72. Ambrose—age eighteen
Ambrose—age eighteen
T he bright foyer lights strain my eyes, making me wish I’d taken the tunnels back to Dollie’s room as I head for the stairs.
I’d used them no less than two minutes ago to come and select a book for us to read.
After scanning each title three times and still not feeling drawn to one, I sighed and gave up.
I’ll bring Dollie down once I’m sure Mom and Dad are asleep, and I’ll let her pick.
I’ll also warn her about the rancid metallic stench that’s appeared down here. I can’t help but wonder if it’s anything to do with Dollie’s new friend, because that scrawny kid was drenched in some kinda cologne that smelled awful.
The smell worsens as I make it halfway up the stairs.
The gargoyle that I missed like it’s an extra family member greets me for the second time tonight as I approach the top. He becomes part of a squinted view when a smile scrunches up my face.
Despite the lingering issues between my parents and me, and the fact that Dollie now has Shane, it’s good to be home.
My eyes widen at the scene behind the stone figure as I reach the top. My stomach drops at the sight of red splatters staining the new carpet. I forget how soft it feels beneath my toes as the stains grow. Blood leaks out from a gash that cuts through Dad’s bed shirt and layers of his skin.
My heart contracts in my chest, racing harder than ever and squeezing painfully in my chest.
Dad! The word comes out silently.
My legs drag me forward to the blade before him. I pick it up as he tries to hold his gaping skin together. I drop it almost instantly when my senses catch up and I realize what I’m seeing is real.
My head snaps left to a gurgle in the doorway. My feet, my hammering heart, everything stops dead as I see Mom slouching against the wood, holding her throat and the flaps of skin and muscle that surround it together with skinny fingers.
NO! Another silent word.
A bloody hand leaves her throat, revealing a gaping slit that pours blood as I crouch before her.
The red stains on her ivory pajamas match the rug and her face as color drains from her complexion.
She points to the wall. The words YOU FUCKING CLOWNS stand out proudly.
“Dollancie,” she sputters blood and the word from her mouth.
My eyes widen, neck craning to see down the hall. To find any trace of the monster who did this.
Still, I’m silent as frantic trembling hands sign to Mom. Is Dollie okay?
Mom opens her mouth to talk again, spluttering more blood that dries in the cold air on my cheek.
One trembling hand grips my wrist, the other attempts to smear away the stain, but puts more blood on my face.
Words still hide behind splutters.
Her neck still bleeds horrifically.
My chest heaves—hurts.
“I’m sorry. I know you don’t like germs.” She’s so hard to understand, but her mouth moves in familiar ways.
Dollie , I mouth, taking Mom’s hand in mine.
Dad voices the words she can’t. “Your sister isn’t well. She needs help. We should have listened. We should have seen the signs.”
I almost ask what he means, but he continues.
“She said she was seeing shadows. Things that other people couldn’t. Hearing voices. We thought she just wanted to be with you.”
Another glance at Mom, and her pitiful state.
Dollie did this?
“She’s unwell. She didn’t even know who we were.
She just kept talking about clowns wanting to hurt her.
” Dad clutches his stomach tightly, blood leaking through his fingers, organs that he tries to keep inside, putting pressure on his slashed skin.
“We let her down. We let you down. It’s not on her.
She isn’t what hurt us. There’s something wrong with her. ”
Mom’s grip clutches me tighter, her other hand desperately locked back around her neck. Blood stains all around.
I scoop her into my arms, leaning her back to my chest. I wrap my bigger hand around hers and feel her struggle as she tries to talk again.
Failing there, her hand leaves her neck. I tighten my grip, trying to force her blood to stay inside her body.
Her hands move, weak and slowly, spelling out the words, I’m so sorry, baby.
Her glassy eyes angle up to me as the sound of my heartbeat echoes in my ears.
Her hands move again, for everything.
Her paling image turns blurry as I blink, tears falling from my eyes and landing in her hair.
One tear, two tears, three…
Lucky number three.
Don’t leave me. I tuck into her face, holding her as close as I can, fearing with everything in me that this will be the last time, but hoping that it won’t.
All those years, I denied her hugs, wouldn’t let her near me, yet in this moment, I can’t let her go.
I love you. Her hands drop, the movements too much for her weakening body.
I nod into her hair, every falling tear letting her know I love her too. Guiding her face to mine, I mouth the words to make sure she really knows. Then I tell her, I forgive you.
She raises a hand once more, her fingers settling around my wrist.
