Page 167 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
Again, she says nothing.
And again, I try, “Please, help us. My sister is in the basement. She’s only seven, and she’s underweight. She’s terrified of him. Please, I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“Shhh…” she coos as Colin enters the room. “Gauze, please, and some alcohol to sterilize his wounds.”
“He was talking. What did he say?” Colin sways, almost as if he’s consumed more alcohol since leaving the room.
“He just asked what he looks like.” Her eyes stay on me, and I focus on their dark brown shade as sadness lingers beyond the fresh bruise.
“Fucking ugly. No one will ever look at you without wanting to be sick again.” With his tongue pushed out, he makes a retching noise, pretending to vomit in my face.
I turn away from him.
“Yeah, you better get used to that, you ugly little fucker.”
Fluttering my eyes shut, I only wish I could do the same to my ears. His comments hurt, but they aren’t true. Dollie looks at me without judgment, seeing past the scars and trauma that we share.
No one else matters anymore.
Keeping my eyes closed as alcohol burns my wounds and seeps through them into my mouth. The alcohol numbs me enough that I don’t focus on what comes next, on my skin being pressed tightly or what’s likely some kind of fiber weaving through my cheeks to keep them together.
I think I tasted too much.
Did she do it on purpose?
The next thing I know, I’m on the puffy couch, face down on the cleaner side of a grubby pillow. A song plays in the background—a story told through lyrics about every day feeling longer and love getting stronger.
I lift my head, and it’s heavier than before. Colin’s wife—what was her name again—she sits in front of me, stroking my hair but looking away.
It’s hard to tell if more bruises cover her face or if my blurred vision is putting them there. She spares me a pitiful glance.
She moves closer, then farther away. Then closer, then farther away.
She isn’t rocking, and I don’t understand how this is happening. I focus on her, unable to turn around and face anything else because I can’t see Colin.
But I hear him behind me, singing along to this song.
Visions of Dollie fill my head, in that basement, cold and terrified and waiting for me to return.
The vision is interrupted by a pain in my rear that spreads to my stomach.
I force it away, seeing Dollie peek over from the step that barely gave us room to move. She faces away from the fire, though it’s no longer lit. Her eyes are on the door, waiting for me.
I’ll be back soon.
Using her for inspiration, I feel the dirty pillow subconsciously. Unlike her, it brings me zero comfort.
The pain inside me fades away and takes the images of Dollie with it.
All I see is Colin’s wife sobbing in front of me.
My eyes move past her as the TV cuts to standby. The black screen acts like a mirror, and I see Colin behind me, zipping up his striped pants, that bottle still in his hand.
Mirroring his wife’s actions, I sob, too, the pillow catching each tear. My cries turn into a wailing sound, and that sound turns into a scream, and I can’t stop, I really can’t stop.
I don’t even know why I’m crying. I don’t understand what’s happened, just how it makes me feel.
“Don’t keep making that noise,” Colin warns, but it falls on deaf ears. “Don’t keep making that noise!”
