She was glorious.
When she opened her eyes, she smiled in relief, put her hand over her chest, and said quietly, “I am calm now.” Her smile fell as she swept her gaze around the table. Our hosts were all staring at her in abject fear. Pissing themselves at the titan of darkness she had become. She brushed her hair back from her face and fixed her headband.
Suddenly, the whore who had just been covered in blood leaped to her feet. She fled for the door. She had only made it three steps before Dolly pulled her gun from the belt around her waist and fired a bullet straight into the back of the slut’s skull. The slut’s body slumped to the floor. The hooker beside me screamed in horror. I looked around the table. The rest of the fuckers were clearly too terrified to move.
“Anyone else?” Dolly asked, facing the rest of the guests, arms spread wide. She shook her head in disappointment. “You are all trying my patience!”
When no one uttered a single word, she placed her gun back into her waist belt. Turning to the prick she had murdered, now slumped on the tabletop, she grabbed the knife handle and unceremoniously yanked it from his skull. Blood spattered her dress; she tittered in embarrassment and reached for the napkin he had around his neck. She took it and dusted at the bloody spots on her clothes. Unfortunately, that only made it worse; blood oozed from his broken head and onto the napkin, spreading even more crimson stains onto Dolly’s dress.
“There we go!” She looked at her knife. “Ugh,” she said, grimacing at the blood and brain residue clinging to the filigree steel. Shrugging, she looked around for something to wipe it on, before turning to the prostitute to her right. “Excuse me,” Dolly said politely, and wiped the blood on the silk scarf around the whore’s neck. Dolly cast her a grateful smile. “Thank you so much, lovely lady.”
Dolly shook her head in response to something. “What?” she said as she sat down, staring off to the side again. The people around the table looked at one another, fear and confusion haunting their expressions. “Who?” Her gaze wandered to Tweedledee and Tweedledum, who were sitting motionless, casting frequent, worried glances at one another. Their hands twitched in unison on the table’s edge.
I smirked. They were piss-scared of my little Dolly darlin’.
“These two?” Dolly pointed to Tweedledee and then Tweedledum. She shook her head, an incredulous look on her face. “They wouldn’t do that to you, Ellis. I am sure of it . . . they are our hosts. Hosts could never offend in such a manner.” Dolly sighed, and then shook her head again, slowly, sadly. “They wouldn’t hold you down while you were cut open and your insides removed. Surely they could not have taken your baby from your belly, and slapped you around your face when you tried to cry and fight them off.” The twins choked on a shocked breath. Tweedledee’s mouth dropped open. “They look too nice for that.”
She sat down and got comfortable back on her seat. Tweedledum and Tweedledee couldn’t tear their eyes from her.
Because they knew her.
Remembered her.
Feared her.
Then they looked at me.
They looked at the blood coating my mouth . . . and I saw it. I saw it in their frightened eyes the moment they realized who also sat before them . . .
“Heathan,” they mouthed to each other and shifted their chairs back. I shook my head, slowly, warning them without words to stay the fuck down.
And I saw the moment they realized that they wouldn’t be leaving this here tea party alive.
Dolly gasped suddenly, her inhale of air drawing all eyes back to her. “Are we celebrating my unbirthday?” She giggled. Her eyes landed on the cakes and tea before her. On the china teacups and the teapot that steamed with freshly brewed tea.
She looked to Tweedledum and Tweedledee. “Well . . . is it?”
They looked at each other. Tweedledee cleared his throat. “Wh-what is an unbirthday?”
Dolly batted her hand and rested her elbow on the table. “Just a bit of nonsense, really. Yet sooo much fun!” She surveyed the contents of the table and picked up a small plate. She stood and leaned over to the three-tiered cake stand. “So much choice!” Dolly began picking cakes and placing them on her plate. “Carrot cake,” she said excitedly, licking a smear of cream-cheese frosting that had fallen onto her hand. “Fondant fancies . . . and . . . Rabbit!” she squealed. “Scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream!” She veritably hummed with excited happiness as she sat down. She danced in her seat as she put the “scone” into her mouth. It wasn’t a scone, of course. The cakes were none of the ones she had said. This was America. Dolly lived in England in her head.