Her breathing slows as my heart speeds up.
“Gen,” her name on Dad’s lips, is as sad as the red-rimmed stains around his eyes. “Don’t go, Gen. They need you.”
My father himself looks like he’ll go any second, fade into another life, leaving me here in the bloodstains with my dying mother.
My free hand forms a phone, silently asking where their cells are.
“We left them downstairs,” he chokes out.
I shake my head, knowing I can’t drag Mom around the house to look for it.
Stretching my foot out, I stomp the floor, needing Dollie to hear me, needing her to call for an ambulance or something. Needing her to make this right because I don’t know what to fucking do.
“It’s too late. Promise me you’ll do as you always have.” Dad coughs up blood, the red color staining his lips more as he attempts to lick it away. “That you’ll keep your sister safe.”
Always . I nod.
Even now, after this, when I don’t know how I’ll look at her.
Dad… my lips move, and the hand that isn’t still locked around Mom’s throat stretches out to Dad as he rolls from his side onto his back.
His head drops to the side, a tear falling to the carpet as his stare locks on me.
I hold my breath, fearing his touch more than anyone’s because he’s always avoided mine, too.
Mom attempts to talk again, a weak attempt at Dad’s name, before her body twitches in my arms, and too many tears to count fall from my eyes.
Her struggle to hold on continues in my arms, and there’s nothing I can do about it. No way I can help.
I layer her hair with kisses—three of them. And I try to keep my cries quiet, not for her to feel more fear than she already does.
Something fills my hand, clammy and big like mine—Dad’s hand. He squeezes my fingers, crying out the word, “No, no, no…” repeatedly.
Mom’s eyes freeze, a single tear dropping. The joining of our hands was the last thing she saw… and now, she’s gone.
A noise comes out of my mouth, it doesn’t sound like words, just pain, and it doesn’t go away as my glossed stare meets my father.
I become a mess of drool and snot.
“I’m sor-sor-sorry, champ,” he stutters his last words, giving my hand another squeeze.
Sniffling, I manage one nod before he closes his eyes and leaves me behind in the cold upstairs hallway with his dead body and my mother’s, and the blade on the carpet between them that I feel like running across my wrists.
With an almost silent click, I close my bedroom door. I head to the bathroom, following the sound of shower water, and Dollie’s bloody dress interrupts the perfection of Mom’s cleaning.
Stalking toward it, I pick it from the floor, ignoring the light smudge left behind.
I take a minute to watch the girl I grew up with, standing lifelessly behind frosted glass.
Temptation guides me forward until I’m standing side by side with her. My fingers press the glass, and she doesn’t even notice.
Her mouth opens and closes, repeating the same words over and over.
“There are no clowns. It’s just a bad dream. There are no clowns. It’s just a bad dream. There are no clowns. It’s just a bad dream.”
Three times I hear it before forcing my slow feet to carry me out of the room.
Somehow, I get downstairs, finding a mess of fallen textbooks in the reading room. I crunch a sprig of sage under my feet before kicking it into the dining room.
Robotic movements take me to the kitchen corner where the washing machine resides, because even in a house this size, we don’t have a laundry room.
I toss Dollie’s dress in with anything else that’s already loaded inside, not checking the colors before I nudge it shut with my knee, add detergent, and start it up.
The open fridge beeps over and over again, warning that food will go bad, but I don’t bother to close it. The strong smell of gas fills my lungs, causing me to cough. I check the burners on the stove, finding one of the middle ones turned on.
Twisting it, I turn it off, on, off, on, off.
That’s enough.
I push open two of the windows that overlook the yard. Mom or Dad had taken up gardening, it seems. Violets, daisies, and the only kind of dahlia I like to see on these grounds line the grassy field.
Turning, my eyes close, and I let the breakfast table take my weight.
Opening my eyes again, I spot two identical cell phones on the surface. I’d scowl over those filthy things being there in normal circumstances, but not today.
Unlocking the phone, I find an ancient photo of Mom and Dad, with me being forced to tolerate Dollie in the background. The phone icon brings up a keypad, and I tap 911 and the speaker icon.
The operator answers within seconds.
“Hello. Operator. What is your emergency?”
My breathing is all that comes down the line, my cruel mind keeping me quiet.
Mom and Dad need help, but if you talk, Dollie will go to jail, and she’ll be hurt there.
Endless tears keep falling as I try to force in thoughts of what I can do to make all this better.
“Hello, do you hear me?”