57. Dollie—present day #2
And that’s selfish of me.
Avoiding the disgust on my face, he disappears back down the stairs, before returning with a black and red tool kit, and a hoodie that he’d left in the music room. It’s already on his body when he rounds the corner and sets down the toolbox in front of me.
It looks like something a murderer would use to store his weapons safely. Opening it up, he snaps on a pair of gloves and tosses each of us a pair. This is his way of telling us we can’t touch the filthy carpet without them.
Guiding a nosey Bubbles away first, he ejects a razor-sharp blade from its plastic holder and starts sawing through the carpet. Annabelle copies, using a blade that looks the same. She isn’t as fast as Ambrose, who works with strong arms and nimble fingers.
His tight expression tells me so much.
He’s struggling.
Another blade waits for me, but I can barely move, watching him painted up like a pretty clown, gloves on his hands, a blade between his fingers.
I thought I could do this, but I can’t.
He looks like a better version of a bad memory, and I hate him for it as much as I hate what he’s so obviously done last night.
My mind plays tricks, convincing me I can smell it on him. The dirty sex. And it’s where I pass the blame for my rolling stomach.
I blink and find myself somewhere else—a time where there’s no Ambrose, no Annabelle, no Bubbles, just both of my parents bleeding out on this carpet and a bloodstained blade nearby. I can hear a shower running, and I feel like I’m in there, water burning my eyes and running over my skin.
A bark from Bubbles snaps me back to here and now.
You okay? Red lips move slowly.
Fighting the sick feeling, I find my words, but I ask my own question without answering his. And I ask it with a little too much bite as I snap on my gloves. “Did she stay over?”
Ambrose raises an eyebrow, and it disappears beyond his hair.
“Your guest, did she stay over?”
He shakes his head, and his brightly sprayed hair falls into his eyes.
“Liar.”
I’m not lying, he signs .
Turning from me, he continues sawing.
Pieces of the carpet come away.
“He’s lying,” both of my parents say from behind him.
I stand straighter in their presence. “Tell the truth, Ambrose.”
Dropping the blade, he twists, and once again, signs to me, she didn’t stay over.
“So, you didn’t sleep with her?”
In my head, I can see it, see them together.
His naked body moving over her petite form.
Sweat on both of their bodies as their hands move over every curve and every muscle.
Excitement on both of their faces as he rubs his cock between her legs.
The tip disappearing beyond her folds. His expression changes, all his need and desire for her on his face.
His large hands cover her breasts. His mouth collapses on her pouty, open one.
And I can’t take it.
Their moans are in my ears.
I feel his hands on her—on me.
I CAN’T TAKE IT!
I blink back, slapping away his hand on my hip, steadying me.
He’s close enough for me to taste the lies on his lips, only a breath away from mine. I didn’t sleep with her.
His words mean so little because those images are still lingering in my head. I step back.
A cold tear joins the many others that I’ve shed on this carpet. His hand is too slow to catch it.
Another tear falls, and I let out my hate, “What, does your freaky face not do it for her?”
“Dollie!” Annabelle snaps, her glare berating me with questions.
How could you say that?
Why would you say that?
What the fuck is wrong with you?
That last question might have been from my own head, forced there from a place of rationality when Ambrose’s mouth drops open, and he stumbles back like I wounded him.
Annabelle shifts forward, fury coming through gritted teeth. “Go get us something to put the trash in, right now!”
Seeing around her, my eyes stay with Ambrose, not moving, aside from his eyes that drop to the blade. It triggers a strange feeling deep inside me.
It’s fear, but not for myself.
He’s used physical pain so many times to overpower the stuff in his head, like my voice probably on repeat, slandering his image for the first time ever.
“Now, Dollie!”
I jump, Annabelle’s harsh tone catching me off guard.
I do as she asks and slowly make my way down the stairs, listening to her voice as she talks again.
“She didn’t mean that.”
