Page 36 of Where's Molly

“That don't matter to me, baby. Come on, you know better than that. Even if I was a fucking stand-up citizen, I'd go down in history like everybody else. Forgotten. My name carved in some stupid gravestone that people pass by and don't look twice at. And ya know what? The same thing will happen to you.”

“Yeah, you're right,” I say, my voice breathless and trembling. “But at least when I go down, I'll be able to say I took as many of you sick fucks as I could with me.”

Another full belly laugh releases from his throat, though the desperation is evident. He doesn't want to die, and at any moment, he's going to renew his fight.

So, Imake a quick decision and slice the opposite side of his throat. He'll bleed out eventually, but it won't be over before I'm ready.

His eyes widen, and his mouth flops while he chokes on his own blood. Blood that spurts onto my face, neck, and chest.

“Fucking bitch!”

Uncaring, I lean forward until his eyes find their way to mine, his pupils little pinpoints.

I shake my head. “No. You don't get the privilege of seeing me while you die.”

Dropping the ceramic, I cup his face between my palms and place my thumbs over his eyes.

“No, no, no!” he shouts, though the words are garbled. His fingers wrap around my wrists, attempting to pull them away. But the blood loss has made him weak, and he fails miserably.

It takes a few seconds of pushing until I feel his eyes pop. His answering scream is loud, broken, and full of agony. It's a sound I've grown accustomed to with other girls in Francesca's house. Before, it shattered my heart when I heard it. Now, I feel nothing.

Crimson puddles in the craters of his pulverized eyes, flooding my hands, and down either side of his face. A sea of red.

I chuckle aloud. “Moses probably wouldn’t appreciate me calling your face the Red Sea, huh?” I laugh again, the sound hoarse and broken. “Then again, he probably isn't appreciating any of this.”

I don't stop until I've smashed them into his puny brain and his struggles cease.

The earth got a little cleaner today.

His hands drop from my arms, and as he goes completely limp, so do I. I just… deflate. Like his eyeballs, I suppose.

That thought wrings another tired giggle out of me.

I'm covered in blood, sweat, and probably other shit I don't want to know about. My heart is racing, and my lungs are incredibly tight.

Killing… killing isa lotof fucking work.

Then, my thoughts spiral, and panic overtakes me. How the fuck am I going to cover this up?

“Shit,” I whisper, dropping my head.

Thankfully, the neighbors are drug addicts, too, and there were many nights when they were in screaming matches that rivaled Mom and Dad’s. Our struggle shouldn’t raise any of their concerns, and even if it did, I doubt they’d be kind enough to call the police.

As for his job, it's not unusual for Dad to not show up without warning. He's lost many jobs over the years, primarily due to him going on binges. Sometimes for weeks at a time. They might call for a week, but eventually, they'll give up.

Same for his friends—they don’t bother coming over unless he’s offering them drugs.

Raymond Devereaux doesn't have anyone that actually gives a shit about him.

But he is in the public eye now.

Francesca used to turn on the TV and show me all the news reports and search parties after I was kidnapped. She would laugh and laugh about how many people were looking for me.

“Look at aaalll those people. And not a single one will find you.”

She found that funny.

And now, I need to ensure that's exactly what happens. They can never find me. They can never know I came back here.

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