Page 28 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
“But I am sorry. I hope you know that. For not helping you more. For letting him do what he did. It wasn’t meant to be that way.”
She sounds like she’s saying goodbye and only has so many days left. Her gray skin says not many.
I’m counting them down.
Standing, I point to the calendar she has on the wall, tomorrow’s date in line with my finger.
It isn’t my prediction for the end of the old lady’s life. It’s just me telling her when I’ll be back next.
Snapping my fingers for Bubbles to follow, I take her to the kitchen.
Setting the untouched oatmeal down, I contemplate a taste, knowing this brand is a luxury one I wouldn’t buy for myself, but instead, I wash it down the garbage disposal.
Bubbles wraps her legs around my waist, anticipating what comes next. I cringe again, feeling the germs climb all over me, and my weak leg gives out.
Keeping the anger, sadness, and disgust I feel from Bubbles because I’m the only person she gets any attention from these days, which isn’t fair to a young dog. I don’t push her away as I load her bowl with kibble.
She needs a quick haircut before I set it on the floor. I’m no groomer, but if I want her to see what she’s eating, this has to happen. I use the scissors that hang on the wall to do it. Her hair falls away from her face, and I give her a smile that tells her she’s a good girl. She is.
Dollie would love her.
My smile grows.
Placing her bowl on the floor, I lose her attention to dry dog food, and she loses mine to a basement door.
“Don’t do it,” a voice calls from the living room. The voice in my head says the same, but still, my hand wraps around the doorknob, and I drop down into the basement.
This fucking room calls to me every time I’m here.
I close the door and seal myself in the darkness with memories.
It isn’t the same room, but it transports me back to a place I can’t escape whenever I’m here. The basement where I work does the same, making me thankful my home doesn’t have one.
My young voice haunts these walls. The room is so different from the one I spent almost a year of my childhood in.
The walls are white, and no splashes of my blood are sprinkled over the paint. The floor isn’t covered in water.
“You’re so lucky.”Dollie’s voice fills my head.
Sliding down the steps, the old wood creaks. The sound has old memories running up my spine. My hackles are on edge as I move over to an upcycled dresser. The irony that it’s unmistakably one of Mom’s overwhelms me. My cheeks heat in this cold room, making the cold tear that runs down my cheek so much more noticeable.
I stay here for a while.
The blade in my hand is sharp and scrapes easily through my skin. An old injury becomes new as a red tear follows the path and falls to the ground.
I like these scars better, the ones I put on myself.
The new wounds are a little gift—that will overpower the older ones given by someone else and change how I feel about my image.
Downstairs is dirty.
Ignoring the voice in my head, I relish in the pain, breathing through it as I cut another line in my arm, this one deeper.
Flicker, flicker, flicker. The light above me goes on and off a few times.
I sigh over having to fix something else in this house after having to sort multiple things just an hour ago when I returned from Mrs. Bannadosi’s house.
Taking a swig from a bottle by my side, I forget the light.
