I picture Ambrose. Ambrose, who wants me dead.
And that does something to me, and I start to feel the arousal Shane feels.
As he touches me, kisses me, and grinds our bodies together, I ache for another man and come apart with him buried inside me. Seconds later, the condom fills, and Shane’s thrusting comes to an end.
Like he can’t wait for us to part, he lifts me off him, leaving me alone with my thoughts as I drop back into the passenger seat.
Gazing out the window, gray clouds surround us at the side of the road. The site is depressing, but it’s more appealing than Shane’s sudden fascination with a full condom.
Ignoring all he says about how full it is, I wait for him to tuck himself in, and then he says, “Fresh start tomorrow. Things will be good from now on. No more arguments.”
“Huh-uh…” is all I manage as I swallow down my guilt.
The fantasy of Ambrose doesn’t happen every time Shane and I get intimate, only when we’ve argued.
But I feel all that will get worse when I go home, and Shane’s attention is on his phone and all the games he plays on it.
That house terrifies me. I’m not sure how I’ll handle being there, and the memories of Ambrose will be all that’ll be there to comfort me.