The Dollhouse

Chapter 43

HE was never going to give me the car if I simply asked.

The whiteness of the church glowed luminous in the late hours of the afternoon, and the clock outside struck five. The stain glass angels looked sorrowful with their twisted faces and perfect spherical halos. I could see the famous car that the Barnes' had borrowed sitting outside the tennis club, stationary and silent.

I entered the chapel. The pews were empty, and it was dark. The towering Jesus loomed over in judgement. There were a hundred reasons I could give him to turn away and walk out of that deathly still place, but I knew he was here, and I knew where to find him.

Though it was no longer winter, I was dressed in a jacket. The constriction of the sewing now cut under the arms from my splurge in height. I had grown since its purchase, and had been too frightened to ask for a new one.

I wasn't frightened anymore.

Through the colored glass, I saw the shadow of the old tree.

"So you really came to find me."

The voice bounced off the empty walls and vibrated, and strangely I did not jump. He was stood in the door frame of the church kitchen, but Marcus didn't appear angry, or smirking. In fact he looked very neutral.

"I knew you would eventually."

"Your tonsillitis is better," was all I said.

The air was thick with dust. The floor creaked under the sound of my feet.

Suddenly, a group of people walked past the other side of the stained glass, their shadows silhouetted menacingly. Even though they were just talking loudly, exclaiming, probably enjoying the night, I didn't want them to catch even a word.

I brushed past Marcus into the kitchen. I made no effort to move by gracefully, instead clipping his shoulder. I'm sure my face was thunder.

There had been moments so familiar where I had gazed into the faces of monsters. Those who were hidden behind masks of false kindliness. Those who sneered me in the face, and treated me as an outlet for their own misery. The severe, the barbaric, the bloodthirsty - I had a track record of surviving them all.

They would all rue the day they crossed me.

"Are you having a good night?" he asked the question, but he didn't care.

My voice was harsh. "Spectacular."

"My sister thinks you hate her."

"Well, no offense, but Joyce can be real dense sometimes. I never got her letters."

I didn't look at him. Maybe I could kill him.

How the fuck was I supposed to steal the car keys?

He started to speak, but the words screeched through my mind like there was an electrical current in the air. My two hands were leaning against the counter of the dank kitchen sink. I wasn't looking at his face. Had it really been two years?

Maybe that was when I truly died. The events that transpired after the horror of the woods was some design of purgatory, and the gods were laughing.

Why wasn't he laughing?

He certainly knew how to.

"What are you going to do?" Another question, fired this time.

Men's anger is a plague. They were so selfish with it; lashing out to punish the world for the misfortunes that their circumstances betrothed on them. They were taught to carry it, to throw it down at the feet of others like a broken doll to fix.