“And what was justice?”
“He hung himself that night.”
“Did you ever find his wife?”
“I got Bubbles from her when she died. She was there a few times when we were kids. She stitched my face, my throat.” My hand moves to the nastiest of my scars, still thick and rope-like around my neck. I rub the area, now aching more than ever. Dollie’s hand meets mine there.
“You feel guilty for him. I can see it in your eyes.”
“Yeah… sometimes. We, as humans, feel guilty for hurting the people who hurt us. But it doesn’t change the fact that I couldn’t sleep each night having him close to me in that tiny room. It’s different from your situation. You weren’t present. You’d dissociated. I hadn’t. When he gave me an opportunity not to see him again, I suspected what he meant, and I still took the deal,” I murmur.
“That doesn’t make you bad, either. He slit your throat. He raped you, and then you had to share a tiny room with him. How is that fair?”
“Life isn’t fair, Dollie. We know that.”
Neither of us talks for a few silent seconds that tick by, but she nods.
“Speaking of fair, we don’t have bubble bath for your bath.” I crack a smile, trying to lighten the mood.
“It’s for me?” Dollie asks, a little calmer now.
“It’s for you. You remember what you used to do for me when my mind got too loud?”
Dollie’s hand wedges between us, a tight grip forming on the material covering her chest.
I have to keep her talking. I need to keep her safe here in reality.
Slowly, not to startle her, I guide her arm through the designated holes in her hoodie.
“Talk to me, tell me what you used to do for me.”
“I’d put you in the shower… to cool down,” she stutters.
“And I’m gonna put you in the bath to cool down, okay? Because this thing—” I slip my hands inside her hoodie, “is stuck to you with sweat.” I drag it up over her stomach, my hand catching on something unfamiliar.
“No, Ambrose, don’t.” From inside, small hands grip the hem.
“What was that?” My question is quiet, gentle, while she’s still sitting in my lap.
“A colostomy bag.” She stares up at me through wet, downcast lashes, shame heavy on slumping shoulders. “I’m sorry it was in the way. I know you don’t like germs.”
When did she get that? I can’t ask because I have to tell her, “Dollie, you don’t have germs?—”
“Shane says?—”
“Do not finish that sentence.” My tone changes instantly, too much bite in my voice, so that I no longer sound like I did seconds ago. “I’m not him.”
“I just—it’s embarrassing.”
“Because he’s made you feel that way.” I grit my teeth.
“They aren’t sexy.”
If it makes you healthy, makes you feel better, who the fuck is he to say anything negative?I have to resort to signing because my throat is aching so much, but I need her to know this.
God, I’m so glad she’s done with him.
She shrugs her dainty shoulders.
