dollhouse // billy hargrove

eight

heather's pov

it's a roomy hut and very impressive for someone to make this when they were only a teenager. the door was bolted perfectly, the windows were cut out symmetrically, and there was a light bulb right in the center, able to light up the whole room.

those were only the technical aspects of the hut. what really stood out was the interior design of everything. it was so pleasing to look at.

blue fabric covered the windows, light enough to shine light through but still dark enough if you ever needed to sleep in here. a white rug covers the wooden boards so you can feel some warmth on your feet in the cold, indiana winters. a lone wooden chair stands in the corner of the hut, slanted to allow a whole view of the room. christmas lights, only the white ones, hang from wall to wall above polaroids plastered on the wall, creating extra light just in case the one light bulb wasn't enough to fully inspect the polaroids, pixel for pixel. a simple but elegantly stunning clock hangs on the wall, ticking away at such a mesmerizing pace that you could get lost in. the yellow surfboard, representing he's from california.

there were so many specific details, you could sit in here every single day for weeks and still not capture every beautiful moment.

"welcome to my childhood." he gestures, spinning in a circle with his arms out. "where to begin." he fades off.

"just start wherever, i'll listen." i assure him. his eyes look at me, the anger disappeared.

"you may have noticed all the random objects and the huge wall of polaroids, basically it all has a story." he starts, "the polaroids are in chronological order. there gets to be a section where i grow up all of a sudden, polaroids stopped being taken, memories stopped being made. as of right now, i haven't added to this wall in 3 years." he laughs, holding back pain as he points at his 15 maybe 16 year old self in the last photo taken of him with some girl.

i nod my head to show i'm listening.

"so if we are going to explain how i became such an asshole," he chuckles "we have to go in chronological order." i stand beside him and look up at the polaroid wall. the first one being him and a red bike, smiling.

"my first bike and last gift from neil. i wanted to be like him so bad. he had a motorcycle that i always wanted to ride that was exactly this color. i'd always tell him how much i would grow up to be exactly like him, so this was the first step, getting a bike. after he taught me to ride a bike, his parenting finished, he gave up on everything else."

he skips a few and places his finger delicately on the next one he would be explaining. he had a baseball glove on his hand, holding a baseball, posing like any baseball player would.

"i fucking hated baseball, but ended up playing for years to try and please neil. even though he only showed up to one game. but that game proved in itself that i was terrible at baseball and neil didn't want to be known as the bad kid's father." he stumbled over the word father as if he barely has said it. he points at the annual baseball photos from each year ranging around eight to twelve. "he would always call me a pussy because i would always run away when i couldn't do something. this was my run away spot i made when we came to indiana. but now, i don't really run away from anything anymore." referencing his scratches and bruises from all the fights he has gotten in.

he had a lot to say that was all kept in for years. he never had anyone to talk to ever since his mother left and they ran away to indiana to start a new life. no one had cared about him for years. i've never heard him talk this much, especially about his home life.

"around 12, he started to show his anger more physically than just verbally. he would slap my mother for quote on quote being a whore, which is why he thinks every girl that shows up on the doorstep is one." he pauses, "sorry about that." he apologizes for neil's actions.

"don't worry about it." i reassure him.

"after i saw him punch my mother, my whole attitude changed towards him. i wanted to stay away for as long as possible but i also needed to protect my mom. so i would always yell and tell him to get away. he didn't like that. as soon as my mom left, i just got more angry. angry at her for leaving, even though i don't blame her now. the only time we used to talk was on february 12th, my birthday, but she hasn't called for years now. i don't bother calling her because she probably doesn't want it anyway, that's why she hasn't called. angry at him for making her leave. angry at susan for trying to replace my mother and bringing someone new into my life."

his fingers intertwined with mine as he took a moment to breathe and think things out, but i don't think he meant to grab my hand.

"once we fled california, his words turned into punches. and i was the punching bag." his hand holds tighter. he points to a photo of him at a party, bruises covered his body. "people thought it was from just any typical high school fight. no one really gets to know you when you're an asshole. they just assume it all."

"it's a dollhouse. no one truly gets to know another person until they open up the doors. perfect and beautiful on the outside, but what's on the inside gives them the choice to continue to play with you or leave you because you are broken and not as beautiful as you were on the outside."

"i was the dollhouse that broke on the outside." referencing his appearance and his well known anger. "let's go somewhere else. somewhere happier." his hand still intertwined with mine. i don't want to let go before he does.

he makes his way to the door quickly realizing i'm dragging behind him, "sorry." he says quietly letting go of my hand, "i didn't mean that. when did that even hap-" i stop him.

"it's okay, billy."

"you know i've never brought anyone in there before." he says as he closes the door behind him, "there's just something about you, heather. something special."

maybe he really isn't the asshole i thought he was.