Page 108 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
Like, he doesn’t remember what he did to our parents.
A memory hits me over the head, and it feels like a brick.
“Oh, my god!”
Dad’s blood covers my fingers as my hands pump his chest.
It’s too late, and he’s already ghostly pale. Red covers his body, and the blood drying on his pajamas is hardening under my touch.
My wet hair drips on his face as it hangs around me.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him as I wipe the droplet away.
He stares up at me. His blank expression feels like something I’ll take to my own grave.
I shake, failing to revive him because he’s already gone. My heart breaks as I collapse against his chest.
Trembling hands close around my shoulders, and Ambrose pulls me into his chest.
With my arms held up, I keep my bloody hands away from him, though he’s already covered. His fingers splay on my back, holding us pressed against each other.
“What happened?” My words break through a cry, and I create a small distance between us.
“A psychotic break. I don’t know,” he mouths silently, loss in his eyes. It’s not just for our parents. A tear falls from his pretty eyes, and he asks, “Run with me?”
Freezing, I’m not sure what to say. We should wait and speak to the police.
Sirens fill the air, sounding above both of us as we cry over our loss.
I catch a glimpse of the words on the wall, written in blood. Mom slumps nearby, as pale as Dad. Her face has permanentdevastation laced around each pretty feature. Blood runs between her breasts from a thick gash across her throat…
Like the one promised to me.
My head hurts. The image of my parents on the bloody carpet morphs into black and white tiles. No blood or bodies upon them. I’m back in the bathroom, nursing a sharp pain in my temple, brought forth by bad memories and a rush of tears. I rub at it.
My eyes close for a second, and I see the bloody words again, “YOU FUCKING CLOWNS.”
I tremble against the wood, and it calls the attention of the dog on the other side.
Her paws scratch at the door, and she makes a small noise.
Images of Ambrose fill my head, and I fear opening the door when he’s here, dressed like that. Like a fucking clown with big red lips, diamond eyes, and that wet blue-green hair dripping in his face. For some reason, it’s scarier tonight without Shane’s hands around my throat.
I call out with a shaky voice, “Ambrose?”
Hope flutters when I don’t hear him move on the other side, and relief washes over me when all I do hear is another small whine from his dog—my dog.
Peeling the door open, I peek around. My brother is nowhere to be seen in the brightly lit kitchen, and Bubbles has no intention of staying there by herself. She comes charging into the room with me.
Like he said, my phone is on the floor flashing with messages, probably from Annabelle. I pull it into the room with us and use my body as a weak barricade, slumping back against the door.
Bubbles lingers at my feet, her pretty eyes watching my every move as I type rapidly to Annabelle, who’s sent a list of questions about Ambrose being home.
And all I can say is.
Dollie:
How can he be home?
