Page 163 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
The basement door opens, and both of our breathing heightens with panic.
Dollie’s gentle touch on my cheeks brings the worry of infection, but I fight with my thoughts to stop myself from pushing her away.
I need comfort—something to slow my racing heart—and she’s trying to give that. Her tiny touch stays on me always.
“I’m okay.” I weave my hand through her hair, struggling to avoid tangles that will hurt her, and I tuck her in closer so she doesn’t have to see the monster standing in the doorway. My pounding chest thumps against her ear, and she rubs there, telling me, “I love the sound of your heartbeat.”
Colin enters with Mom’s trembling voice. Dollie doesn’t even straighten to it, but I feel tears drop on my body while mine are still in my eyes, waiting to fall.
“I turned it up loud for you. Your mother is on the news. She wants you back for Christmas. I also turned it up because I hate that song I hear every time I step into my kitchen. What is it?” Colin plops down, his body taking up the fifth, sixth, and seventh steps.
Neither of us moves from the fire. It’s out, but it’s still warmer here than in the rest of the basement.
We don’t answer.
We haven’t spoken to him in four days.
He offers us nothing but food that will likely cause her death soon.
I hold her tighter, my fingers moving over each rib, and she holds me back in the same way that she did yesterday when I asked her if she wanted to escape this place the only way we could.
Her small voice told me she didn’t want to die.
The one in my head told me everything I already knew. That I do.
I want to die.
I want the peace that comes with not being here on earth, because even if we get out of here, I’ll never get a day when I don’t feel those big dirty gloves on my skin, and I can barely survive the idea of that.
Every time Dollie’s hands leave me, I feel his, and I feel empty and alone because of it. I feel dirty in a way that I’ll never be able to scrub clean.
I need it to go away.
I want to die.
But when she told me she didn’t want to breathe in water until it burned, I told her I’d wait.
Wait for death to come to us.
It’ll be soon, I’m almost sure.
And when she goes, my tiny little sister, my reason for living, I’ll go too.
“Oh, so you don’t want to talk to me?” Colin stands, those old knees creaking.
Peeling Dollie from my body as I stand, I push her behind me, and my eyes explain why. A silent request asks her to keep her hands on me, to keep his touch off of me.
She nods, understanding my silence perfectly as she curls in on herself, keeping her scarred hand hidden between us and the other tight around my waist.
“I didn’t like your song, and that annoying hum has been here all week.”
Because it helps Dollie relax, it helps her feel safe and calm—the opposite of how I feel right now as Colin stomps through the water.
He hasn’t touched me yet, but I can feel him near me. I can feel his breath on my stomach and his hand—I feel sick. The taste of vomit is thick in my throat, and I can’t swallow it down.
With a struggle, I try to focus on Mom’s voice, on the pain in the words that say something about her missing her children, how numerous appeals have failed, how she’s failed as a mother, and how much she’s sorry about that.
Only days ago, I’d have wanted to tell her none of that was true.
