Amy Chelsea Stacie Dee by Mary G. Thompson

year.
    There were tears and more tears.
    Bruises and a cut all down my left arm.
    Screams.
    A key on a lanyard around Kyle’s neck.
    A pair of scissors in the kitchen.
    I made it to the door before he woke up. My hands shook, but I got the lock open.
    I thought Dee was behind me.
    She was behind me, but so was Kyle. He was standing in the doorway holding her, his big arms wrapped around her neck and shoulders.
    â€œI’ll kill her,” he said. He didn’t even have to yell it. I had only gotten as far as the Subaru.
    â€œGo!” Dee yelled. Tears streamed down her face. “Go go go go!”
    Kyle clamped a hand over her mouth. “She’s my Stacie,” he said. “No one can take her.” He was crying, too. He clung to her. “I’ll kill her if you ever tell. She’s mine.”
    Dee’s eyes were still saying
go
. She wanted me to save myself, even if he would have done it. And I thought about it. For three impossibly long seconds, my legs braced themselves to run.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    â€œI hate him,” I say, and my voice cracks. I grip the sides of my chair and try to hold the emotion back. I’m not supposed to show emotion here. I have to hold it in for them. Because he thinks they’re his, too, and he’ll never let anyone take them. My arms shake as I release my hands from the chair, let them fall back into my lap.
    â€œThat’s also okay,” she says.
    â€œMy mom used to tell me that I couldn’t hate,” I say. “She said I didn’t have to like everyone, but I did have to love them.” I think that was something she got from church. We haven’t done any praying before dinner since I’ve been back, I realize. I wonder if she would still tell me that.
    â€œThere’s no way you have to feel,” says Dr. Kayla. “Hate is a natural emotion. I want you to feel whatever you feel. Recognizing those feelings is the first step in letting yourself heal.” She wants to ask why I hate him. I can tell. But she’s afraid I’ll shut down again. She thinks that I’m close to breaking.
    â€œI hate him,” I say again. I’m recognizing that feeling. Itdoesn’t hurt anyone for me to recognize it. “I hate him.” I stand up. “I hate him.” I pace around the room.
    Dr. Kayla watches me and says nothing. She’s waiting for me to snap.
    â€œIt must have taken a lot of courage to leave,” she says. “You need to give yourself credit for that.”
    I stop pacing and turn back to her. This is her way of asking.
How did you get away, Amy? Where are they?
    â€œIt’s hard to come back into the world,” she says. “And look at you. You aren’t wearing purple today.”
    â€œThere weren’t that many purple clothes at the mall,” I say.
    Why do you like purple so much, Amy?
Well, that one I can tell her. It won’t give anything away.
    â€œMy name is Chelsea, you know, like the doll? And he had one that was wearing this purple dress.”
And he had a Stacie doll that wore pink.
“Chelsea had brown hair like me, and so she was me, and I had to look like her.”
And the Stacie doll had blond hair like Dee. So Dee was Stacie.
    â€œHow did you feel about that?”
    â€œI didn’t care what color I wore.”
    â€œHow did you feel about getting a different name?”
    â€œI didn’t like it,” I say. I start pacing again. “I told him my name was Amy.”
    â€œWhat happened when you did that?”
    â€œHe hit me.” He knocked me across the room. I wasn’t really hurt that time, but he could have hurt me. He could have killed me with a single kick.
    â€œWere you hurt?” Her expression is neutral. She’s lying in wait. Hoping I’ll give up a name, a place.
    â€œNo.”
    And that’s it for the session. I walk