Page 20 of She’s a Doll

My stitches screamed in protest as I twisted my head, just enough to see the ratty old hem of my dress snagged on the protruding edge of an ancient encyclopedia.

Fuck. Fuck. No. It was OK. It was good, actually. If I fell from this height, I wouldn’t get hurt. Maybe. I could do this. Just . . .

I kicked my legs, trying to shake loose, but only succeeded in rocking myself gently back and forth. I grabbed on to my skirt, pulling it sharply, but my porcelain hands were useless⁠—palms open, fingers melded together.

I could’ve been a cowgirl.

Heck, even the ballerina’s tutu or the schoolteacher’s hand with an apple glued into it would’ve been better than this.

I hung for a moment, my anger exhausted. The room spun slowly around me, the angle sickeningly strange after so long up high. The birdcages, the sewing machine, the old stripy wallpaper.

There was a puddle-shaped stain on the carpet that hadn’t been there before⁠—big and faint, but enough to be noticeable. I wondered if it was vodka. I wondered if it was piss. People wet themselves when they died, right? I hoped so. I hoped I’d pissed on Kyle.

A rumble, like thunder, but closer, uglier.

Slowly, my stitches pulling sharp at the fabric of my neck, I looked up. Cookie was standing in the doorway. He was so still that for a moment I thought time had frozen again. But no. I was still swinging, the clock was still ticking⁠—slower than normal, but not by much⁠—and Cookie was staring at me, hackles up, tail as stiff as a stick behind him.

Hey, I thought, trying to telepathically project the world into his head. Hey, boy. It’s me.

He growled again, the sound slowed and deepened, full of menace.

I racked my mind for something I could do to scare him off. All I could think of was that old poster hanging up at the swimming center. What to Do in Case of Shark Encounter. Someone had crossed out “Encounter” and written “Attack” in spiky red letters.

Step One: Don’t panic.

Step Two: Don’t swim away.

Step Three: Beg God for mercy. This one had been added by the graffitist with the red marker.

The real step three wasn’t much better.

Step Three: Spread your arms and legs, make yourself look as big as possible.

Step Four: If it moves toward you, strike it in the nose, eyes, or gills.

There was no step five, but the red marker had drawn a skull and crossbones at the bottom of the poster.

I couldn’t swim away even if I tried, and I didn’t think I could punch Cookie in the nose either. I summoned up as much anger as I could and spread my limbs, slowly, into the shape of a starfish.

It’s me, boy. Please don’t hurt me. Please don⁠—

Time blurred.

Cookie was suddenly in my face, cavernous maw open, teeth as long as my hand. Terror roared inside me, wild and desperate. I kicked and clawed at my skirt, trying to break free, but it was too late. Cookie’s jaws closed around my middle, hot breath rushing over me like the wind. He pulled me off the bookcase with a jerk that tossed my head back so sharply I felt a thread snap.

I knew what Cookie did to toys. He ripped them up, spitting out stuffing and cracking any hard bits between his teeth. Then, when he was done, he picked up the pieces, wriggled out the too-small doggy door in the kitchen, and buried them in the backyard.

I imagined the shallow grave, dirt and clay and darkness, pinning me down, crushing me.

I felt like I was choking.

I felt like I was dying.

I felt Kyle’s hands around my neck.

Another blur.

When the world snapped back into focus, I wasn’t underground. I wasn’t in pieces either. I was on the sofa, slumped over on my side, my face pressed against the coarse brown fur on Cookie’s flank. He was curled around me protectively, snoring deep and slow.