Page 2 of Where's Molly

He who was once a rapist and child trafficker is now pig shit.

So fucking poetic.

“You’re lucky I love you little assholes because you guys are fuckingmessy,” I complain to the snorting pigs, wrinkling my nose when I spot a chunk of flesh on the floor outside their pen.

They're absolute pains in my ass most days, but I wouldn't trade them for the world.

They keep me sane.

And the devil knows that's hanging on by a goddamn thread.

Molly

Fifteen Years Ago

October 20th, 2007

“I’m gonna head tothe gas station to grab Layla a few things,” I tell Dad while frowning at the mess in the living room.

Five crushed, empty beer cans are scattered on the end table, along with empty chip bags and dip with the lid left open.

My father is anxiously peering out of the tattered curtains, shirtless, his pot belly bulging out over his jeans. His gray hair is balding on top, and despite his stomach, he's a tall, lanky old man with a defined jaw, eyebrows that are constantly furrowed, and wrinkles covering every inch of his face.

“No, I need you here. You’ve been gone all damn day,” he snaps, hardly sparing me a glance.

It’s after eight-thirty at night, and I’ve been waitressing at the diner all day. I’m exhausted, but for what feels like the millionthtime, she’s out of diapers and no one mentioned it. I'm turning twenty tomorrow, but I'll have to pick up another shift now that I'm spending today’s tip money on Layla.

“She needs her diaper changed, and there isn’t any more,” I argue.

He snarls, letting the curtain fall as he faces me.

“She ain’t none of your concern.”

But she is.

She’s sure as fuck nothisconcern, even though she’s his daughter.

Dad scratches his arm, track marks blemishing his skin. Again, he glances toward the curtains, as if he’s waiting for someone to show up. Probably one of his creepy friends, sure to arrive with a book bag full of drugs, despite the fact that he just made me buy him some yesterday.

“I won’t be longer than twenty minutes,” I reason. “I just need diapers and formula.”

Anxiety spikes in my chest as Layla begins to cry from upstairs. I just laid her down, and I had hoped she’d stay asleep until I got back. She’s been fussy for the past week. Right when her eyes close and I think she’s finally asleep, they pop right back open and she releases a sorrowful wail that rips my heart out.

“Let me get Layla settled first, and I’ll—”

“No,” he barks. “If you’re going to go, then go now. I ain’t got all fucking night.”

“Fine,” I mumble.

My four-month-old sister is now screaming at the top of her lungs, while our mother is knocked out on the couch, her mouth open and drool trailing down her chin as she softly snores.

A used needle lies on the coffee table in front of her, a bead of blood still staining the tip.

She won’t be waking up, which means that Layla will be left to her tears while I’m gone.

Sighing, I head toward the door, pausing briefly when I hear Dad call out, “And grab me a pack of cigs and another six-pack of beer!”

I don’t bother answering—not that he expects one. He knows I’ll do what he says. If I don’t, I’ll have to invest in another bottle of concealer. The one I have is almost empty.

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