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Molly
Everyone calls her Molly. Molly is short for Molasses. Her parents were drawn to the name Molasses, while realizing others may not understand. From the time she was born, they called her Molly. Molly’s parents always described her as cute and adorable. Molly remains adorable, always looking younger than she really is, more innocent than she really is, yet not as ready for the passages of life as everyone thinks she is.
Molly had been struggling with who she is. On such a morning as this one, she struggled harder with who she is. It was never her intention for a man (who was never meant for her to keep) to bring her home at 4:36 AM. Such a time is neither late at night nor early in the morning. It is its own day. It exists in its own space that no one loves or is ever drawn to.
The door was locked and the key scratched the side of the man stranger’s stainless steel stew pot. She held onto the pot with both hands while hurriedly and trepidatiously unlocking the muted, tarnished brass lock. She held onto it with both hands out of fear she would be sick once again. Her whole body had been ransacked from below her waist and the pain had currently ascended to her gut. That had been some transformative bourbon and the pill felt just right for about an hour. Beyond that time, the itch she needed to have scratched and the mindlessness she had desired from being with her family for too long had been overemphasized…
