26. Dollie—present day
Dollie—present day
S itting against the door, my faithful spot of trauma handling, I lose track of the words I’m screaming. They no longer make sense to even my own ears.
He can’t be here.
I can’t stay here.
My ramblings turn to sobs as I rock myself, needing something to stabilize my emotions.
I twist into the door, my fingers moving over the shiny wood. It’s not enough—not soft or comforting enough to relax me.
I reach for my sock. There’s a thin satin bow on the side, and it grants minor relief. I pull them back up over my knees to stop me from having to stretch.
Something catches under my foot as I bring my knees close to my chest. It’s a note shoved under the door. One, I have to read through tears.
They make the fresh ink run as they splatter on the page.
He’s such a fucking liar—it’s a man thing. Or it’s an all-the-men-close-to-me thing.
He’d never hurt me. Bullshit, because he’d told me how he’d do it in very graphic detail in the last letter he wrote.
Does he not remember that?
Like, he doesn’t remember what he did to our parents.
A memory hits me over the head, and it feels like a brick.
“Oh, my god!”
Dad’s blood covers my fingers as my hands pump his chest.
It’s too late, and he’s already ghostly pale. Red covers his body, and the blood drying on his pajamas is hardening under my touch.
My wet hair drips on his face as it hangs around me.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him as I wipe the droplet away.
He stares up at me. His blank expression feels like something I’ll take to my own grave.
I shake, failing to revive him because he’s already gone. My heart breaks as I collapse against his chest.
Trembling hands close around my shoulders, and Ambrose pulls me into his chest.
With my arms held up, I keep my bloody hands away from him, though he’s already covered. His fingers splay on my back, holding us pressed against each other.
“What happened?” My words break through a cry, and I create a small distance between us.
“A psychotic break. I don’t know,” he mouths silently, loss in his eyes. It’s not just for our parents. A tear falls from his pretty eyes, and he asks, “Run with me?”
Freezing, I’m not sure what to say. We should wait and speak to the police.
Sirens fill the air, sounding above both of us as we cry over our loss.
I catch a glimpse of the words on the wall, written in blood. Mom slumps nearby, as pale as Dad. Her face has permanent devastation laced around each pretty feature. Blood runs between her breasts from a thick gash across her throat…
Like the one promised to me.
My head hurts. The image of my parents on the bloody carpet morphs into black and white tiles. No blood or bodies upon them. I’m back in the bathroom, nursing a sharp pain in my temple, brought forth by bad memories and a rush of tears. I rub at it.
My eyes close for a second, and I see the bloody words again, “YOU FUCKING CLOWNS.”
I tremble against the wood, and it calls the attention of the dog on the other side.
Her paws scratch at the door, and she makes a small noise.
Images of Ambrose fill my head, and I fear opening the door when he’s here, dressed like that. Like a fucking clown with big red lips, diamond eyes, and that wet blue-green hair dripping in his face. For some reason, it’s scarier tonight without Shane’s hands around my throat.
I call out with a shaky voice, “Ambrose?”
Hope flutters when I don’t hear him move on the other side, and relief washes over me when all I do hear is another small whine from his dog—my dog.
Peeling the door open, I peek around. My brother is nowhere to be seen in the brightly lit kitchen, and Bubbles has no intention of staying there by herself. She comes charging into the room with me.
Like he said, my phone is on the floor flashing with messages, probably from Annabelle. I pull it into the room with us and use my body as a weak barricade, slumping back against the door.
Bubbles lingers at my feet, her pretty eyes watching my every move as I type rapidly to Annabelle, who’s sent a list of questions about Ambrose being home.
And all I can say is.
Dollie:
How can he be home?
She doesn’t have an answer. All she has are more questions that she fires at me on a quick call during an escape from dinner with her work friends. I end the call, promising to call if I get scared, but the second she’s off the phone, fear wraps around me, and I break that promise.
It isn’t fair for me to keep her on the phone.
But I need someone to talk to.
Lucky…
I’d like to say I managed to get a good night’s sleep last night, but it would be a lie. Ambrose stayed true to his word and didn’t bother me—well, not outside of knowing that he’s here, in this house, dressed like a fucking clown.
The death threat from all those years ago taunted me until way past midnight, staying loud in the bright room as I tried to relax enough to sleep. But how could I sleep when he’s living here? Him, a clown who’d threatened me.
