Page 35 of Where's Molly

“I think I've faced men far scarier than you and survived.”

“You sure about that?” he challenges.

His smile dims,and his gaze slides over to the scar beneath my eye. The very one he gave me when I was ten years old.

I remember that night vividly. Back then, he still had teeth, and he lost his mind to whatever drug he injected into his veins.

He left them all over my body when he raped me.

He, on the other hand, has no recollection of it. If it wasn't for my mom bearing witness to it, he'd be convinced it was someone else. She was also drugged and too delirious to stop him.

Afterward, when Dad attempted to deny it, that was the only moment Mom stood up for me by screaming at him for hurting me. Not because I was assaulted, but because she'd have to explain the bite on my face to the school. The others covering my body could be hidden, just not that one.

Later, she spit on me for trying to steal her husband. As if he wasn't my own father.

Ultimately, it became the result of a play date gone wrong with a nonexistent cousin who had aggression issues. Despite that, it didn't look like a kid's bite; the school believed them, and it was never addressed again.

I cock my head, leaning against the table behind me and resting my linked hands on top. “Do you think a bite to the face is the worst thing that's been done to me? I've lived through so much worse,Dad.”

He sets his cup on the crowded countertop, and his features slacken into a monstrous expression. Chin dropped, mouth hanging open, and an evil glare beneath his eyebrows.

“Not yet, ya haven't,” he threatens darkly.

He edges toward me casually, as if he isn't planning my death. Not by his hands, of course. But by the highest bidder's. While he snorts, smokes, andinjects the only form of happiness he's ever felt. Until escaping reality becomes eternal.

Just like it did with Mom.

Behind me sits her discarded mug. It’s likely been there since she died—forgotten.

Just like her.

I'd like to think this is Mom extending the hand she never extended when she was alive. A peace offering, maybe.

Subtly, I loop my finger through the handle, and he pauses a few feet away. Right out of arm's length, making me sigh.

If only she gave that much of a shit.

Time stands still, except for the consistent beat inside my chest, reminding me that I'm still alive. I'm still fighting.

Then, he lunges, and I'm swinging, the mug in my hand cracking against his temple. Ceramic shatters, and a shard cuts into my palm.

He roars, and his arm swings out wildly, attempting to grab ahold of me. But if there's one thing I learned about people with more artificial chemicals in their bodies than blood—they have no fucking aim.

I duck and tackle him to the floor while he's unbalanced, the back of his head smacking off it harshly. A curse flies out of his mouth and he's grappling to get a leg up so he can flip me over. But I'm already on top of him, a piece of the mug gripped between my fingers and pressed against his jugular.

It only lasts half a second, and he’s carelessly knocking away my hand before sending a fist flying toward my face. Just barely, I flinch to the side, his knuckles clipping my cheek and sending a shooting pain throughout my face.

But mydesperation outweighs the sting, and I’m rushing to get my knees over his biceps. Several times, he deters me, nearly throwing me off just for me to crawl back onto him. Finally, I send my own fist into his nose, allowing me to stun him long enough to get his arms pinned beneath my knees, putting all my weight onto him.

I press the piece back into his jugular again, the shard having already shredded my own skin from the struggle.

“Make one fucking move, and I'll slit your throat, asshole,” I spit through heavy pants.

My hand trembles against him, my vision narrowing until all I see is his disgusting face, contorted in rage with gray scruff covering his jaw.

“You're a pathetic man,” I snarl. “And there isn't a single soul on this planet that will care when you're gone.”

He laughs, and his rotten breath fans across my face. I dig the sharp end deeper, a bead of blood blooming from the tip.

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