70. Dollie—present day #3
“It’s my fault we’re arguing. I’m sorry.” I tremble and sniffle. My sleeve acts as a much-needed tissue. The snot shines under the bright lights as I hold the dress a little higher. “I’ll wear it. I’m sorry. I’ll wear it, and we’ll have a nice dinner with your parents.”
I blink back to the here and now, to the noise in my room as Shane kicks at the bed like a crazy person.
I turn toward the disruption, and as if he feels my eyes on him, he spins my way.
His breath hits me in the face before his hands clutch my hair. The frosting I’ve yet to wash out makes him cringe.
“Frosting? Why the fuck would you have frosting in your stupid pink hair?” He pulls out strands from the roots by the dozen.
My fingers move to my head and the bald spot I now likely have. Yes, I can feel my scalp.
This is your punishment. I hear my mother’s voice, but it’s impossible to see her with Shane’s face so close to mine.
Even as I try to move, he’s with me, nose bumping mine.
“I was making a cake.”
“And you got it all up in your hair?”
“I have a lot on my mind.”
“Like what? Who was the cake even for? Not your freak brother, right?”
“Stop,” I cry out.
“Stop what? Pulling your hair?” He yanks on it that bit harder, pulling out even more strands. “Or insulting your ugly brother?”
“Just stop,” I plead, so much desperation in my tone.
“You’re fucking disgusting, do you know that? And you wonder why I look at other girls. All your ugly scars, all your insecurities?—”
“How can you even say that to me?” I tremble as more hate leaves his mouth.
“Because I don’t fucking care about you anymore. I just don’t fucking give one shit about you!”
No, that was proven years ago, and even as I tremble in the corner, I can’t stop myself from letting him know that I already knew that. “Is that why you sent me a letter from Ambrose, threatening to kill me?”
His hand in my hair tightens enough for him to lift me from the floor and throw me onto the bed. He looms above me, his knees pinning me down. Real fear stops me from fighting back.
I freeze beneath his sweaty body, memories of the last time in the foyer strangle me. I feel his hand wrap around my throat before he touches my neck, and mentally, I need to escape from it. New memories, ones with Ambrose on the sofa, flood my mind.
The way his touch nervously skated up my thigh.
God, Ambrose?—
Shane must see all my thoughts play out on my face because the anger becomes too much. His red cheeks glow as he shoves my phone in my face and spits, “You act so innocent. But you’re nothing but a fucking slut.”
I shake my head, tears leaking from my eyes, because in some way, I feel like he’s right.
“Does he have your number?”
“Ambrose?” I play dumb.
“Don’t say that cunt’s fucking name around me! I don’t want him near you, talking to you. I want him out of your fucking life. Block him, and I’ll block them.”
I can’t even talk to tell him that he’s being ridiculous. That I won’t cut Ambrose—someone I’ve cared about my whole life—out of my life, in exchange for him to do the same with randoms from the internet.
Not now…
Not when I know everything.
Not when I feel the way I do. My heart is with Ambrose. It beats different when I’m with Ambrose.
“BLOCK HIS NUMBER. DON’T SPEAK TO HIM. SEE HIM FOR WHAT HE IS. SCUM!” I jump at the harshness of his tone.
Shane’s hate is still met with my silence, and that results in him reaching for my phone.
I can barely breathe as he taps my screen. Air stalls in my lungs, waiting for him to click on certain messages. Certain emails.
He waves the phone in my face, my contacts screen in my view. He’s typed in Ambrose La’Darragh, and nothing has come up.
“Why isn’t he showing up?”
“I’ve never asked him for his number.”
A big breath leaves me, and a new pain arrives as he throws my phone into my face, and it hits me in the teeth.
“I don’t fucking believe you!” he screams into my ear as I turn my head and cup the pain.
He drags one of the throw pillows to my face, and for a second, I feel like he’s gonna suffocate me. Then his fist rains down, hit after hit, until my head pounds.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten?—
I lose count of how many times the pillow protects me slightly from his brutality, but after a while, he drifts away, leaving the pillow, now soaked by my tears, pressed against my face.
Slowly, I sit up, only to be hit with the blanket as he tosses it back on the bed. He kicks the soda can, and it knocks over the lamp, blowing out the light and leaving me sitting in the glow from the creepy movie.
I need Duggan.
I need a reason to get out of this room.
“What?” he snaps, but I’m not even glancing his way.
“Nothing.” The whisper is so weak, it makes me feel sick with myself. “I just wanna go to bed.”
“What’s the point? We aren’t gonna sleep. We’ll probably just argue more.”
I can’t make him angrier, so I tell him what he wants to hear. “Come on. Get in, please? We won’t argue. It was my fault again. Please, let’s just get some rest.”
The begging from me makes me feel weak, and a deep-rooted hate rolls through my body because of it, but placating him feels like the easiest way to get him to calm down.
“Why should I get in? You don’t want me near you.”
I don’t.
But he isn’t going to leave, or he’d have done it before starting any of this, and I want to be safe.
Pacing while he thinks of it, I ignore my need to rock myself into a place of calm, my eyes roaming for Duggan.
A picture fills my head of him in the den, still cuddled in the comforter.
I wish I were there, too.
Finally, Shane gets in bed, turning off the TV and silencing the creepy movie. With force, he throws the remote toward the wall, but it knocks over a stack of books that are ready to be put back on the bookcase downstairs.
My favorite copy of Pride and Prejudice lies sprawled on the floor, pages open and probably creased. It has survived over two hundred years with no more than age spots until now.
My feelings shift between hurt and anger over my stuff getting damaged because of Shane’s outburst. It bothers me as much as the purple bruises I’ll have on my face tomorrow, but I voice no anger or sorrow as I set my phone on the nightstand.
He huffs as he pulls himself under the covers and turns away from me.
We lie there, facing opposite walls, him letting out heavy breaths of agitation caused by me, and me, trembling because of it.
Hours pass before I glance over my shoulder in the dark room, wondering if Shane has fallen asleep.
Still and quiet, he makes no sound until my feet touch the floor.
His devil senses must alert him to it.
“What are you doing?” he asks, with only a hint of tiredness in his voice.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I reply, with all my pain still trapped in mine. “Is that okay?”
Why on earth did I ask that?
To avoid more trouble.
“Don’t be long. I’ll wait up. I have work tomorrow, and I’m gonna be so fucking tired in the morning because of you.”
Trying to convince him not to do that, I use my bag as an excuse, and I slip out the door, letting darkness guide me through the halls.