Dolly wiped a crumb of cake from her mouth as I observed the people watching her. Looking at her as if she was mad. She was, of course. But so was I.
It was what I loved most about us.
“Rabbit?” Dolly asked. I turned my attention to her. “Would you be a sweetie and pour the tea?”
“My pleasure, darlin’.” I rose from my seat, picked up the teapot nearest to her and poured some into her cup. Dolly waited with a huge smile on her face. She pulled the cup close to her and lifted the milk jug beside her. She froze. When she looked up, everyone became a statue, all eyes fixed on her. “Drink your tea, please,” she said kindly. She poured the milk into her tea. The walking corpses did nothing. “I said, drink your tea!”
The pricks scrambled for the teapots in front of them. I poured a cup for myself. Dolly reached for the sugar lumps in the center of the table. “One lump or two, Rabbit?”
“Two, darlin’.”
Dolly plopped two sugar lumps into my tea, then did the same to her own. She lifted her cup, and then she looked at me. I mimicked her movement, but I saw her eyes narrow. Winking at her, I stuck out my little finger. She giggled. Without looking around, she said, “You had all better have your pinkies in the air. I do not drink tea with people who do not. It’s so uncouth!”
Dolly flicked her eyes up, and everyone, in unison, lifted up their pinky fingers. Dolly sighed in relief and brought her cup to her lips. What happened next seemed to flow in slow motion. Dolly, eyes closed, took a sip of tea. The instant the tea touched her lips, her eyes snapped open and she spat the tea onto the table.
Everyone froze, backs bunched in fear, as Dolly dropped the teacup, the fine china smashing on the tiled floor. Dolly’s head remained down, her thick blanket of blond hair hiding her face. Her hands were flat on the table, but I could see them shaking. Her fingers scrunched into tight fists.
She made a noise under her breath. A snarl. A grumble . . . a fucking ascending roar. Suddenly, Dolly reached for the gun at her waist and fixed her eyes on the whore to my right. Without hesitation, she pulled the trigger and, with a deafening bellow, sent a fucking metal slug straight between the bitch’s eyes. Her blood splattered across my face. Our hosts screamed. Dolly seethed, her eyes wide with rage, shoulders tight with the need to kill. I wiped a drop of blood from my face and brought it to my mouth. My lips curled in disgust.
The whore tasted as fucked-up as her choice in men.
“Darjeeling . . .” Dolly said under her breath. The screams around us began to fade. “Darjeeling . . .” she repeated, louder this time. Dolly’s eyes shut tight as her body began to shake. She grabbed her knife off the table. Not a sound could be heard. Dolly snapped her head up, her face bright red. “Darjeeling . . .” The word cracked from the rage lacing her voice. “I don’t drink Darjeeling.” Her pursed lips pulled back and she screamed, “I ONLY DRINK FUCKING EARL GREY!”
Dolly spun to the whore to her right and swiped her knife clean across her throat, slicing apart her silk scarf in the process. But she wasn’t finished. As the whore grabbed her throat, spluttering as she choked on her blood, Dolly’s eyes collided with Tweedledum and Tweedledee. “Who was responsible for this?” she asked, picking up the teapot in front of her. She tipped the teapot and poured the now lukewarm tea on the tabletop. She released the teapot from a height, the china smashing when it hit the table.
Tweedledee, panicked, pointed to a man two seats down to my right. I rolled my attention his way and watched as the blood visibly drained from his face. I recognized him from the pictures—another child abuser. I focused on the pulse in his neck. It was beating so fast. I wanted to take my thimble and pluck it from his throat. “I . . .I . . .I . . .” he stuttered. His hands flew into the air. Dolly glared, positively vibrating with anger. “I . . . I have shares in a tea company . . . it’s my favorite. I brought it as a gift to the hosts.”
Dolly stilled, and her head slowly tipped to the side. She never took her eyes off him. “It’s your favorite,” she repeated his words quietly, without emotion. The kid-rapist searched the table. All his friends on the opoosite side were dead. He nodded, answering her question. “It’s your favorite . . .” Dolly continued, her tone lifting slightly at the end. She closed her eyes and brought the heel of her hand to her forehead. “It’s his favorite, he says,” she said to herself. “Darjeeling is his favorite tea. He has shares in a tea company.” Her eyes opened, but they were glazed. Her head dipped again.