In Pieces
sneak past the doorway. I winced some when the hinges of the front door creaked as we stepped through it and out onto the porch. I walked quickly a few feet behind my uncle, the doll in his arms watching me from over his shoulder as he held it like people do when burping babies. The closer we got to the truck, the safer I began to feel. As the fear subsided in my stomach, anger replaced it. Instead of walking to the passenger door, I followed Uncle Sarge to the driver’s side. I became disgusted as the doll continued to stare at me, smiling gloriously in complete ignorance of how much trouble it could have caused me. Almost uncontrollably, I uncurled my fingers from the fists I had balled them into during our getaway and extended them towards the eyes watching me. Like the high-pitched whistle of a ready pot of tea, the memory of my Mama’s screams at Uncle Sarge filled my head and steamed through my tear ducts. In that moment the back of my uncle’s neck, peaking above his collar and below his hair, had flushed from the excitement and was like a big red button begging to be pressed. Reaching up, I grabbed a clump of the doll’s false brown curls and yanked it from my uncle’s grip. I watched as the doll crashed into the gravel and broke into pieces, revealing its hollow insides, revealing parts not covered in fleshtoned paint. My Uncle yelped loudly at the shattering sound the doll made when it hit the ground, as if something had hit him hard in the ribs. He turned, and at the sight of the smashed pieces on the ground fell to his knees, putting his hands on either side of his head and squeezing himself so hard that a vein in his forehead bulged, and I could see it beating from under his skin with a vigorous pulse. Tears welled in his eyes and I watched as his dark brown irises dampened in sorrow, the watery polish over them making them appear nearly black. A shiver ran up my spine as he became childlike. He looked similar to the doll before I had broken it into the scattered pieces on the ground. Like a rain shower leaves puddles, my uncle filled the insides of the doll’s broken hands and feet with little pools of saltwater tears that streamed down his sweaty face. Charlie’s face had been split in two. I watched as my uncle took part of the broken smile in his hands and held it close to his heart, rocking back and forth. His stunning movements were dizzying, and confusion twirled around in my head like the hurricane of regret that made loops in the pit of my stomach. It seemed that whatever wild emotion had hooked into Uncle Sarge’s soul and urged him to take the doll had got a hold of me in a different way and forced me to break it. At the time I didn’t know 26