Page 43 of Where's Molly

I nod, the movement jerky, as I turn toward his office. There's also an exit this way, and if I want to save myself, then it's imperative I take it.

Another job bites the dust, and I still have little money to show for it.

Devastation mingles with my growing anxiety. I'll have to find another town and beg for an illegal job, yet again. And the likelihood of finding a boss who's a decent human being is low. I haven't had one thus far and have gone through four jobs now.

I'm exhausted. So fucking exhausted.

“The dumb bitch can't even arrange these right,” his cousin—Bud—snaps. “The strawberry is mixed with the…”

I don't hear the rest of what he says, and I don't need to. He only cemented the necessity to get the fuck out of here.

I speed-walk directly toward the exit and charge out of there without a backward glance. Sunlight pierces my eyes, though I hardly register the sharp pain. I have tunnel vision, and the only thing on my mind is getting as far away fromEngines & Oilas possible.

By the time I reach the bus stop, I've no idea how much time has passed. I don't remember a single second of it, nor the entire ride to the women's shelter I've been staying at.

With clouded thoughts, I eventually make it to the shelter. There aren't many women boarded here, thankfully, but I am required to have group therapy sessions with them to stay.

It's incredibly uncomfortable. At least they’re like me here, traumatized, and just want to be left alone. And it helpsI get my own little apartment, though I am required to pay a small fee to keep it. The shelter’s meant to give survivors a form of independence away from their abusers, and it’s considerably cheaper than renting regular apartments around the area.

I reach my door and nearly shove through it to get inside, convinced Brent followed me and is right behind me. Though I didn't see a single soul, it still feels like someone was right on my tail the entire way home.

Only when the door is shut and locked do I throw myself against it and release a heavy exhale.

I'm incapable of feeling relieved when I'm in near-constant danger, but at least I’m not alone in that office with Brent, possibly on the brink of being assaulted again.

That… that's honestly all I could ask for at this very moment. That, and to not have been followed home by one of those creeps.

Another exhale, and then a sob is bursting free. I slap a hand over my mouth, yet it's a hopeless attempt to contain the outcry.

Soon, I'm overcome with them, and I'm no longer capable of standing. I slide down the door, my shoulders shaking and chest heaving as wail after wail rebounds against my palm.

Tears stream down my cheeks in rivers, and for the longest while, there’s no thought behind my agony.

I'm not even sure why I'm crying anymore. Because of what could've happened? Or because I have to start over once again? Maybe it's because no matter how hard I try to get my feet firmly beneath me, they always get kicked out.

I just… I can'ttakethis anymore.

I don't want to die, but I don't want toexist. And I wish with every ounce of my soul that I was never born. That I had never been brought into a world so cold, violent, and full of heartache.

And the worst part is that even though I feel dead inside, I'm painfully aware of how alive I am. I dread every night when I fall asleep because I know I have to wake up again and do this life for another day.

I just don't want to be here. That's all I want.

The sobs wane, but the tears are constant. Snot leaks down my nose no matter how hard I sniff, and eventually, my butt begins to ache from sitting on the unforgiving tile for so long.

Forcing my eyes open, I glance around at my abysmal home. The small cube of stained white tile around the front door transitions into a thin brown carpet. The walls are freshly painted white, though it doesn't bring much light into the dark room.

Unlike the house I grew up in, it doesn't reek of cigarette smoke, body fluids, and grime. It's just old. And it's the nicest home I've ever had. But it's still not mine.

Which is why I kept it bare, save for the standard furniture that came with it. No decorations. No personality. No… life.

Sighing, I wipe away the tears and force myself to stand. Group therapy isn't until later, but they usually set out a tray of sweets beforehand. At this moment, a chocolate brownie is the only thing I have to look forward to.

I blink away the residual wetness in my eyes, then peek through the eyehole to ensure no creepy ex-bosses or cousins are outside. Once I'm confident the coast is clear, I unlock the door and swing it open. Something black and sturdy clinks to the ground, and my heart instantly drops.

Ajournalist found me. Or a stranger that’s planning on reporting me to the police. Different scenarios shuttle through my brain at lightning speed. Where they saw me. If they're waiting somewhere for me.

How long do I have to escape? Or is it too late?

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