65. Ambrose—present day
Ambrose—present day
C rouched over, the strong scent of vomit rises up and burns my nose. Stomach lining and a few of those mushy potatoes from yesterday fill the sink.
The early morning light is blinding, and my eyes are bloodshot as I lift them to the bathroom mirror.
That swirling feeling comes again with kick after kick inside my stomach from my guilty conscience.
Another wave ejects from me, and I twist the tap to dilute the mess I made.
Even the fastest setting and coldest water struggles, leaving yellow and brown covering the porcelain until I splash it around with one hand.
What the fuck were you thinking? I grill myself in the silence I’m so familiar with.
I should never have touched her like that.
It was so wrong.
Mom would be disappointed. Dad would be fuming, out for blood, even.
I haven’t slept all night, too many thoughts running through my head.
She’s your sister.
It’s a real shame my mind didn’t mention that all those thoughts hours ago, before I insisted Dollie fall asleep on me. Before that, when I slid my fingers inside her, and threw away my big brother title. Before I told her how much I wanted her.
With actual fucking words.
All the fears that kept me quiet for two-thirds of my life were vacated from my mind in that moment, my morals gone, too. A new voice was talking, telling me that she needs to know how I feel.
That it would change everything.
That we could be happy.
And yet, all I feel right now is guilt.
The shit that goes on in my head would be hard to explain to anyone. Even I don’t understand how a silent threat on Dollie’s life, from a demented part of my past, has kept me quiet for close to nineteen years, only to evaporate into history because lust took over.
Unbelievable.
But it was nice to have my brain on my side for once.
There were no screams of Dollie being hurt, no fear of someone breaking in and murdering her in front of me.
God, that would never even fucking happen.
I itch just thinking about it, the skin on one hand turning red below my nails. Beads of blood prickle at the surface of my skin as I think of the cries that have echoed too loudly in my mind, of her crying while being raped in the next room.
None of it happened last night when I opened my mouth.
I talked, and she was still safe.
A sigh of relief comes, then a hiccup that tastes like those potatoes.
Leaning in toward the water, I tilt my head and let it run down my throat, washing away the taste of vomit as I gargle and then spit.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Her scent is long gone, and yet somehow, it lingers on my fingers, intoxicating me. I feel myself harden, and the guilt creeps back.
She’s your fucking sister.
The scent of roses and chocolate, with a little hint of popcorn, drifts into the bathroom.
Goosebumps creep up my arms, and that thought slips away.
I need Dollie…in every way.
I turn too fast for my bad leg to handle, stumbling a little.
The giddy feeling inside me is present for two reasons, one of them—excitement—disappearing instantly when I see her.
“Ambrose?” There’s a look of concern on Dollie’s features, but it’s the distance in her eyes that grabs my attention.
Can I talk to her again? Will something bad happen?
Answer her, or you’ll lose her forever.
I limp forward.
“Are you okay?” I use my mouth, but my hands still move.
“I think I did something awful.” Her eyes remain cold, almost lifeless in their glossy state. “Oh, God. I think I’ve done something terrible.”
Wiping sweaty hands down her inherited hoodie, her fingers linger on the material.
I take her in through squinted eyes as she begins rocking on the spot.
Something is really fucking wrong.
What is it, Dollie? Are you okay? I mouth.
What the fuck happened between now and ten minutes ago, when I lifted her off me and returned her to the sofa and the comforter she’d been hogging.
“I had a bad dream. But I feel like it was real, like a memory that—” The amount of tears welling in her eyes multiply, falling down her cheeks in twos and threes when she blinks. “God, I did something so bad.” A heartbreaking cry comes out with the words.
I feel it in my chest, a pressure that no amount of rubbing can rid. I stop and reach for her, hands brushing her pretty pink hair from her face.
“You can’t touch me.” She bats me away, stepping back and falling into the door frame before weak legs take her to the floor. “How can you even touch me?”
A heavy feeling in my chest grows, making each breath harder. I lower to my haunches, that painful joint clicking, and I return to the comfort of silence, hands moving. Do you have regrets?
Her head shakes rapidly, pink hair flying everywhere. “No, but you should hate me. God, I fucking hate me.”
The light coating of sweat protests as I try once more to brush it from her face, stray strands clinging to her cheeks.
More tears fall.
“I don’t hate you. I worship the air you breathe.” I struggle with the whispered words.
