Page 388 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
The three minutes I spend in the shower make it the quickest one I’ve ever taken.
I rush into the bedroom, not caring enough to grab a towel. I pull open my drawers, getting some clean shorts that stick to my wet skin.
My jeans do the same, struggling past my thighs.
Stepping back into the bathroom, I collect my phone from one pocket and place it in another. The broken mirror shows little of my reflection as I open it, pop my pills with a swig of water, then quickly brush my teeth.
Rushing around my room, I toss on fresh socks and a T-shirt, the damn thing catching on the stretcher in my ear, then the new tattoo that sits on the inside of my right arm. I grab a jacket before I leave my room and step into the one across the hall, which looks messier than the last time I was in here.
Stepping up to her closet, I open the doors, scuffling through all the cute backpacks she used to collect as a teen.
I select the one inspired by her favorite Disney movie and look inside to make sure this cold, old house hasn’t ruined it with mold.
Seeing it’s still good, I scan through her clothes. Quickly, I realize all this stuff is from her younger years, all things she feels uncomfortable in now.
Heading to the door, I give the room another once over. There’s a book missing from the nightstand. That weathered old diary that belonged to Mom.
I guess that asshole was up here yesterday.
Well, fuck it.
There’s nothing in that book that could hurt Dollie firsthand—only me. I can live with that.
Moving quickly through the house, I’m digging through sacks in the reading room when I realize I’ve yet to hear the pitter-patter of dog claws.
Bubbles hasn’t come to greet me. Which is fucking odd. Bubbles always greets me.
“Bubs?” I call, stuffing a hoodie, shorts, briefs, and a pair of socks into the backpack. I’ll pick up some shoes at the door.
“Bubbles!” I shout louder, stepping into the dining room.
The curry I’d come home with last night is spilled across the floor. Alcohol bottles are tipped over and dripping from the table. The person I hate most is in this room with me, and I can barely contain my anger because of it. Each muscle tenses and my thoughts run wild, telling horror stories of different ways I’ll lose my girl… all because of him.
My other girl, Bubbles, is still nowhere to be found.
The temptation to strangle Shane gets harder to fight the longer I look at him, head flat to the table next to Duggan, who looks like he’s been manhandled.
“Yeah, that isn’t allowed.”
I collect the little antelope and stuff him into the backpack.
“You know, what happens next is on you. On how badly your body wants to cling to your shitty little existence.”
The worthless piece of shit doesn’t hear me, doesn’t even stir because he’s passed out from all the alcohol in his system.
His dirty shoes have been kicked off and lay sprawled at his side. I cringe, sliding as much of my feet as possible into them, and wearing them, I step up to the back door. I find Bubbles locked out in the cold on the other side. I unlock the door, stepping out with her. She wastes no time in jumping up and saying hello with a wet, slobbery kiss.
“I’ll take you inside in a minute.”
I head to Dad’s shed, vague thoughts of whether he, a cop, would forgive his son for murderous thoughts. I can’t blame what I’m about to do on the voice in my head, not when that voice is telling me not to fucking do this.
I press in the key code with a bent knuckle, not that I’m worried about fingerprints, because this is technically my fucking shed.
Placing myself inside, I slip on some nitrile gloves that Dad always kept handy in case he wanted to play around with the car. He liked to think he was better than he was with them because they always ended up in town with the mechanics afterward.
This shed has so many things he never had time for, so many things he had no reason for, like this rope that I came in here looking for.
I grab that and nothing else, making my way to the house, a cold and hungry dog acting like my shadow.
