The Dollhouse

Chapter 3

MY entire existence shattered apart. Like a fragile teacup dropped by clumsy hands, time grinded to a halt.

Our mother was gone.

The forensics couldn't be certain, but no one could rule out suicide. The cause of death was declared as 'the result of taking an excessive amount of sleeping pills' combined with alcohol poisoning. What was clearly an afternoon binge had cost her her life.

Social services declared that our father had been granted custody. We barely had time to farewell our friends, our school, or our lives. A fortnight later, Violet and I were forced to uproot, and live with some old-fashioned family we barely knew.

On the outside, it would appear that we belonged to a loving home. To strangers, we were perfect dolls. But they didn't know that our father had a track record for being tempted by pretty women, or that his wife would do anything for revenge.

Even if that meant punishing his own children.

But I deserved it.

Every time the wheels on the car spun around and around, the sound played over like a rhythm in my mind.

I drove her to it. I drove her to it. I drove her to it.

Our stepmother and stepbrother were scheduled to arrive tomorrow.

It was as if the weather knew it, too. According to the radio's weather report, a thunderstorm was brewing, threatening rain over Pennsylvania and most of the north east. Daddy had been making an effort - he had been to town that day, and had returned with a surprise.

"Her name is Whiskers."

He handed me a large cardboard box. I stared at him with confusion.

Wordlessly, I lifted the lid with caution – and couldn't help but gasp. Loudly.

"Oh, she's beautiful!" I felt a smile creep across my face. "Thank you so much!"

"Hold up, let me see," Violet demanded. She had been hanging back. The small white cat was curled up innocently in the box, gazing up at us with wide eyes.

Daddy removed his hat and trench coat, saturated from the downpour. Hanging them up, he watched us from the corner of his eye with an unmistakable degree of concern. Even if Whiskers was just compensation for the years of limited contact and cheap cards, we still spent the afternoon with her.

The rain came down outdoors. The cat snuggled herself on my lap. Violet, in a good mood, prepared some tea and cakes. Together, we had afternoon supper in the living room.

"Careful not to get fur on the furniture, Lydia," Daddy warned me. "Arabella is very houseproud."

The cake that I was eating suddenly tasted stale.

Why did he feel the need to bring her up?

I was just beginning to forget the crippling anxiety that came with fitting in here. With our father, I felt okay. But not with them.

Everything I did seemed wrong.

"There are loads of old photographs of Arabella around here," Violet said sweetly. This was a first – my sister could hardly say her name without sounding poisonous. "Back in the day."

"Oh, yes. She was second in the state pageant. She was into those ghastly competitions where they reward the prettiest girl with a bunch of flowers and a crown. But that was in the days before husbands and children. Obviously."