Page 3 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
“Now, swallow down that hate and eat your pancakes.”
My pounding heart slows as I take in my surroundings: the breakfast bar and the comforting smell of pancakes.
More plates line the next table, giving these boys something to fill their mouths with other than the words freak and murderer.
“Here’s yours, hon. Enjoy.” Clara gives me her best customer service smile. She also places the little written note I’d given her with my order in front of me.
Pancakes with a side of butter and a sprinkle of pepper and sugar—odd, I know, but it’s what I like. Underneath the words, thank you, on my note, new words are written.
You’re welcome.
“Don’t you worry, pretty eyes. You’re welcome in my kitchen. Any time. Even with your unusual order.” Her blue eyes roll.
Part of me wonders if she is nice to me because she fears me, but I don’t get that vibe. I’m pleased to see she honored my unusual request, and the pancakes look delicious. More importantly, the plate they sit on is gleaming.
Clara taps me on my shoulder as she leaves, and my whole body twitches as I cringe.
Touch doesn’t work for me as much as I crave a person. And I do truly crave a person. Someone to share pancakes with, like that couple in the distance, so in love that they have no idea I’m here or who I am.
The local monster.
Murderer of his beloved parents.
The list goes on.
There’s only one person whom I’d willingly let touch me in twenty years. And that’s done.
Fucking forget about her. It’s gonna drive you crazy!I force that thought to bulldoze through my mind because I don’t need the kind of self-pity that Dollie brings out in me. It almost makes me loathe myself as much as Lincoln does. He waves his phone in my direction, the screen overtaken by some psycho clown chewing on the limbs of one of his victims. Donny and Michael, also at that table, wave their phones at me as well. Clowns—the fucking horrible things that they are—fill their screens, too.
Three of the four guys laugh. Nyx, who was once my best friend, sits with no expression, and his phone, I’m assuming, is still in his pocket.
I turn away from them, and more sneers come.
“Ambrose, the freak, afraid of clowns… I guess that happens when one?—”
“Man, don’t. Regardless of what anyone thinks of him, what happened was fucked up,” Nyx finally talks.
“Oh, boo hoo. Don’t use one freak to justify another.”
“Here’s an idea.” Donny laughs. “A little cosplay, and we could get this creep out of town, after all.”
Idiots. I’m going nowhere. This shitty town is home, for now, at least. I’m not nine years old anymore. I hate clowns, but the fear of white faces and big red smiles faded each year as I got older.
They won’t be running me out. I intend to stay here until my probation is over and even after that.
They deserve no more attention. They’ve had their fucking fun and ruined my morning.
Dragging perfectly cut chunks of pancake through the melting butter until breakfast is done, I finish up, leaving half a pancake on the plate because my broken mind won’t let me eat it without casting threats on the nice waitress.
I drop a barely affordable tip on the table for Clara, along with another message.
I appreciate you. A nice person in a town full of clowns.
Getting up to leave, I don’t glance at anyone but those moving around outside the door. None of those people are looking at me, the lonely guy with his hood up after breakfast alone. None of them see me use my sleeve on the handle that hundreds of people have touched, but I still feel a guilty stare on me, and I’m almost sure it belongs to someone I once thought of as a friend.
CHAPTER 2
Ambrose—age eight
