28Cecil took Imogen’s Diet Coke out of her hand, and he chugged the rest of it. His hand shook as he held the bottle to his neck, trying to cool down as his heart throbbed in his chest.
He heard the muffled cries from a girl in the anorexia ward—resigned, prolonged whimpers. He closed his eyes and imagined Annabelle lying on the gurney. She was a doll—f****d, broken, and refurbished in a consumer’s cycle. He feared that when he saw her in person, he would turn her head for a kiss and two beady, lifeless doll eyes would replace her caramel hues, and a line of crude stitching would replace her lips.
“Are you okay, Cecil?” Imogen asked.
“Why fake her death? What happened?”
“Look, I’ve changed. I’m not the man who I was. Ever since I became Imogen, I got nicer.”
“You call this nicer?”
“I
