Page 70 of Cracked Doll

‎I blink, and I’m not in the ruins anymore. I’m not naked. I’m not with Rhys.

‎I’m in the living room. My living room. From seven years ago.

‎I look down at my hands. They’re tiny. Pale, small fingers clutching the fabric of a dress—my twelfth birthday dress. It’s a frilly, pink monstrosity with a giant white bow at the waist and a black bow on my hair, the kind of thing that made me feel like a doll. I feel a sudden, jarring sense of vertigo. I’m small. I’m twelve again. I’ve been shoved back into my own childhood body.

‎"What cartoons are we watching on the telly?"

‎The voice hits me like a physical blow. I snap my head to the side. Rosalind. She’s sitting right there, her eyes bright, her own pink dress perfectly pressed. She looks so fucking alive it hurts to look at her.

‎Next to her, Cordelia is clutching the remote, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she flips through the channels, settling on the cartoon network. We’re lined up on the sofa—Rosalind at the far end, Cordelia in the middle, and me, pressed against the cold, damp wall at the end. I remember this. This was the night. The fateful, bloody night.

‎We’d just come back from the party at the Tin Heart toy shop. I can still remember the taste of the cake, the way Papa had laughed and taken photos of us, playing the part of the doting father for all the other kids. Then he’d left us alone for a bit, and Cordelia—always the little shit, always the ringleader—convinced us to stay up past our bedtime.

‎The house is too quiet. The only sound is the tinny noise of the television.

‎Then, the front door opens.

‎A man walks in. For years, my mind had scrubbed this moment clean, leaving only a blur of shadow and a feeling of absolute malice. But now, through the haze of the venom, the image crystallizes.

‎I see the knife first. A heavy, wide-bladed butcher’s knife, the steel dull and menacing, catching the dim, yellow light of the room.

‎He doesn't say a word. He doesn't hesitate. He lunges for Rosalind first. Innocently, Cordelia gives her most sincere apology. "We are sorry we are up past our bedtime. Please, don't be angry."

‎The sound is what haunts me—a wet, sickening thud. He drives the blade into her stomach, over and over. I watch in slow motion as the steel rips through the delicate lace of her birthday dress, turning the pink fabric a deep, bruised purple. Rosalind doesn't even have time to scream for the first few blows; she just looks confused, her mouth opening in a silent 'O'. Then it happens—a high, piercing shriek that tears through the room, a sound of pure, primal agony.

‎Cordelia and I scream too, a synchronized wail of terror that fills the small room. He doesn't stop. He just keeps stabbing, the knife sinking deep into her abdomen, her small body jerking and twitching with every plunge until she’s nothing more than a heap of blood and shredded lace.

‎He tosses her aside like a piece of rubbish and grabs Cordelia.

‎She tries to fight, tries to scramble away, her little legs kicking, but he’s too fast. He grips her by the hair, yanking her head back, and drives the butcher’s knife deep into the side of her neck. I hear the cartilage snap—a dry, cracking sound—as the blade nearly severs her head from her shoulders. Blood sprays across the floral wallpaper in a violent, hot crimson arc. He throws her onto the floor next to Rosalind, their dresses soaking up the gore, merging into one great, red stain.

‎Then, he turns to me.

‎I’m paralyzed. I can’t breathe, can’t move a fucking muscle. I’m pinned against the wall by a fear so thick I can taste it. I just stare at him, locked in his gaze.

‎And that’s when I see his face. Completely. Clearly.

‎It’s him.

‎It’s my father.

‎He’s wearing his old brown cardigan, the one with the holes in the elbows, but it’s no longer brown. It’s splattered with thick, dark droplets of blood. His trousers are soaked from the knees down, and his shoes are drenched in the gore of my sisters. But it’s his eyes that break me. They aren't the eyes of the man who bought us cake. They are dark, hollow voids, filled with a murderous, manic hunger. He looks like a predator that has finally finished the cull. And I see my full reflection right in them.

‎I close my eyes, waiting for the steel. I expect the blade to rip through my chest, to feel the cold metal ending my life just like it did theirs.

‎But the blow never comes.

‎He stops. He doesn't stab me. He doesn't even touch me. He just stands there for a heartbeat, breathing heavily, the scent of iron and sweat filling the air. Then, without a word, he turns around and heads into the hallway.

‎I hear his footsteps—heavy, wet thuds—as he goes up to the attic. I can hear him moving things, the sound of floorboards creaking above me.

‎I look down at my sisters. Rosalind’s eyes are open, staring at nothing, the light gone. Cordelia is still twitching, a faint, bubbling sound coming from the hole in her neck, her life leaking out onto the carpet in slow, rhythmic pulses. They’re gone. They’re fucking dead.

‎After a few minutes, he comes back down. The butcher’s knife is gone.

‎He walks toward me, and for a second, I think he’s come back to finish the job. But instead, he reaches out and pulls me into his arms. He wraps me in a hug that feels like a coffin. His clothes, his shoes, his hands—even the skin of his jaw—are covered in my sisters' blood. I can feel the wetness of it soaking into my pink dress.

‎"It's okay, sweetheart," he whispers, his voice suddenly trembling, sounding scared and sad. "You're safe now. Papa's here."