Sick Fux

by Tillie Cole

  A noise from upstairs made me snap back into focus. I held the box tighter in my other hand and made for the stairs. One step, two steps, three steps . . . I kept my eyes focused on the floor above. I moved my hand over the rabbit head, flicking my finger over the latch that would unleash its hell if needed.

  When I reached the top, the carpets musty and stale beneath my feet, the red and gold of the walls faded and the wallpaper peeling, I caught the distant sound of footsteps withdrawing down the stairs to my right. I closed my eyes, listening to the sounds. My eyes snapped open and my lips curled back over my teeth.

  I knew who those footsteps belonged to.

  I walked forward, toward a door that was a beacon to everything I was. Stopping before the closed door, I stared at the wood. Silly Rabbit, I heard in my head, a voice from the past. A light smile, laughing blue eyes, a high-pitched giggle and a playful scold. You’re my most favorite person in the whole wide world, Rabbit. I hope you know that.

  Then . . . I love you . . . Three words never spoken to me before they were uttered from Dolly’s mouth.

  I love you . . .

  I tucked my cane under my arm and entered the room. My breath hitched as I stepped across the familiar threshold. No smell of roses greeted me. No eighties music. No pink boombox. No tea set or laughter.

  The room was dead.

  Extinguished of life.

  I placed the foot of my cane on the floor and looked to the left. The sound of light breathing came from around the corner. I made to move, but my heart slammed into a fast beat, stopping my feet in their tracks. My nostrils flared as I closed my eyes and tried to suck in deep breaths. I never did this, never had this kind of reaction to anything. Not in eleven years. Not when I was trapped in darkness. Not when we got out—bloodily, savagely, darkly. Especially not when my knife plunged into the guards’ hearts and I watched the life fade from their eyes, the pure fascination of losing one’s life essence occupying my mind.

  But this was Dolly. The only person I’d ever given a shit about.

  I had no idea what state I would find her in. Whether or not her fragile mind had been destroyed. Whether or not her glass heart had been shattered. No hope of salvation.

  I had no idea if my only reason for living could be saved. I shook with venomous anger when I let my mind imagine the hell those sadistic cunts would have put her through in my absence. But Chapel’s words rang in my ears . . . Unleash the anger only on those who deserve it. Let it build within your heart like a well swelling with water . . . then unleash hell on those who took your freedom.

  Opening my eyes, I breathed through my rage and silently rounded the corner . . . I stopped. There she was, sitting in a chair. I sucked in a breath and heard it rattle in my ears. Her hair. Her hair was pulled back into a long braid, the woven strands falling to her lower back. And she was dressed in black. Long, baggy sleeves covered her arms.

  Motherfucking black. Dolly didn’t belong in black. Only color. Blue and white and gold and motherfucking pink.

  I edged around the perimeter of the room until I faced her. My heart tore down the center and I had to hold back a loud snarl when I saw her curled up on the seat, a thick blanket over her thin legs and waist as she stared lifelessly out of the window. The window that overlooked the once-manicured lawns, now nothing but high-reaching weeds and too-bushy trees. I looked across at what she was watching, in the direction of what held her so captivated.

  My heart was severed completely, the two parts of its flesh repelling the other, trying to escape the rage and pain and fucking consuming darkness.

  She was staring at the spot where we used to play as kids. Where she had found me all those years ago, ripping the colorful butterfly apart in my hands. I moved into her line of sight, but her blue eyes didn’t lift to meet mine, just stared through me as though I wasn’t even there. I crouched down and studied her face. Porcelain skin. Full lips. Fucking perfection.

  But there was no life left in her.

  I had never felt fear before, but I imagined the sinking hole I felt dropping in my stomach was something like it. A sinking feeling that Dolly had gone to a place from which there was no escape, a prisoner in her own mind.

  Fragility consumed.

  “Dolly darlin,’” I rasped, my voice fucking breaking.

  Twenty-one. She was twenty-one and more beautiful than I could ever have imagined. Perfection. My living doll.

  A strand of hair lay over her face. My fingers clenched and unclenched as I tried to force myself to touch her. But I couldn’t. Except for Chapel giving me my tattoos, I hadn’t touched or been touched in years. I didn’t know how to anymore. Allergic to human affection. Repulsed by the degrading feeling of touch.

  I . . . I . . . I couldn’t.

  As I opened my mouth to speak to Dolly again, a loud gasp sailed through the air behind her. I straightened, gripping my cane, to see a familiar old face appear. I watched, the sinking hole quickly replaced by dark satisfaction as the blood drained from her face. “Good Lord,” she whispered as I smoothed down my black cravat and vest.

  I glared at the bitch. Leaning casually on my cane, I said, “More like Lucifer, I would think.” I nodded in her direction “To you, anyhow.”

  Mrs. Jenkins swallowed and tried to back out of the room. “Ah-ah,” I tutted and shook my head. She immediately stilled, eyes fixed on mine.

  “He . . . Heathan James . . . it’s . . . it’s not possible . . .” she stammered and ran her eyes over me. Every inch of me.

  “Rabbit.” The bitch flinched at my correction. “I am Rabbit. The motherfucking White Rabbit. So never fucking utter that peasant name to me again.”

  Her skin paled, and her eyes fell to Dolly sitting on the chair. Dolly still hadn’t moved. I shifted my grip on the box I had brought inside, about to hold it out to Mrs. Jenkins when she asked, “How are you here?”

  I threw the box across the room. It landed right at her feet. “Dress her.”

  “Wh-what?” Mrs. Jenkins asked.

  I pointed to the box at her feet. “Dress her. It wasn’t a request.” Mrs. Jenkins shook as she picked up the box and moved to where Dolly sat. Dolly didn’t look at her either. Mrs. Jenkins opened the lid of the box and gasped again.

  Her old, wrinkled eyes snapped up to mine. “No—”

  Before she had even finished the sentence, I had reached into my pocket and pulled out my knife. I ran the flat side of the blade down my cheek. Slowly. Controlled. Watching her terrified gaze track my every move. “You’d best do as I ask, Mrs. Jenkins. My patience and tolerance for you appear to be at an all-time low.”

  She swallowed and, hands shaking like an earthquake, pulled out a blue dress, black waist belt, and black-and-white striped knee-high socks. Black ankle boots followed, along with a black silk headband adorned with a black bow.

  Mrs. Jenkins straightened. “She hasn’t worn these dresses since the day you left. She . . . she is no longer that person. She is no longer obsessed with that book . . .”

  I vividly recalled the very day she referred to. The blood on the striped socks pooled at Dolly’s ankles, the blood on the trim of her new, adult blue dress . . . “I’m back, bitch,” I spat out. “Dolly will be in color once again. She’ll be my Dolly, not the fuck-thing you all groomed her to be when you destroyed her innocent mind.” I pointed the knife at the old woman’s face. “Dress her. And make it quick.”

  Mrs. Jenkins reached her frail old hand out for Dolly. It took every ounce of my self-control not to rush forward and snap those bones in my hands. In many places, relishing each and every crack.

  Mrs. Jenkins pulled Dolly to her feet and led her to the dressing room attached to the bedroom. Dolly followed her nanny without any semblance of awareness. Her black dress reached the floor, tenting her willowy body. Dolly was small. Maybe only five foot one.

  Small, but all grown up.

  As the door shut, my heart struggled to slow down at the thought of how she would look when she reap
peared. Then I thought of her dead eyes and knew Henry had been right. Knew my biggest fear had been realized. I prayed that Henry’s wise counsel would work.

  “If she’s been hurt as much as you believe, if her mind is as fragile and childish as you believe,” Henry said, “she may not be the person you once knew.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Repression, probably; I worked primarily with repressed patients when I practiced psychology. Severe abuse or trauma can prompt timid fantastical personalities, such as Dolly, to shut down. Like a frightened child may hide under a bed when she is scared, a character with a fragile mind may find solace in a similar manner. But her safe place will not be under a bed, under her comforter or in a closet, but rather in the depths of her mind. Dolly may have locked herself behind a metaphorical mental door—no talking, no real living. Seek out her uniquely programmed protection mode. She may have adopted another personality to cope. A new personality, which to her way of thinking hasn’t been touched or sullied. One that can face the world when her original self cannot.”

  “Like you,” I asked. “Like you with Hyde?”

  Henry’s face clouded over at the mere mention of the other being lurking in his mind. “Hyde and I are . . . a unique case. Let’s just leave it there.” He leaned forward. “If you find your Dolly repressed, in repose from this world, you can attempt to lure her back to you with familiar but— most importantly—safe things. Things she loved, she adored, she liked. Things uniquely safe to her. Above all, things she recognized as belonging in her world.” I listened to every morsel of advice Henry gave. “It may not work. Some minds, once cracked open, are lost forever, their prisons immune to breakthrough. But if there’s a chance, that’s how you bring your darlin’ back to you from inside the panic room in her head. With things she loved.”

  As I leaned against the wall, resting my hand on my cane, the dressing room door opened and pulled me from the memory. This had to work. She must return.

  There was no fucking way I was doing this alone.

  Mrs. Jenkins led Dolly out of the dressing room. The minute Dolly appeared, I stood off the wall and felt that familiar, now completely underused flicker of a smirk pull on my lips.

  Dolly.

  My fucking Dolly darlin’ . . . well, almost.

  Mrs. Jenkins sat her back down in the chair. “Her hair,” I said, pointing to the headband still in Mrs. Jenkins’s hand. Mrs. Jenkins moved to the vanity, which was now chipped and clearly unused. She pulled out a brush, and in minutes Dolly’s band was in place. I slowly moved before Dolly and crouched down to inspect her.

  “Pink lipstick and perfume next. Her mama’s perfume and lipstick,” I ordered, the familiarity of Dolly returning minute by minute.

  “R-Rabbit—” Mrs. Jenkins stuttered.

  “I wasn’t asking,” I snapped. Mrs. Jenkins nervously opened a drawer in the vanity. Across the room, something pink on top of a set of drawers caught my eye. The boombox she used to love so much. I crossed the room and blew the dust from its top. I pressed the play button. The song that Dolly would always dance to came crackling through the speakers.

  Her favorite song.

  I looked behind me and felt my cold blood heat to boiling point as my gaze fell on Dolly. Pink lips . . . I closed my eyes. The scent of roses permeated the air, playfully chasing away the residual dankness of the Water Tower that lingered in my senses.

  I opened my eyes. The music filled the room. Then my cheek twitched when I saw a flicker of movement come from Dolly. Her finger, resting on her thigh, lifted slightly. It was such a small movement, barely visible, but it was real.

  She was still in there.

  I knew it. Could sense it. I always could read her, and she me.

  Mrs. Jenkins scurried out of my way as I crouched before Dolly again. “Darlin’,” I whispered and lifted my hand up. Without touching her, I traced my finger over every inch of her perfect face, down her long blond hair, and down to her hand. Hovering, desperate but unable to feel the heat of her pumping blood under her pale skin.

  Then I stopped. I fucking froze when I saw her bare forearms.

  Rage and hatred like nothing I’d ever felt before surged into my body.

  Scars.

  Scar after scar after scar mottled her once-perfect arms. Raised white scars. Radiating the fury that was threatening to unleash within me, I stood up, stepping away from Dolly.

  Mrs. Jenkins saw what had ignited my anger. She backed away from me toward the door. Her back slammed against the wood and small, frightened sounds slipped from her throat as her hand searched frantically for the knob. I walked forward and slowly crowded her space.

  “He . . . he’ll know you’re out,” she warned, the whites of her eyes shining bright with fear. I could smell its musty scent clogging the stale air between us.

  “He won’t.” I raised my knife and ran the blunt side down her wrinkled cheek. Her breath hitched as the cold steel kissed her crepe-thin skin. “Tell me,” I said, watching the light from the window reflect off the brushed steel blade. “Did you enjoy it?”

  Her breathing stuttered.

  “Did you enjoy taking the children into the den of wolves? Did you enjoy their screams? The sight of blood and cum running down their little legs as they staggered back into the office, only to be taken by another, then another, then another, night after night, year after year?” I moved my head closer to her face until the tip of my nose was just millimeters from her cheek. “Did you enjoy dressing my Dolly up in her favorite dress and presenting her like a shiny porcelain toy to her fucked-up daddy? Her uncles? Drugged and unable to fight them off?”

  “P-please,” Mrs. Jenkins begged.

  “The money must have been real good to sacrifice your charge that way.” I ran the blade down to Mrs. Jenkins’s throbbing pulse. I paused, my mouth beside her ear. “I always wondered what your blood would look like gushing from your main vein. Running down your chest and soiling your clothes.” Mrs. Jenkins whimpered again. I reared back, feigning surprise. “Oh, did you actually entertain the thought that you would be allowed to live?” I shook my head slowly in disappointment. “None of you will, Mrs. Jenkins. Every one of you will pay in the most painful way possible. To me, and to my Dolly, my Wonderland darlin’ . . . and there’ll be your blood and all the others’ blood pouring in rivers of penance, slipping through the cracks in houses’ wooden floors all over my Lone Star State.” I moved forward, my face just an inch from hers. “Mmm . . . I can just smell it now. Taste it. Savoring its warmth as it licks at my tongue.” I bit my bottom lip and moaned. “My cock gets hard just thinking of it.”

  “You always were evil, child. From the moment your mother dropped you off at these gates, you polluted the air.”

  I pulled back a fraction. “You may well be right.” I smiled coldly. “I always had a penchant for the dark.” I shrugged. “And death . . . such sweet, messy, poetic deaths.”

  With a quick slice of my hand, I slashed the blade across her throat and stepped back as Mrs. Jenkins clutched at her neck. Blood seeped between her fingers as her eyes fixed on me in horror, and she gargled, drowning before my very eyes.

  I tilted my head as I watched her in fascination. Her legs shook, until they finally gave way and she plummeted to the ground. I crouched beside her, studying the body draining of life. She watched me, eyes meeting mine.

  I never once looked away.

  She gasped. She choked. Then with a final gargle, she stilled. Hands falling to her sides, her eyes frozen in their deathly stare.

  I sighed and wiped the blood from my blade onto her clothes. “Just as I expected . . . highly disappointing.”

  Getting to my feet, I reached into my vest pocket and pulled out the cards. “Queen of Hearts,” I announced, running my thumb over the card I’d made by hand, the perfect likeness of her on one side—Mrs. Jenkins’s pencil-drawn face staring up at me. My lip curled in disgust, then with a flick of my wrist, I sent the card sailing through th
e air to land on her bloodied chest. “One down, six to go.”

  I moved back to Dolly, who was still sitting on the chair. The boombox continued playing her mama’s favorite tunes. I watched her fingers and saw them twitch again.

  She was definitely in there.

  Leaning forward, I placed my mouth at her ear. “Dolly, I’ve come back to get you, darlin’.” I closed my eyes when her rose perfume filled my nose. “Like I said I would.” I took a deep breath. “We’re going on an adventure, darlin’. Your White Rabbit is here to take you to Wonderland. I found the rabbit hole in this house. All those years as kids we searched for it, with no luck. But I’ve found it, darlin’. And soon, down the rabbit hole we will go.”

  I closed my eyes and remembered those days . . .

  “Today we’ll try the east wing, Rabbit.” Dolly pulled a hand-drawn map from the pink purse that crossed over her chest and laid it on the floor. “We’ll start here and move through every room, searching every nook, every cranny, every crevice and every loose floorboard.” She beamed at me in excitement. “Today’s the day, Rabbit. I can feel it!” She said that every time we searched the house, and grew sad when we found nothing. After every unsuccessful search, she would put her arm around my waist, cuddling in, saying, “The way to Wonderland is here, Rabbit. I know it . . . and one day we will find it. Find it and escape. You and me, Rabbit. We will have the greatest adventure of all. I just know it . . .”

  Dolly’s head twitched, pulling me from the past. And I smiled when I moved back and blue eyes switched from the direction of the window to clash with mine. There was no life yet. Little real sign of my darlin’ beneath, but there was movement nonetheless.

  She was hearing me.

  There was a modicum of hope.

  “Be right back, darlin’.”

  I ran down to my car. I took what I needed from the trunk and rushed back up the stairs. Kicking back the carpet in the back hallway, I began cutting a hole in the floorboards with the saw. It took me an hour to finish. Next, I went into Mrs. Jenkins’s room. Predictably, her stash of cash was under her mattress: hundreds and hundreds of thousands of dollars. All for feeding the wolves, unable to be deposited in a bank lest she would have to explain the source of the payment. Abusers furtively sneaking around in the dark.