Honestly, I didn't give much thought to how any of them ended up being taken to somewhere they could be sold.
My poor little doll looks so sad when her eyes reach mine. “I got him killed.”
“Whatever happened, it wasn't your fault.” I assure her gently. Unless she called the people who took him to offer herself and her brother up, this isn't on her.
“If I hadn't screamed for him, they wouldn't have got him. But I was going outside to take a call, and the man came out of nowhere. He pulled a knife against my stomach and told me not to make a scene as he walked me to the truck. I didn't, at first. I was in shock. But when I saw the box truck with no windows in the back, I knew something bad was going to happen.”
She closes her eyes, squeezing them like that will stymy the flow of tears.
I’m shocked that she’s telling me this… that she’s talking to me at all. It feels so vulnerable, like she’s giving me a part of herself I couldn’t take from her. Does she… trust me? Or is her guilt so monumental that she just needs it off of her shoulders, whether that means playing nice with her captor or not?
I hand her Mr. Pig, and she doesn’t even question it before tucking him against her chest, taking whatever comfort the stuffed animal can offer her.
“I was scared, and all I could think was that I already got away once. The chance of getting away again…” She shakes her head. “I knew that if I let them take me, I'd never see him again. So, I screamed for him, and he looked out as someone was opening the door to come out. He came running because I called for him, and he tried to fight him off, but there were more of them, and they had weapons. A knife, guns... they stabbed him, and it all happened so quick.” I can tell by the way she's trembling that she's not just remembering it right now.
She's back there again, living it all once more.
I watch her carefully, not wanting to share her with her memories. She’s mine now, and letting her go back to before me feels… wrong. I don’t understand it, but I also don’t like the pain on her face. Because I’m not the one causing it?
“Don't be scared.” I tell her, offering her a second of warning before scooting close, closing the space between us.
She bristles when I wrap an arm around her but otherwise doesn't seem too frightened by me. She's more frightened by her memories right now, and it's a weird sort of victory for me.
I hold her like that, offering her the presence to remind her that she isn't alone. Maybe she would prefer to be, but she's here, in my bed, and I'm not going to let her suffer.
“You did nothing wrong by calling for him. He's your brother. Dex is mine, and I call him every time I need help.”
Almostevery time.
I didn't call him when I was trying to figure out how to dispose of the last body. For once, I handled something by myself. And that gave me the confidence to do what I had to with my little doll, whose name I suddenly realize I don'teven know. I'm not sure she would even want me to know, given how long she withheld her voice from me, refusing to speak for the last two days that I've had her fully conscious.
Dex isn't even my blood, but I still rely on him to help me when I need it. If I had that sort of relationship with my sister, I'd certainly come running when she needed me to. But we never got that sort of bond.
She got to be the pride of the family, and I got a best friend who was all the family I'll ever need.
She nods, choosing not to argue anymore, maybe knowing in her heart that it wasn't her fault. We aren't responsible for the things that happen to us... only how we react to them.
“What’s your name?” I ask before I’ve even thought about it.
Her eyes find mine, reflecting my own confusion for asking that right back at me. She’s quiet for so long that I don’t think she’s going to answer.
“Ambrosia.” I watch her swallow hard, like the name brings bile up her own throat, and then tuck her chin on top of Mr. Pig’s head.
It’s exotic. Different. It doesn’t seem like a real name.
“Ambrosia.” I repeat, testing her name on my tongue.
God, it’s fucking divine. Just like her.
But I watch her shiver when I speak it, and it doesn’t make me feel good.
“It’s not too late to reinvent yourself.” I tell her. “Be whoever you want to be.”
It sounds ridiculous to my own ears, like a shitty motivational speech, like I’m telling her she can be rich and famous if she wants, just don’t give up. Other than the fact that being rich and famous isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, there’s also the fact that she exists for me now. She will be only what I want her to be… what I let her be.
“Yeah,” she nods, seeming to agree with me. “So, call me Amber.”
Amber.
