The Dollhouse

Chapter 31

THE ecstasy draining away, I paid the price for my words. Dearly.

The door bolted and barricaded. The curtains whisked shut, like the occupants were retiring for the night. The night was blanketed with darkness, the garden wet and moon-bathed, and I stumbled onto the cold footpath with a degree of astonishment.

I had been chucked out; no one had followed me.

A rich travesty, indeed - it was my fault for retaliating, when I had been tortured to punish my outlandish sister. Breathing hard through my nose, I whirled around to check if any neighbors were peeking through their windows. The cold was biting me now, goosebumps crawling up my unclothed arms.

Where was I suppose to go? Lay behind the rose bushes until dawn? Sleep on the street like an old vagrant? The sun had disappeared long ago, and I would catch my death of cold out here. I couldn't even see Rudy and Violet attempting to break out - they must have been detained by the monster within.

Pretty bad things happened to young girls out alone at night. Like I was in a dream, I trotted down the path and down the soaked street, the petrichor of rain rising up like an old god.

Could I go to Betsy's? I could, but it was be treacherous heading down that isolated road at night. Besides, Alma and Jeremiah might mistake me for an intruder and call the police or something - I had no idea if the Amish were the paranoid type.

I hadn't been to Sam's either, but Nick's was probably the kindest choice. Would he find it super weird if I turned up for seemingly no apparent reason, or -

Wait.

They were at a party tonight, weren't they? Foggy background talk resurfaced as I thought about the fries we demolished, salty and soft and full of badness. I'd gloomily announced I was heading home - yes, they'd be there!

It was nearly three-quarters of an hour away from walking distance. The exercise warmed my bones. My panic lessened slightly, and I tried to focus on the constellations of stars mapping an atlas above.

I thought about Sherri Benedict, and how young she must have been when she was admitted to the phantom sanatorium (assuming Danny was truthful). Did she suffer under the reign of a cruel mother, get thrown out on the streets to fend for herself?

Maybe it drove her mad.

To my intense relief, I saw a few teenagers gathered on the lawn of a ivy-covered house on the corner of a secluded road. I'd jogged the last few meters, numb to the stabbing stitch in my side. I knew I'd found the place. They'd better still be here, I thought, or I'll wallow in misery and seek refuge at the old church.

The bonfire was the source of warmth illuminating the backyard. Litter and empty bottles lolled around the grass, some broken into shards from some enthusiastic adolescents. Faceless figures were huddled in groups.

I couldn't identify anyone. My heart began pulsing.

"Hey sweetie, want some tipple?"

A tall, unfamiliar girl with tumbling hair bleached at the ends approached me, thin hands clasped around two bottles of unbranded liquor. I didn't know her, but she had a friendly glow to her face. So I grinned back.

"You know what? Yeah, I will."

The liquid in the red cup gave off a putrid, strong-smelling odor that was surely chemical or carcinogenic. I chanced a swig anyway, and the mix burned the back of my throat. Nothing about the experience was pleasant; nevertheless, this entire evening hadn't exactly been a picnic.