Nightmare Fuel

Soy Dolores

Soy Dolores

By Chucky Omega

'SO, TELL ME ABOUT DOLORES.'

The sound of the ticking pendulum dulled my senses. My body limped, my own meat pinning me down as I drift away inside my memory. Where do I even begin? Dolores was a figment of my terror, a tragic past that I pushed far away at the corner of my mind, hoping it would one day just disappear. Dolores was the nightmare when my eyes are open.

I lived in the suburbs with a loving family. My mother was a devoted Catholic and every day we get to pray at three in the afternoon, then we would pray the rosary at six. I love Jesus and I loved his story of salvation. Mother said that we get to be holy because of him, and he would always save me from harm. I have always believed that.

I was eight when I met this little girl who lived two lots away from ours. A pale half-Japanese kid whose eyes disappeared when she smiled. Her teeth crooked at the front looked like they were greeting each other. Her straight jet black hair glint when she ran under the sun. She would always wear a sundress, whatever the occasion was.

She was the prettiest girl I have ever seen, but she was always shy. Only nods when I talk to her, only follow me around, tries to play what I play. She would smile at me, laugh at my jokes, and I was the only one who was allowed to hold her doll. Dolores.

Dolores was a rag doll with a soft body and a hardback. The batteries power her up so she could speak words that are unfamiliar to me. The girl, Mayumi, said it was Spanish. And we learned words like Hola! Como estas? Soy Dolores...

Dolores was our friend and our teacher. Every noon, when all the kids go out to play, the girl and I would sit on the grass away from the playground. We would hold each of Dolores' hand and she would speak. Hola! Como estas? Soy Dolores...

I would laugh and mimic the words and Mayumi would shake her head and smile. Let's count the children on the playground...

Uno.

Dos.

Tres.

Quatro.

Cinco.

Seis.

Siete.

Otso!

Muy Bien!

We would clap our hands, proud to count in another language as we looked back on the playground as eight jolly kids ran around. Dolores was a smart doll, even then I would think to myself, not noticing anything wrong with it.

With learning comes with fun, we picked up the words pretty quickly and we could speak the language well enough to make it our own secret language whenever we don't want other kids to hear what we were talking about.