Tilting her chin, her lips move in my view, but no sound comes out.
“Memories can’t hurt you.” I realize what a lie this is as soon as it comes out of my mouth.
“This one did. This one really did. I hurt me. I think I hurt them.”
I take her tiny hands, giving them a gentle squeeze in mine.
She’s too close to the truth—to the edge of insanity.
“I’m sorry,” her words call my eyes back to hers. “I’m so sorry for what I put you through. What I did?—”
“No, you don’t have to be sorry for anything.” I struggle with the words, but I mean them all the same.
“I do. I do. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t get to live on like everything is normal.”
“It was a dream, Dollie.”
“It was a memory. I can feel it. I can smell them. I can hear Dad begging me not to hurt Mom.”
Dollie’s hands cover her face, hiding the sadness.
“And when do you think you hurt them?” I whisper gently, because I can’t lie to her, but I’m reluctant to unearth any traumatic memories that will do nothing but shatter her mind.
Her hands peel away, but her eyes stay downcast, avoiding me.
“That night. I think I killed Mom and Dad, and I think you took the blame?—”
“Mom and Dad died because of their own neglect. What happened was awful, but we aren’t to blame.” I whisper the words she desperately needs to hear.
“We aren’t. I am. Aren’t I?”
“I’ve already answered that.” I kiss her hair.
Dollie’s words come out so fast they’re hard to understand. “You bought her favorite flow—flowers for their anniversary. You remembered what they were. I couldn’t, not until I sa—saw them.”
Dad would get them for her all the time. I look down as I sign the words, hoping dark lashes will hide the glossiness in my eyes, only for her words to drag my gaze back to her.
“You loved them.”
I did. But you loved them, too. Not remembering a favorite flower means shit, Dollie. I continue signing since my throat aches.
“I spent my whole life wanting your affection. Needing you. Depending on you. But I can never have you.”
I think we’re past the we can’t do this stage. I still have dry cum on my T-shirt, for fuck’s sake. So far beyond that, I mouth.
“They wouldn’t like us together, and you deserve someone so much better than me.”
“There isn’t someone better for me.” I struggle with the words as my fingers weave through bushy hair. I slump to the floor, and pull her up onto my lap and against my chest. “I don’t relax without you around. I need you, too. It’s just how we are. They didn’t understand it, ” I whisper in her ear.
I hold her tighter, shielding myself from that look still in her eyes.
Dollie’s fight to get away from me returns but dwindles, as her painted fingers claw at me, desperate to get somehow closer. I rub over her back in the spot she hit against the doorframe.
She sinks into my hold, fingers slowing but still moving on my sleeve. “I need you, too. I always need you.”
Her head tips back, eyes meeting mine for a second. Before they drift away.
“Do you hate me?” she asks, with so much panic in her voice that it terrifies me.
What? No. I guide her far enough away from me for her to watch my lips, it was a drea ? —
“I wasn’t talking to you. I know you love me. I felt it last night. And that’s how I know you took the blame for me.” Her hand graces my face with the softest touch. “I was talking to them.”
Turning around to face what she’s pointing to over my shoulder, I see nothing but shadows from the bathroom accessories in this room.
Dollie’s lips tremble, her teeth chattering. She isn’t cold beneath her hoodie. Heat from her body seeps through onto my hand.
Her grip on me tightens, her whole body rattling in my arms.
“You weren’t you, not to me. I don’t know what happened.” She coughs. “I’m so sorry.” There’s a pause as she stares into the distance. “I am sorry.”
Her fingers move between us, rubbing her chest while I focus on her back to rid the rattling in her chest.
The crying makes her breathing sound worse.
She chokes on a sob, her hand quickly moving to her mouth, acting as a shield for me from her germs.
“I am so sorry.”
Still, I see nothing in this room with us…
just like I didn’t see that crocodile all those years ago in the basement that kept us cold and isolated.
Like those little girl ghosts before him and the monster that lurked in Dollie’s room.
Like the clown that crept in late at night as we slept in her dome as teenagers.
Mom said it was bad dreams. Dad went as far as night terrors.
I knew differently.
I knew Dollie was awake when she saw all those things.
I knew magic rituals wouldn’t work, but I let her believe they’d keep her safe when she found a spell book on the old shelves. I sat in salt circles and organized crystals for her when times were scariest.
I never communicated it to my parents because I didn’t trust them to keep her safe.
And then it was too late.
They were gone.