Page 2 of Borrowed
Would the walls talk now?
A white coat lady walked into the room.Her smile resembled that of my doll, with pretty eyes and pale skin.
What would she look like with Father’s red hand marks?
“Is this Tabby?Tabitha Crowley?Twenty-two years of age, schizoaffective disorder, depressive type with prominent psychotic features…”
Too many words.
I didn’t like words.I liked my dolls…my bunnies.The doctor said Toby’s name, and I tried to listen.
Nobody liked to say his name anymore, but I whispered it into my pillow every night.
Toby.
Toby, Toby, Toby.
They said I made him up.That he died…
But he was here.
He just didn’t like the pills Mother put in my applesauce until I found them.I knew he was here, but he was there, too.I remembered us hiding under the porch, whispering secrets to the worms.I remembered when he held my hand while I carved a heart into the back of the willow tree because it was always us.
Toby and me.
He told me that Mother didn’t like having cuts in the tree.That it felt pain, too.I didn’t care.I wanted them all to know.Toby did, too.I was Toby’s, and Toby was mine.
No one understands how smart Toby is.
He always knew.
Now, the room was silent.
No laughter.
No breathing beside me.
No butterfly on the windowsill, just me and the smell of the pills they gave me when I said his name too much.
I stopped taking them three days ago.
And last night…
I heard the floorboard creak.It was after hearing the whisper of the wings yesterday.
Just once.
Just enough.
And this morning, a black butterfly was pressed against the glass.
Waiting.
* * *
Strangers sataround me in a circle, like a bug, looking through glass.They were the sun, and the sun hurt my eyes.
“Hello, Tabitha.Today you are going to meet some new friends.Everyone, meet Tabitha.She will be staying with us for a few days to see how she fits in with our home.Say hello.”
