by Sadie Grubor
"Your mother almost ruined everything. Our father thought he could take away what he promised," he continues, "but I took care of them both."
"What?" Molly asks in a shout.
"No," I rasp.
Pressing my hands to his chest, I shove him away before his mouth comes to mine.
Jumping over the footboard, I scramble across the bed until I put plenty of space between us.
"Andy," Molly demands his attention, but his eyes stay on me, longing and fury battling in them.
"When that whore got pregnant," Andy ignores our sister, "he promised me you!" He points a long finger at me.
I shake my head in silent rejection.
"Yes," he counters, moving around the bed.
Climbing off the mattress, I skirt around, keeping the bed between us.
"He was so obsessed with your mother," he scoffs.
"Enough to kill our mother when she discovered what he was doing," Molly adds, distracting me long enough for him to reach over the bed and grab for me.
The brush of his fingers can't find purchase when I jerk my arm away and take half a step back.
"The bastard strangled her in front of us and made us bury her." Her words filled with disgust, she continues, "All so he could console his precious Sara."
"All I did was try to stop her," Andy says.
Confused by the different recollection of events, I'm not sure what to believe.
"She had you bundled in blankets, trying to take you from me." A muscle ticks in his jaw. "It's not my fault she lost her balance," he shouts.
Shifting my eyes to the bedroom door, I notice it's cracked open. Glancing around, I try to find a way to get by Molly and out of the prison of my past. Andy's next words sidetrack me from my plotting.
"When her head hit the railing, I was sure she was dead." He can't keep the small smile off his face. "I cradled you in my arms, holding you to my chest." His arms move, acting out his words. "I took you back to your room, kissed you on the head, and placed you safely in your bed."
His eyes close, and I take the opportunity to inch farther away from him and the bed.
"That's where he found me." His eyes snap open, anger drawing his brows down. "That's when he took you away from me and punished us for your mother's betrayal."
No longer able to hold my tongue, I snap, "She just wanted to be free."
"What did I tell you?" Molly shouts, rushing to his side. "She's a betrayer, just like her mother."
With her out of the way, I rush to the door and throw it open.
I don't have time to figure out which way to go, so I turn left and run down the hallway.
"Dahlia!" Andy shouts.
Halfway down flight of stairs, I trip. The edge of each step finds the perfect place of impact, creating the worst pain in my hip, thigh, and ribs.
"No!" he shouts again.
His voice is enough to keep my adrenalin pumping.
Jumping to my feet, I round the second-floor landing. At the top of the next staircase, I can see the front door. The minute I can see freedom, it's snatched away by my hair.
"You know what to do with her," Molly's voice carries down the stairs.
Hand fisted in my hair, he spins me around and backs me against the railing, his free hand coming to my throat and tightening.
Where Saint instills lust and desire with his grip, my brother's fills me with fear.
Grasping at his wrist, I try to pull his tightening hand from my neck.
"Everything I've done has been for you," he says through clenched teeth. "I killed our father to free you of him, came to save you from that imposter family, made sure you had everything you loved waiting for you, and saved you from the criminal! And this is how you repay my devotion?"
Releasing my hair, he pushes me over the railing by my neck.
Molly appears at his side, a satisfied grin on her face.
"If you survive the fall, I won't take care of you the way father forced me to care of your mother." She can't keep the revulsion from her voice.
Meeting my brother's eyes, I choke out, "Please."
The sharp lines of his face smoothing, some of the anger eases in his eyes.
Molly, seeing his resolve die, shoves both hands into my stomach.
"No!" Andy shouts.
The weight of my body shifts, my ass and thighs sliding over the railing. Gripping his wrist tighter with my left hand, I flail my right arm, trying to find purchase on the railing. Curling my knees around it, I twist my feet into the spindles.
Andy's hand tightens on my neck, cutting off my airway and blurring my vision. Then his free hand shoots out, fisting the front of my apron. Tugging me forward, he brings me back from the brink of falling. Releasing my neck and apron, he puts his arms around my body, pulling me close.
Coughing around the pain in my throat, I gulp at the air.
"Are you okay?" His eyes search my face.
Looking away from his intense gaze, I continue coughing and trying to swallow.
"What are you doing?" Andy's question makes me tense.
"She betrayed you," Molly hisses. "Betrayed us. If you can't do what needs to be done, then I will.”
Taking my weight in one of his arms, the other arcs out and catches the side of her face. It's Molly's turn to hold on to the railing.
Shuffling us closer to her, he moves me to the side, but doesn't let go. Then his face is in hers.
"If you touch her again, I'll sell you to the highest bidder," he threatens.
Highest bidder?
"I'm pregnant," she whimpers.
Oh my God.
His body tenses for a brief second before both arms come around me again.
"I'm sure I have a buyer for that too," he states.
Bidders? Buyers? What the fuck is he into?
Then he's dragging me back toward the stairs.
Shaking my head, I dig my feet into the floor.
"No," I rasp.
His arms disappear, only to grip me by both biceps.
"I don't want to hurt you, Dahlia. Come on," he orders, tugging me toward the stairs.
"No!"
Kicking out, I catch his kneecap with my foot.