And she’s right, but even as I glance back, I don’t apologize. I can’t bring myself to go back up there and see the pain I caused him still on his face.
Minutes later, I return with some heavy-duty trash bags that are snatched from my hands when I offer them to Ambrose.
I don’t blame him for his frustration, which has mostly been taken out on the bloodstained carpet that’s been pried from the floorboards, revealing matching stains below.
Nausea rolls in my stomach, and the taste of yesterday’s dinner climbs my throat. I look away from the horror scene before me, and my eyes catch the wall. The sneers shine down on us like judgment. But it’s the more recent hate on the wall that glares at me.
“What the hell is that?”
My fingers roam over the carved words, and I know, even a dozen layers of paint isn’t going to fix it.
I didn’t touch her, but I can fuck anyone I want, Dollie.
Blood runs cold in my veins.
“Why the fuck would you do that?”
“Anger?” Annabelle answers for Ambrose, who continues shredding the carpet.
“Didn’t you think to stop him?”
“I told him it was a bad idea.”
“A bad idea? Casual sex is a bad idea! Carving that you can fuck who you please into the walls where I live is so much more than a bad idea. What do you think Shane will think when he sees my name there?”
Ambrose shrugs.
Does he not realize the risk of retaliation that message could cause.
I’m already shaking, something inside telling me this will be bad.
My palms start to sweat. Fear brings anger to the surface, and that sweat turns cold.
My head shakes like my body, and I snap.
“You know what, you can fuck yourself! That’s what you can do! I don’t even know why I thought we could be friends. I can’t wait to sell this place, and move away and get married, and forget that you fucking exist.”
“Dollie, calm down.” Annabelle drops her blade as she tries to reason with me, but it doesn’t work.
Pink hair sticks to my face, blocking what I see as Ambrose takes his knife to the wall again.
Following the blade with my eyes, my mouth drops when I see he isn’t scribbling out the words. He’s writing more—a bigger and clearer message.
“No… No!” I run at him, pulling at his arm to try and stop the huge letters from forming a sentence, but he shrugs me off, and I fall to the floor. To the bloodstains.
A quick look back, and our eyes meet, tears flowing from mine. Something like regret shines in his eyes, but he doesn’t stop, capping his sentence with an exclamation mark.
Annabelle rubs my back as my sobbing rocks my body.
Done with his destruction, Ambrose tosses the knife at the wall, and it stays there, embedded in the plaster.
I stand on shaking legs and return to his words, barely able to read them, as I struggle through the blur of tears.
YOU AREN’T SELLING OUR HOUSE.
AND YOU CERTAINLY AREN’T MARRYING THAT CUNT!
Annabelle, with her hand still on my back, reads the message aloud, and I crumble. My knees weaken, taking me to the floor, and I slump where Dad took his last breath.
“He’s gonna be so mad. He’s gonna be so mad. I don’t know what to do. When he comes home?—”
Anger steps aside, fear ruling me once more.
“It’ll be fine. I can be here with you when he comes home.” Annabelle tries to soothe me.
“You have work tomorrow, and we don’t even know when he’s coming home.” I sob into my hands, muffling the sound.
“Maybe Ambrose will be here.”
That no longer feels like a good thing.
“I know you guys are mad at each other right now, but I don’t know why or where this all came from. You’ve been so close lately. Always there when you need each other.”
“Too close.”
I need to get away from this place, and my legs realize that before my brain.
“Go and take a shower or something and calm down. I’ll order you a boba. It’ll help calm your nerves.”
No, Annabelle, not even a boba will work today, I think to myself as I step back from Annabelle and Ambrose, from my parents standing behind Ambrose and his awful words. My feet move faster and faster until I make it to my room. I slam my door and run to grab my phone from the bed where I left it.
Still no messages.
I text my own, and hope I have time to fix the hallway before Shane shows up.
Dollancie:
Hey! Where are you?
But after another ten minutes, he still doesn’t answer.