Page 63 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
I’ll never stop protecting you.
CHAPTER 16
Dollie—age six
“It’s been the hardest weeks of our lives, not having any idea where our children are. Not knowing if they are okay or who has them or why.”
A tear drops down Daddy’s cheek as he stands behind a wooden stand with a microphone. Mommy hangs off his arm, her face soaked and red with sadness.
I miss them.
I want to wipe Mommy’s tears. I want Daddy to come save me.
“Every single day, we wake up and wish we could go back in time to a day before this happened. To the nights with Ambrose watching movies that should scare him more than they ever did. To Dollancie kicking us in the ribs at night after she crawls into bed with us. She was a wiggler, and I hate that we did all we could to make her sleep away from us when now, all we want to do is hold her close forever. It’s the little things you miss like crazy. You miss them demanding for a dog or them crying for a balloon. Late-night debates about creature features and who is the best monster.”
Mommy sniffles, and Daddy stops talking to brush a tear from her cheek.
“It’s the fear that we might never get those kinds of days again. That we might not ever see our children again, and that hurts beyond explanation,” Mommy adds with a tremble to her voice. “Dollancie is about to turn seven years old next week. It’s the first birthday we could miss. Ambrose will be nine in a few months. Please help us get them home before then. They were last seen leaving school on May third. I am begging you as a mother to help get our babies home. We just want them home.”
Distance comes between us and Mommy’s pretty face. The mascara streaks are still visible until Chuckles stuffs his phone in his pocket.
Our parents’ voices can still be heard in the dark room that smells bad. It’s my only comfort as I hold my stomach, nursing a pain that I’ve had since last night.
Ambrose sits at my side. Dried blood stains his body. Fresh blood leaks from two of the many gashes across his chest and throat. He blames me for them, and he’s withholding cuddles because of it.
If only I were quiet last night.
A sharp pain in my lower belly forces me to latch onto him. My clammy fingers pull at the hairs on his arm.
He doesn’t react.
My desperate eyes plead for comfort, and my lip trembles when he doesn’t give it. I look away, keeping my eyes on anything but Chuckles. Ambrose does the opposite, always watching the mean clown’s every move. He says that’s not his name now, but the clown got mad when he started calling him Colin. And now, Ambrose’s eye is purple.
My brother flinches as I unintentionally pinch at a new and painful bruise. I rub the area, massaging out his pain because I feel enough for both of us.
Leaning forward, I double over myself, holding myself a little tighter.
“Please…” I don’t finish asking for his support because if Ambrose fails to give it, he might be punished again.
For that reason or another, his hand touches my spine. His fingers move up and down, never in circles, because he doesn’t like them.
“Are you feeling unwell?” Chuckles waits for an answer, pacing in front of us. “You should be grateful. You finally had a full meal last night.”
My dry lips crack when I try to answer. He may have fed us, but we never got juice or strawberry milk with dinner like we would at school or home. All we had was the water from the floor that neither of us would drink.
“Maybe I should starve you again. Would that be better?” He takes a big inhale. “Certainly, smells like it would.”
Ambrose’s hand freezes, staying on the center of my spine. He’s the one to answer. “We are grateful, but she has something wrong with her. She gets unwell from certain foods.”
“So, that’s why my house smells so bad. You didn’t like the spicy curry.” Chuckles’ eyes move to the bucket on some kind of podium—the one Ambrose walks me to and from every so often.
He scares away the crocodile somehow.
“If it bothers you so much, why not just send us home?” Ambrose’s lips crack, too. There’s blood on his mouth as I glance up at him with all the hope in the world.
“Please,” I add, sounding as desperate as I feel. ‘Please, can we go home to Mommy and Daddy and Duggan?”
“But you wanted to come with me?”