He groans, but doesn't release me.
"Stop it!" He shakes my body.
My head snaps back so hard, spots float in my vision.
Pressure on my stomach makes me aware once more. Tossing me over his shoulder, he straps my thighs down with his arm and carries me, screaming and hitting, back to the bedroom.
Once inside, he drops me down on the bed.
I bounce once, then scramble back and away from him.
Chest rising and falling, his hard eyes follow my every move.
"You just need time to settle in," he tells me.
I shake my head. "I'll never settle in," I inform him, watching his jaw tighten. "And I'll never stop fighting you."
Straightening to his full height, he rolls his head, pops and cracks coming from his neck.
"Perhaps you'll change your mind after some time in your bedroom. You'd be amazing what a couple days in isolation can bring a person to accept."
Eyes widening, I watch him turn and move to the bedroom door.
"Stop," I croak at his back. "Let me go!"
Without another word or looking back, he shuts me inside my nightmare.
Pushing off the bed, I fling myself at the door. Pounding my fists against the wood, I try to scream, but the trauma to my throat makes it painful and pointless.
Leaning back against the door, I slide to the floor, curl into a ball, and cry.
Please find me, Saint. Please.
The silence, pink walls, dolls, and more silence are bearable. At least, for the days I think have passed.
I'd been so sure they couldn't isolate me—not completely and without starving me. But I'd been wrong, so wrong. Through angry tears, I stripped away the bow on my head, tore off the knee socks, and ripped the blue dress to shreds. I'd left them all in a pil
e in the center of the room for them to find.
At some point during that first night, a box of non-perishable food items was put in the room and the shredded dress removed. And the tiny bathroom, nothing like the one I had as a child, provided the barest of essentials. A sink, toilet, and two pink towels were all the little white room contained, but it was a source of water.
Lying on the floor, my head on my outstretched arm and wearing only a white slip, I stare at the light coming from beneath the door. I'd unsuccessfully tried to stay awake last night to catch someone coming in, but eventually passed out. But it never fails. When I wake up, a new box will be just inside the door with the old one removed.
Each time I fall asleep, exhausted from effort of trying to keep my eyes open, I wake unknowing how long I've been out, if it's day or night, or even what time it is. Everything blurs together into one long, never-ending day.
Rolling onto my back, I throw an arm over my face.
"You said I belong to you, so where are you?" I ask, wanting nothing more than Saint to bust down the door.
He's forgotten all about you, an ever-growing voice whispers inside my head.
Covering my face with both hands, I shake my head and let the tears fall.
You're home, so BE home.
"NO!" I scream, slapping my hands to the carpet on either side of my prone body.
Poor little doll. You were lost, but now are found.
"I'm not a doll," I tell the empty room. "I'm…" The words fall away when I see movement in my peripheral. Turning my head, I squint, trying to make out what's on the other side of the small opening beneath the door.
Two feet stand just outside.
Taking a deep breath, I hold it and swear the door moves just a fraction. Then the feet are gone.
"Come back," I cry on an exhale.
Rolling to my stomach, I rise onto my knees, staring down at the pink carpet. The color makes me sick, this room makes me sick, and my family disgusts me. Pushing onto my feet, I glance over my shoulder at the bed. It's the only thing in disarray, because I'd been in it when they snuck into the room.
Spinning around, I focus my anger on the little table. The teacups and saucers sit in perfect order with the teapot at the center.
With my mind on destruction, I charge the table. Reaching out for the porcelain teapot, a movement in the mirror catches my attention. Stilling, I glance behind me and find nothing. Turning back to the mirror, I watch the dark figure move.
I'm hallucinating. The days of isolation have me imagining things, just like I did as a child.
"You aren't real," I tell the mirror, like that will make the shadow disappear—a shadow that is much larger than it had been when I was young.
A light flicks on from behind the mirror, bringing Andy into view.
"It was you," I choke out, realizing I'd spent my childhood playing with the shadow of my psychopathic brother.
He grins and nods the confirmation.
A wave of nausea washes over me, bile rising to the base of my throat. Hurrying from the mirror to the bathroom, I drop to my knees before the toilet.
Emptying what little I have in my stomach, I flush the toilet and move to the sink to wash out my mouth and splash cold water on my face.
He's fucking with you. He's been fucking with you since you were a kid. Now…now he thinks you're just a doll for him to play with.
Disgusted with myself, I'd avoided the mirror until now, not wanting to see my defeat. Bracing myself on the sides of the sink, I lift my head. Expecting to find Andy looking back, I find the face looking back isn't him, though it's still unwanted.
In place of the woman I'd become with Saint, I stare into the eyes of the scared girl of my past. My anger and disgust turn into rage. Squeezing the porcelain beneath my palms, I refuse to look away from my reflection.
Look what you've become. What you've allowed them to make you. You are not Dahlia the victim. You are Mei the survivor.
"So, fucking survive," I order. "Survive," I shout, hitting the mirror.
The glass cracks, splitting my face in two, and my plotting begins.
After washing my face, hands, and hair in the sink, I braid my dark hair and twist it onto my head. Before climbing into the bed, I enter the closet and change into a yellow ruffle nightgown.
Giving the mirror my back, so he can't see the tears streaming down my face, I mentally assure myself I can do this. Over and over, I repeat it to myself, until I finally fall into a deep sleep.
You are a master of masks.
You are a master of masks.
Mei
When I wake up, I take a deep breath and begin to play my part.
Dressing in a blue and white striped knee-length dress, white ruffled petticoat, pale blue knee socks, and white gloves, I unbraid my hair and wrap the waves in a blue ribbon. I even go as far as to slip the black patent Mary Jane shoes on my feet.
Hesitating for the briefest moment, I take a deep breath and look myself over in the mirror. Pulling my hypothetical mask in place, I grin wide. Twisting back and forth, I make the skirt twirl.
With a small skip in my step, I walk to the wall of dolls.
Closing my eyes, I take another fortifying breath before reaching out and pulling two from the wall.
Katie, in her kitty paw dress and ears. Ruby, with her pioneer dress and freckled face. And finally, Margo, a throwback design to the kewpie doll. The moment they're in my arms, memories swirl in my mind. Not the day these two were gifted to me, but the day my father introduced me to my real dolls.
Setting both of them into their respective chairs at the tea party, I put on my little act. It's not a difficult part to play. In fact, everything comes rushing back like it was just yesterday.
For the days that follow, I keep my routine in place—dressing the part, having the tea parties, even sleeping with the god awful dolls and stuffed animals. The only problem, it's not horrible. It's familiar and comforting.
When the door finally opens, I don't move a muscle. Fearing it's my imagination, I keep my eyes on the table.
"Dahlia?"
At his call, I allow myself to look up at him. Mask in place, I smile.
Picking up the teapot, I ask, "Do you want to join us?"
His eyes scrutinize me, scanning my face and the table.
"If I let you out of your room, will you behave yourself?"
The thrill coursing through my veins is clearly visible by the way his eyes narrow.
Quick to recover, I jump to my feet and clasp my hands in front of me.
"Really?" I ask, playing on my real excitement. "I'd like that very much."
The lines around his eyes smooth out and he offers his hand.
"Come," he orders, and I obey.
The moment my hand slides against his palm, I fight the roil in my stomach.
Exiting the room, I exhale and revel in the view out the window. The sun is still high in the sky and there's a light dusting of snow on the ground.
He says nothing as he leads me down the stairs and through the house, which is fine by me. It gives me every opportunity to see the layout of this place.
While my room is almost an identical rebuild, the rest of the house is not. It definitely has the old Victorian feel, but it's missing the ornate woodwork and dark wood flooring. This home is much lighter, more exposed brick and tile.
Passing through a kitchen, I'm finally able to see a clock. I don't even care if it's the right time, just that I have time back—I'm not having it stripped away in unknown increments.
The rattling of a chain and a creak brings my attention back on figuring out our destination. A cold breeze sweeps through the open door, around my bare knees and up the skirt of my dress.
"You'll need this." He releases my hand to throw a large black coat over my shoulders before putting on his own.
Slipping my arms inside, my fingers are barely visible.
"We'll get you a prettier one," he promises, cupping my face in
his hand.
Swallowing down the bile in my throat, I force a smile.
We fall back into silence and he leads me to a large metal building. The fading red paint hints that it may have once been a barn. Glancing around the vast space and no visible sign of neighbors or life, I realize two things. One, this could have once been a farm, and two, there's nowhere for me to run.
At the large barn door, he grips an oversized metal handle.
"You can't be serious?" Molly shouts, trudging toward us.
"Not now," he snaps, making her steps falter.
The wounded look on her face is quickly replaced with pure hatred when she finds me watching.
Realizing the threat she sees in me, I move in closer to Andy's side. His eyes slide down to me, brow furrowing.
"I'm cold," I explain, pressing closer.
He drapes an arm along my shoulders, pulling me into his side.
Glancing over the hand he rests on me, I find Molly staring daggers.
I know it's a dangerous game to play, but with nowhere to run, I need to figure out another way out of this twisted hell.
At my smile, her eyes widen.
The sight of her jealous rage is cut off when Andy guides me into the barn.
Looking ahead, the smile melts from my face and my mouth goes dry. To stop the scream bubbling up, I clench my teeth together. But it can't stop the screaming in my head.
No, no, no, no!
The heat of his body presses against my back and his mouth comes to my ear. It takes everything not to elbow him in the face and run.
"I know how much you loved them," he hushes, wrapping his arms around my waist.
Squeezing my eyes closed, I fight to keep calm. Still feigning cold, I wrap my arms around myself.
Straightening, he asks over my head, "You don't like them?"
Shaking my head, I want to scream, No, you sick fuck! I don't like them! Instead, I say, "No, I'm just…surprised."
When he moves from behind me, I'm forced to open my eyes again and take in the contents of the barn.
Five glass cases line the far wall, four of them containing another piece of my past.
"Come," he demands, gripping the coat at my chest.
As he drags me forward, I see exactly what kind of dolls are inside.
The first, a replica of my kewpie doll. The second, a replica of Katie, matched all the way down to the kitten ears on her head. The third and fourth, also matching dolls in my room.
