46. Dollie—present day
Dollie—present day
T he echo of screams wakes me from my sleep. A fear that rumbles deep down in my soul tells me that I’m reliving the night that my parents died.
My heart pounds as I sit up on the chaise lounge.
It isn’t real. It isn’t real.
I quickly glance at Bubbles, her ears sticking up on alert because she hears the noise, too.
The logical explanation is that Ambrose is having a nightmare—a very loud one. I suffered those when I was really little, and so did he. For him, they started after we got home from that basement. I got so many bruises on my arms and legs at that time as he gripped me and kicked out in his sleep.
But a small part of me fears that it isn’t Ambrose, and that’s the reason I stay here, cemented to the chair, Duggan in hand. His tie frays beneath my fingers as I sit beyond a wall built up of my favorite things.
Another scream, this one louder but unmistakably Ambrose.
Bubbles barks in my face as if asking why I’m still sitting here. Why am I not helping the person she loves most in the world? Regardless of what I do for her, she still loves him undeniably.
Another bark, and she circles herself, skidding on the shiny floor.
“He’ll be okay.”
Ignoring me, she barks again and rushes out into the foyer.
My legs quiver and threaten to give out with each step I take. Duggan comes with me, providing a bit of moral support.
Paws stomp on the first step of the stairs. Bubbles doesn’t dare climb, but her barking gets louder and louder.
She should wake him any second.
But she doesn’t.
The barking continues, as does the stomping. Her eyes look up, seeing something I can’t see in the dark.
Trembling fingers miss the light switch three times as I prod the wall, needing to light up the second floor.
“Ambrose?” I call as things grow silent. “Ambrose!”
All I hear is Bubbles.
“Why won’t you go up?” I ask and wait, almost like she can answer.
Another scream, and I can’t ignore the pull that puts me on the bottom step with Bubbles’ paws.
Clutching Duggan a little bit tighter, I take the next few steps. “Come on,” I call back for Bubbles, needing her with me.
She stays put. The only thing moving is her mouth as she and Ambrose fight over who can be the loudest.
Finding my footing on the next step, I take them one by one and painfully slow until I reach the gargoyles.
A chill runs down my body, a wave of emotion trailing behind me.
I can feel them here.
“Mom? Dad?”
No answer.
Just screaming from a room around the corner.
Just barking from the foyer.
“It’s just the gargoyles.” I choose to believe they’re the reason that Bubbles hasn’t followed me up here, and I put my feet on the carpet that’s still stained with my parents’ blood.
The dark red blemishes stand out on the cream carpet.
I creep around them, focusing on getting across the hallway as fast as possible.
There are the odd few patches of graffiti on the walls, but no other damages in sight as I turn right at the fork.
I continue, ignoring the narrow hallway that appears on my right, and I stop in front of the two doors directly opposite one another.
“Ambrose?”
The wailing comes from behind his door. I twist the ancient handle that we kept because Mom loved them so much, my hand encapsulating the cherub that leads me inside.
“Ambrose?” I creep across the floor, hating how dark it is in here. The hallway light leaves a lot to the imagination.
If it were any darker, I’d be stiff with fright.
Quickly making my way to a lava lamp that I’m sure he got for his twelfth birthday—an attempt from my parents to stop him from favoring the dark—I flip the switch.
I take a heavy breath when a low glow floats around the room, little twinkles glittering against the glossy posters on the wall.
My body shudders, turning to another scream.
Using my feet to help, I pull off one sock at a time and crawl onto his bed.
With a feather-soft touch, my hand lands on his chest, and I call his name again.
He doesn’t respond, still thrashing beneath the sheets and sweating until the T-shirt he wears sticks to him. Through gritted teeth, he screams again.
I wrap my fingers around his shoulder and squeeze, shaking him lightly. “It’s okay. You’re fine. You’re home. It’s okay.”
Still, he doesn’t wake up.
One of his flying fists catches me in the breast, and the stabbing pain returns.
I scream out.
Losing my hold on Duggan, he falls to our side. A hand locks on my throat as Ambrose’s eyes snap open, pupils dilated with the same level of fright I feel as he slams me back against the bed.
“Ambrose,” I choke out his name, clawing at his hands.
A dozen little scratches appear on his tanned skin, and his fingers loosen but tremble at my throat, constantly tapping at the pain there.
“Ambrose.” My stuttering breaths distort his name.
Staring down at his fingers, nostrils flaring and eyes wide, he peels them away. They sink down my shoulders, his grip tightening and hoisting me from the bed.
Taking me to his chest, he cradles me there, and I unintentionally sob.
Tonight, has been so hard.
My hand moves up my body and cups my breast, where the pain from his punch awoke all my other pains for them to dwell together.
Smoothing my hair back and seeing the tears on my face, his own drip from his eyes, streaking the white paint he didn’t wash off for bed.
I’m so sorry, he mouths.
Continuing to touch me, gentle fingers wipe my tears away. His other hand puts Duggan on my lap while I sit in his. My fingers instantly move to the tie that comforts me.
A tear falls from my top lip, but Ambrose is too slow to catch that one. His thumbpad drags over my mouth so slowly while my eyes stay on his.
I hurt you. I’m sorry. I thought—I thought…
“I know what you thought. You thought he was here.” I nod, gazing up at him.
I hurt you.
“I’m okay. And you’re okay. I know you’re trying to deal with our past, in your own way, but it’s okay if you need some help.”
His head bobs, and he holds me tighter.
The feeling of claustrophobia I usually get when someone invades my personal space doesn’t come.
I feel safe for the first time in weeks.
Still, staring up at him, despite the lost look in his eyes, I know he would never intentionally hurt me.
And it only confuses me more.