A/N:-
Reccommended song:-
Yunas Ballad - Final Fantasy X-2
This song inspired this chapter and was based around it.
I highly reccommend listening to it while you read this chapter.

Franks POV

"Lolita, you need to come home with me, we can't stay here." I whisper into her hair, damp from the humidity in the air. She snuffles a wordless reply, pressing her face into my shirt, savouring my smell.

I gently push her back onto her knees, allowing my fingers to trail through her damp and matted hair and down her jawline before folding my hand into my lap. Lolita gives another snuffle, not knowing what to do.

"C'mon, go get some clean and comfy clothes and whatever else you need. Once we get back to mine you can have a shower and some-thing to eat. I don't care what my old folks say, you can stay for the night if you like."

She nods, again staring blankly at the floor, tears still shining on her face. I unwillingly give a little shiver. Jeez, this place is like just out of a horror movie. It's cold, quiet, dark and musty. Not to mention the blood stains and unseen memories.

I give her a bit of a poke to encourage her to do some-thing, and she obeys by getting up and shuffling down the corridor, presumably for her bedroom. I decide to follow. As impolite as I suppose it is, I want to see more of this place, not to mention her most personal space itself.

I follow her through a door, expecting it to look the same as the rest of the house – dark, grey, dripping with blood and sinking with depression – but I'm amazed by what I find. The most striking thing is that the room is a soft pink and lilac. I gaze around in awe. It looks like the bedroom of a 5 year old girl, not a suicidal teenager.

The furniture units are white, covered in what appears to be plain junk. But then I take a closer look. On top of the chest of drawers there is a little pot containing tiny necklaces and bracelets, far too small for her wrists. Next to this pot is a tiny doll, the eyes dull and the colours faded. Beside the doll, propped against the wall, is a photo frame. I move towards it, saddened by the image it contains. A young Lolita, aged around 3, smiles out the picture, wrapped in the arms of a happy married couple. The couple lay loving, protective arms around their daughter, surrounded by the green grass of a field, picnic tables and other children in the background, running and playing. The suns shines down on the happy family, bathing them in a warm glow. I touch my finger against the glass of the photoframe.

Poor Lolita, she had no idea what would happen.

I feel a tear prickle at my eye and rub it away quickly. I turn away, my eyes resting on her bed. The bed itself is a bunk bed; but with the lower bunk converted to a sort of sofa den. Pink and purple curtains hang around the lower bunk as if to offer privacy. Inside it's like a grotto of young Lolitas, smiling out from their glossy pictures stuck against the wall at whoever looks. They all seem to be aged before 5. The ever-happy Lolitas smile out at the make-shift sitting area, the mattress covered in all sorts of different coloured and styled cushions. From the dip in the cushions in the middle, I guess that Lolita spends a lot of her time sitting there, staring back at all those unrecognisable selves.

The bed is covered by a Barbie quilt with a matching pillow. They seem to have been recently washed, but I can tell by the fading and fraying that those covers have been on that bed for a long, long time.

On a shelf by the top bunk there is a clock, a cup and another small doll, knocked down on its side. It lays there forlornly, able to see Lolita anytime she ventures in, having recorded every emotion Lolita has dared express – in those dull plastic orbs.

I swallow, my throat dry. I look over at Lolita who stands at the wardrobe, deciding what clothes to take to my house.

I gaze into the wardrobe, my eyes falling upon all the gothic, dark outfits that hang there. Then, in the corner of the wardrobe, tucked away – I spy tiny dresses, flowery tops and heart decorated skirts. They are kept in the corner, far too small to wear, but too precious to her memory to be removed.

I blink, saddened by how different Lolita looks, how much she stands out in her own room. Like an intruder.

I move my gaze away from her and allow it to settle on a jewellery box. Around it lays all the metal jewellery she wears, so – as curiosity would depict – I step closer to see what's inside. The top is closed but the bottom draw is open, exposing tiny, brightly coloured rings, bracelets, necklaces and earrings. Again, the sorts of things a small girl would wear.

I reach out and pick up a tiny glass bracelet, the beads glinting where the pale sunlight reflects. It is far too small for her wrist, yet it has been very well kept. I roll the beads around my finger. As I do so, I notice that each bead has a letter engraved into it. I align them and read the message:

WE LOVE YOU LOLITA

The bracelet glints innocently in the sun, the heart wrenching message flashing the sun into my eyes, leaving me temporarily blurred. Waving my hand in front of my face in a bid to regain my vision, I place the bracelet back into the drawer.

Once I am able to see again, I blink my eyes at the box lid, covered in dust and evidently untouched for years.

Hesitantly, I reach out and undo the catch before swinging the lid open.

A small ballerina unfolds with the lid, crankily beginning to turn. I freeze as the ballerina turns, spewing out a clunky song in squeaky notes, tinkling a tune that I don't recognise.

I watch it turn a few times before looking back over my shoulder at Lolita, who has stopped what she is doing as she turns to watch me.

"I haven't changed this room since mummy died." she whispers, watching the ballerina turn.

She stands there, a striking contrast to the innocence of the room.

I blink back the tears that surface as I imagine how it must feel to step from the dark, blood-smeared corridors every day into this…time trap.

To instantly transport yourself from such a messed up life to your past, as if stepping from a nightmare into the real world, where mummy is downstairs cooking your tea and daddy sits in his chair reading the newspaper, believing that all you have to do is cry "Mummy!" and suddenly every-thing in the world is okay.

How many times has she gazed into that mirror, watching herself turn from this innocent little girl into a scared, confused teenager, covered in her own blood and hidden behind her own eyes.

I can't help but let a tear fall.

Lolita places a hand softly on my shoulder.

"It's alright, it doesn't upset me. I'll change it once I get better, okay? Let's just go to your house."

I take one last look at her stolen childhood and turn back out into the dark hallway. As I leave, I glance towards the photo again, watching as Lolita picks the frame up, rests a finger lovingly against the glass, and places it photo-side down on the tabletop, mouthing "I'm sorry." at the Lolita she failed to keep alive.

Then we leave her house, the healing process whirring into life.