I thought tears would have dried my eyes shut.
It didn’t happen.
And I look awful because of it today, with puffy eyes and blotchy skin.
Silently, I can’t help but wonder if that’s why Bubbles is avoiding me by playing in the yard when it’s as cold as it is.
She’s been out there for more than an hour now, chasing long-legged bugs that fly across the dank background of weeds and destroyed garden gnomes. In that time, I’ve barely found the energy to move.
After a night on the bathroom floor, each limb aches as I stretch on the chaise lounge.
The only thing that gets me moving is Ambrose strolling into the room with his permanent limp.
Every scar is on show, thanks to his topless display.
The ones on his face look fresh beneath his painted skin. The ones on his body definitely are.
The image of him makes me tremble, and I rush back to the bathroom before he nears me.
Gray sweatpants are the only thing he’s wearing, aside from a double band-aid below his elbow.
He’s probably cut too deep. I try to focus on the old childlike band-aids and not how the sweats hang low on his hips as he slips into the kitchen.
He lingers in there and makes Bubbles some breakfast, paying little attention to me, hiding in the bathroom, as he takes it outside.
With him out of view, I move from my position of peeking around the door to the mirror. And discover my image is definitely the reason Bubbles wants little to do with me. She isn’t even bothered by the clown makeup or self-abuse all over Ambrose’s face.
But I am… why are those scars fresh? Why has he butchered himself?
“God, why do you care?” I ask the mirror as I plaster on concealer thickly.
As if someone above is punishing me, my boob blasts me with pain, reminding me of the lump I’ve tried to forget.
A noise rings out in the kitchen, and I spin to see if it’s my parents judging me, but it’s just Ambrose as he grabs a water from the fridge and moves to the kitchen wall, doing something strange with the skirting boards.
As if he feels he’s being watched, he turns to me and pretends to be brushing away a little dust.
God, I don’t even know him anymore. The Ambrose I knew would never have touched that stuff.
With barely a smile, those fresh cuts are cracking and bleeding through the white paint. Then he’s gone back through the dining room and heading upstairs.
Bubbles’ whining speaks of her disappointment as she peeks through the open door.
There is little point in me going to her, given her avoidance of me and my unsightly face, so I stay at the mirror, examining today’s temporary flaws.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Shane:
Can we talk?
Please.
I am sorry, you know.
I miss you so much.
None of this stuff will ever happen again. I haven’t even reported your brother because I thought you wouldn’t want that.
You have to talk to me at some point. How are we gonna work things out? I booked the venue you wanted.
A lingering stare stays on my phone, the messages from Shane taunting me for minutes on end as I look down at the device resting on the bathroom sink.
Shock keeps my mouth hanging low.
He’s booked the venue. Is he kidding?
Shaking my head in disbelief, I move my eyes to the mirror. The image that makes me cringe still awaits. I’d look away if the concealer to hide the purple under my eyes were already blended.
The puffy pink blender and the cheap makeup brand I’m using don’t mix well, and I fail miserably in my attempt at making myself look presentable.
I sigh and pat a little harder.
Another buzz pulls my attention back to my phone. My whole-body tenses and then relaxes when I see it’s not another message from Shane.
Seeing the message from Lucky lifts my mood.
We’d talked last night, but it was just a load of random facts that I looked up online while unable to get comfortable enough to sleep on the bathroom floor.
He doesn’t know who I am or what my story is.
He thinks I’m some girl from the internet who looked cute while dressed like a bear.
So, I didn’t wanna terrify him by telling him that my brother is home after a prison sentence for murdering our family.
In return, Lucky sent a few facts back.
They were relatively boring ones, but I’m really starting to appreciate him.
A smile lifts my lips as I click his message.
We’ve evolved from app messages to texts, given that we’re still talking to each other.
For a minute, I forget all my stresses, even the lump that’s been excessively painful this morning.
Lucky:
Good morning, Dollie Daydream.
Dollancie:
Is that a new nickname for me?
Lucky:
I’m testing it out.
Dollancie:
Where did it come from?
Lucky:
Other than me daydreaming about you constantly?
Dollancie:
Revealing all your cards so early is poor game.
Hahaa!
Setting aside all that bothers me—Ambrose and Shane—I focus on Lucky.
Lucky:
Well, ‘I would always rather be happy than dignified.’
You make life that little more livable.
Dollancie: