Page 14 of She’s a Doll

“I’m just . . . I don’t think this is . . . You should go.”

“I’m just being nice.”

“I know. Thank you. I mean, seriously. You bought me vodka. No one has ever done that bef⁠—”

“Why are you shouting?”

I wasn’t shouting. “I . . . Kyle. I . . .”

He tried to kiss me again. I pushed him back, harder.

“What the hell?!”

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “Really. I think this has just been a misunderstanding. I really appreciate you coming here but I’m tired and⁠—” I tried to stand.

He grabbed my wrist.

Panic jolted through me, a fevered zigzag of electricity, zapping back all the uncertainty, all the carefulness. I kicked out with a ragged scream, my foot connecting hard with his groin.

He grunted in pain but didn’t let go. His fingers dug in harder, sinking into my skin, squeezing my bones. I tried to yank free, but he dragged me to the ground.

The vodka bottle fell over.

Cookie’s barking reached a fevered pitch, high and manic, like a scream. Except it wasn’t Cookie screaming. It was me.

A hand clamped down over my mouth.

“Shut up shut up shut up shut up,” Kyle snarled.

I didn’t shut up.

I didn’t stop moving either. I kicked and clawed, gouging red marks on his forearms, skin clumping beneath my nails.

The hand over my mouth moved to my neck.

6

They lied to you.

When you die, you don’t see a light.

Actually, it’s the opposite. It’s a darkness that creeps in, bit by bit, like pixels on a broken laptop screen, blazing into technicolor for a brief, vivid moment before sputtering out, one by one.

The green carpet went first. Then the bottle of spilled vodka, the stacks of old birdcages, the lacy curtains, the sewing machine . . .

Cookie’s barking faded along with Kyle’s shouting and the frantic thump of my heart.

Pain sticks around for the longest. My lungs burning like I’d inhaled acid, my mouth gaping in a silent scream, my throat collapsing inward, crushed and broken.

The last thing I saw wasn’t Kyle but what was behind him. Four dolls, sitting on a bookshelf, eyes staring, feet hanging.

A cowgirl, a ballerina, a schoolteacher, and a bride.

When you die, there’s a brief moment where you become unstuck from your body. A splintering. If you’re quick enough⁠—and desperate enough⁠—you can re-stick yourself to an object in the immediate vicinity.

In hindsight, I should’ve picked the cowgirl. Blue jeans are easier to move around in than layers of unhemmed lace, and I reckon I could’ve come up with a use or two for that lasso. However, on the spur of the moment, I chose the bride.

I guess I’m just dramatic like that.