The Dollhouse

Chapter 13

ARABELLA had been in his study.

The encounter was brief - so brief, it was a wonder I had noticed to begin with. With my bedroom at that end of the house, I often heard people coming down the hall. The sound of the study door closing was insignificant - like a slight brushstroke on a canvas.

However, brushstrokes can paint an entire picture.

I won't forget the sight of Whiskers' damaged body. Blind thumping panic came over me.

My breath had been snatched from my throat. Nonexistent fingers tightened around my windpipe.

The Dollhouse cast a shadow over the blood-stained concrete. It loomed over us, mockingly, with the nightmarish characteristics of a horror film. The Edwardian architecture seemed garish, warped, ugly. The cruelty was displayed for all the suburbs to see. Whiskers was dead. And it was as if everything charming had died with her.

Why? Why did she do it?

My stepmother had never held a fondness for creatures. She never liked the idea of a cat in her house, eating her houseplants or scratching her precious furniture. But murder? Surely that was reserved for the sadists, the psychopaths.

Maybe I had no idea of what Arabella was capable of.

I buried her in the flowerfields, alone.

Betsy had gone on, but not without prayers offerings to help, even though I was pretty sure she didn't identify as a Christian. I saw her face, riddled with sympathy as she reluctantly left me to clean up the body. With a borrowed shovel from the gardening shed, I wrapped Whiskers in an old towel. I couldn't face seeing anyone. So with dirty hands, I set off with a rotten feeling growing in the pit of my stomach like dying flowers.

The harvest was over. I had walked a few miles, sweating, my arms aching from the weight of the bundle.

It wasn't until I finished digging that I snapped.

The emotional strain got to me. My beloved pet, my company on lonely nights, had been taken away. I lifted her lifeless form into the makeshift grave. The blood had dried black on my clothes.

I hadn't even noticed my shadow.

Behind, Violet approached me. I was utterly pathetic. Kneeling on my knees in the dirt, tears streaked down my face. No words came from my sister's lips. Instead, without making a fuss about spoiling her dress, she crouched beside me.

Homesickness washed over me. Violet despite her dark apathy, did possess the same softness as my mother. The thought made me cry harder.

Before I knew what had happened, I had spilled everything to her.

Arabella was like a hard candy that had lost the sugar coating. When Rudy had his piano lesson that day, the look she gave me could only be described as piercing. My stepmother had not shown obvious disdain for us Fitzgerald siblings, save the cold dinnertime pleasantries. There was no doubt our mere existence was a reminder she would never be Daddy's first spouse.

"Did she do this because she hates us?" Violet brooded. "Or because she hates him?"

"Neither," my voice cracked. "She did it because she loves him."

That was true. Flaws and fortune aside, Arabella loved my father.

Had I exposed the affair with my careless words?

Or had at least aroused enough suspicion for her to snoop around in his study.

"It's my fault," Violet looked like there were splinters in her heart. "I pissed her off. I should've taken care of you better. I've been a terrible sister."