48. Dollie—age seven
Dollie—age seven
I hold tightly around Ambrose’s neck, worrying I’m hurting his scars.
It seems to bother him more when I touch his shoulders where his clothes are melted to him, but the scar on his neck is still red and angry-looking, thick and cord-like beneath my fingers.
It doesn’t feel comforting as I move my fingers along each ridge.
I loosen slightly, and he pulls me closer.
His head shakes, his long hair falling into his eyes, indicating no, that I need to be close.
Heavy skies surround us, the clouds looking ready to drop a blanket of snow. We drift through trees that block the wind from getting to us, but the cold makes it through. We both pant out foggy breaths.
A noise in the distance sounds like a man’s voice—it’s sweeter and more sickly than usual, but it’s definitely Chuckles.
“Will he find us?” I wonder aloud.
Ambrose’s shoulders lift and fall, and his longer strands of hair touch them.
Taking bigger sections and brushing off clinging snowflakes, I ask, “Can I play with your hair?”
He nods, his face sad.
“I used to feel happy when Mom would do my hair.”
Paying me little attention, his bare feet land in deep snow below us, and he hisses. Giant steps take us farther away, and Chuckles’ voice fades out.
Ambrose’s chest pounds against me, his breathing heavy in my ears as we move.
His hair sticks to his face. I peel it back with sticky hands. I’m freezing but sweating. Mommy always said her hands got sweaty when she was nervous. A twinge of excitement crawls over me. I might see her and Daddy today.
That feeling disappears quickly, and my nerves return…because I might not.
It’s a struggle now to see Chuckles’ house in the distance. It’s getting smaller and smaller.
The house doesn’t look scary from here, where the long grass peeps through the snow and tickles my feet. With a white picket fence, blending in with the snow, and the neighboring rooftops peeping over snowy hills nearby, the place we leave behind doesn’t look like a monster’s home.
It looks quiet and new, and there’s the sound of children playing in the distance.
“There’s a playground over there.” I tuck my face into Ambrose’s neck, so close that the only thing I see is the sheen on his glistening skin.
The cold holds onto him. His scars pull tighter as he cranes his neck to see other children running around the swings that look so small from here, throwing snowballs at each other.
His hold grows tighter, his feet still moving fast in a direction that’s both away from the house and the playground.
I keep my legs locked around his waist as we run away from the graying clouds surrounding Chuckles’ home and casting shadows.
It looks a little creepier now.
A shiver runs down my back, and Ambrose’s fingers brush it away.
His breathing picks up as we make it to the road, more houses scattered in the distance.
My breathing picks up and matches my brother’s, seeing a vehicle’s lights cut through the mist.
“Strangers.” All my fear shows in my strangled voice.
“Hey!” The owner of the voice is somewhere between a man and a boy. His face is young, but his hand, tapping on the side of the truck, is huge. Those fingers could close around our tiny throats, and those big arms scream of his strength.
The braid I’ve been working on in Ambrose’s hair slips from my fingers, but I find another dark clump of hair to soothe myself as I stare at the guy who leans out of the passenger side window.
“Run faster.” My whisper kisses Ambrose’s neck.
He nods in agreement, feeling me tremble in his arms.
“We don’t know them. They could be bad. We can’t talk to anyone who isn’t Mommy or Daddy.” I’ll never do it again and make Ambrose mad like last time.
An almost silent sob comes from my brother.
“Right?”
His fingers close and then splay, speaking silently to me.
The truck pulls in front of us, and my brother slams to a stop. The only parts of him moving are chattering teeth and the heart hitting my ribs every time it pounds. I pivot enough to see his wide eyes behind strands of his hair.
“Hey, you guys need some help?” the guy with big arms calls out to us again, and he has the voice to match.
He jumps from the truck, his heavy boots leaving prints in the snow as he steps forward.
Each step is so loud to me, worse than the roaring engine.
I tuck myself back into Ambrose and cover my ears.
But I still hear so much.
“They’re those missing kids.” The girl in the driver’s seat calls out. “Don’t let them get away.”
“I just want to help,” the guy says, and I spin a little, taking note of his hands up because I can’t tell from his face if he’s lying.
My eyes stall on his shirt. The blue checkered pattern and the sleeves rolled up to his elbow feel familiar in some way. I search through memories, and so many horrible things fill my mind, but Chuckles never ever wore checkered shirts. He was always in polka dots and stripes.
The shirt looks like one Daddy wears.
“He’s wearing Daddy’s shirt! It’s a sign.”
My words mean nothing to Ambrose as his bare feet edge backward—one step, two steps, three steps, sprint.
“Stop!” I try again.
He shakes his head. His body is tiring, but he continues just at a slower pace.
Four people jump from the truck, leaving it empty and running, with all the doors open. One girl is dressed in an open coat and a dress that is much cleaner than mine, and I like the white frills along the bottom and how it looks with her ankle boots.
Worry fills my head over the germs on my dress, pressed against Ambrose’s skin. They’ll hurt his mind. It’ll be my fault.
I don’t want to hurt him.
I never want to hurt him.
Pulling my thoughts away, I look at the two teenage boys catching up and the girls behind, the one in the pretty dress running our way too, and the driver hanging around by her truck, talking to someone on her phone.
I can’t make out what she says because my eyes move to her truck. The fancy pinkish color makes me smile.
I don’t notice the guys are in touching distance until their shadows stand over me.
I don’t notice the snow wetting my dress or the backs of my legs.
I only see Ambrose.
“You listened.” I smile at him, sitting below me on the ground. His grip loosens slightly.
My eyes move to him, the pretty heart in his eyes disappearing as they roll in his head, and his body falls away from mine. “Ambrose? Ambrose!”