Page 7 of Where's Molly

Inhaling a deep breath, I creep toward my bedroom door. The crickets chirp loudly from outside my window, as if they're cheering me on. Rooting for a precarious escape. One that is likely to kill me.

But I'd rather die rebelling than die submitting.

Sweat forms along my brow as I slowly turn the rusty knob, cringing when it squeals. I swear to God, this house was built when the dinosaurs roamed and is filthier than Francesca's sins.

The hinges creak, though it doesn't stop me from swinging open the door. There are three other girls sleeping in their respective rooms. There's a chance that if one of them catchesme, they'll alert Francesca. But I've long since accepted that I'll kill anyone who gets in my way.

No onewill keep me from Layla.

My heart races, gaining momentum and slamming against the inside of my chest as I sneak down the long hallway. Aside from my own pulse, it's dead silent. And fuck, is it creepy.

It's always felt haunted here, yet I was convinced it was by the living. Now, I'm not so sure. Or maybe our sadness is potent, even in our dreams.

I bite my lip, holding my breath while I make my way down the steps, avoiding every soft spot in the wood that creaks. The first thing my eyes gravitate to is the green neon numbers blaring from the stove.

2:30 AM. Perfect.

Moonlight spears through the kitchen window, but I don't bother with anything in here. I've learned to go days without food and water. But I don't plan on depriving myself for long, seeing as I'm confident there's a town nearby.

Francesca’s favorite helper, Rio, makes weekly trips to the grocery store, only gone for a few hours before he returns, and they certainly don't buy in bulk. There has to be a place I can run to and call for help.

I peek into the living room, finding several men laid out over the couch and floor. Five of them. All snoring and surely doped up on drugs, their veins as clogged with chemicals as the dust in the air vents. Their organs are probably floating in an ocean of alcohol, too, pruning in the toxins.

Anearthquake would sooner rock them further into whatever depraved la-la land they wandered into than wake them. I wonder, when pedophiles dream of marrying women their age or walking an old person across the street out of the goodness of their hearts, do they call them nightmares? Do they awake in a cold sweat and with a pit of dread in their stomachs?

Surely, they don't consider dreams of cute puppies and rainbowspleasant.

Regardless, they're the least of my concerns as I slink through the darkened living room, stepping over stray limbs and crushed, empty beer cans.

It's the guard standing outside the house who has a trail of sweat leaking down my spine.

He would better serve as a boulder in the Hoover Dam with how ossified the muscles around his bones are. All those people that built it died for nothing when all that dumb fuck needed to do was just fuckingstand there.

But if he sticks to the routine he’s followed for the last three months, then he should be holding his dick in the woods somewhere, taking a piss break. Typically, he combines it with a smoke break, using it as an excuse to walk around and relieve himself from standing in the same position for hours on end.

Maybe he wouldn't fare so well in the dam.

Holding my breath, I grab the handle with a trembling, sweaty palm and crack open the door, the rusted hinges screaming.

Wincing, I peek over my shoulder, quickly ensuring the men behind me are still unconscious, then slip out the door.

Only to smack directly into a hard chest.

“Where ya goin’, mama?”

Hope, elation, freedom… they fizzle out like a damp firecracker. My bottom lip trembles as I lift my gaze.

Rio.

He wasn't supposed to be on duty tonight.

He’s tall, and his light brown skin is covered in tattoos. His hair is buzzed close to his scalp, accentuating a strong jawline and full lips. Admittedly, he’s incredibly enigmatic, and the only man in this house who doesn’t make us recoil in fear.

He's never been interested in any of us.

Francesca brought him in a few months ago, right after his nineteenth birthday, and not long after he arrived from Puerto Rico. She joked she didn't feel so bad hiring a kid when he's old enough to fuck. I don't think that vile woman is capable of shame or guilt, nor does she pretend to be when she calls him into her bedroom at night.

Just like ours, his eyes are haunted. And unlike the other men, he doesn't leer at the girls or smile when we're raped. In fact, he looks downright sick when it happens.

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