Page 203 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
“Take it easy. You’re okay,” he coos in a gentle voice. It doesn’t match his appearance. He’s younger than he sounds, and geeky glasses hang off his nose. The light reflects in them.
It’s too much, and my eyes roll closed.
I hate it. I miss the dark.
Pretending I’m somewhere else—that black space where only I can fit, I keep my eyes closed, and a sense of calm rolls over my limbs, locking them back at the sides of my body.
A ghost of a touch tickles my arm, and the doctor’s words penetrate my safe space.
“It’s been flushed now, and antibiotics have been administered, but this injury was showing mild signs of infection.” That word rings in my ears, and I miss what the doctor says next because the germs in my blood make it to the tortured part of my brain, and all I hear is the voice inside me.
It’s trapped here in my black box with me.
Fighting against it, I force my eyes to squint open and take in the man whose prodding fingers examine my healing before he reapplies a bandage.
I squint through my eyelashes, but the light still burns my eyes.
“What do you think gave such a bad cut?” Dad’s tortured voice pulls me on to my back, and I wince, feeling all my burns press into the mattress as my head snaps to the left of me, where he stands.
There’s no acknowledgment of the worn leather seat at his side as he leans down on the bed, denting the mattress at my side. He spares me a sad smile, and I grit my teeth over it. How dare he smile at me.
How dare he look so stressed when he caused this.
Yet he does. The lines on his face are more pronounced than I remember, and his lips are tight whenever he isn’t speaking. They part…
“It’s okay, champ. I’m here. No one will ever hurt you again, I promise. I’m here.”
I don’t want him here.
I blink him away and turn my head, not wanting to see him, especially those eyes I’d inherited. My lips move in the shape of my little sister’s name.
Dollie…
She’s the only person in the world I care about right now.
“She’s here, buddy—just next door. Mom is with her. When we’re done, we’ll go see her.” His touch finds me, and I jump away from it like it burns, getting closer to the doctor in the long white coat.
“Is that normal?” Dad asks the doctor about my behavior.
“We’re unsure right now what should be normal for him. But we can refer to a psychologist, which I think is wise.”
Dad’s shadow slowly nods over me, blocking out that light when he tries to touch me again. “He’s seen one before. I’ll make contact.”
“I think it’s best.”
“His aversion to touch, do you think that’s because of all these cuts and bruises? I mean, he has OCD, but it’s never applied to us. Do you think his experience could have worsened his symptoms?”
Without glancing his way, I notice the extra bite in Dad’s voice.
“It’s possible. It’s also possible there’s another cause.”
There is another cause.
“Is there a name for it?”
Colin Bannadosi.
I force my mind somewhere else, not to the blackness but to Dollie in another bright room. I picture this one pink, and I picture her smiley little face lighting up as I enter, but instead of staying with her, vague memories flood in the darkness behind closed eyes. Teenagers prying Dollie from my sweating hands as my vision turned black.
