Where's Molly(5)

There’s no chance to scream. Not as they grip my biceps, slap a cloth over my mouth, and drag me into their black van.

It's over for me. I'll never get to see Layla again.

Even worse, she’ll never see me again—the only person who took care of her—kept her safe.

The only question I have is, will her fate be worse, or mine?





Molly





Fourteen Years Ago

June 18th, 2008





I read over the last word I wrote on the page before snapping the journal shut. It’s a diary I’ve been secretly writing in for the past couple weeks. It’s been my only form of release, but I refuse to take it with me, even if it was the only thing that kept my detonating sanity somewhat intact. It's the only outlet I had for my pent-up rage.

And it can burn with the rest of this house, for all I care.

I hope to God another girl never finds this journal. That would mean she replaced me, and no one—no one—should ever have to experience the horrors of this house. No one innocent, at least. I wouldn't care if Francesca, Rocco, or any of his friends got a taste of their own poison one day. It's the least they fucking deserve .

My broken heart is pounding heavily against my chest, the jagged pieces cutting up the inside with each beat. However, the adrenaline coursing through my veins mutes the pain. The only thing I can feel is determination and fury. So much fucking fury.

I'm not waiting any longer. I can't.

Francesca has something planned for us in two days, and while I suspect we’ll be auctioned off, she never said.

All I know—I can’t be here when it happens.

Another day in this hellhole, and I'll lose my fucking mind. Another day without Layla, and I'll kill anyone I have to, even if it ends in my own death. It'll only be my body that dies, anyway. They've already destroyed my soul, and all that's left is an empty house that has seen as many tragedies as the one I'm planning to escape tonight.

My pulse thuds in my ears as I quietly slide out of my bed and tiptoe to the hole beneath the floorboard. When I first arrived here, I noticed the panel was loose, and after a week's effort, I finally managed to pry it up. It was just a dirty hole, but now it's the home of all my secrets and heartache.

With trembling hands, I set the journal inside, carelessly dropping the pen in after it. Then, I slide the wooden piece back into place.

There's no clock in here, but Rocco and his friends have quieted completely, which means they likely passed out. According to Francesca and her constant complaining, that typically happens around two or three AM every night.

I've been preparing for this for months.

And now that it's finally here, I'm terrified I missed something. A small detail I didn't plan for when I've done nothing but plan.

The only thing separating me from freedom are these thin walls and miles and miles of woods.

That, and the guard stationed outside the house. I've stayed up from dusk to dawn several nights to watch him, forgoing precious sleep to learn his schedule and habits. Which often led me to getting in trouble for falling asleep during lessons. Though Francesca has long since grown tired of my disobedience, she won't get rid of me either.

I'm one of four who made it through the Culling—a twisted game a group of pedophiles and rapists created for sport. The objective is to put us in the woods filled with traps, where they’ll hunt us with crossbows. If we’re hit, we're punished. If we win and outrun them, we're considered superior meat and then put up for auction.

It's an insult to kidnap us only to make us prove ourselves worthy of being kidnapped.

It makes no fucking sense and was only created so bored rich people can be less bored.

They'll never get the fucking chance.

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 catches me, they'll alert Francesca. But I've long since accepted that I'll kill anyone who gets in my way.

No one will 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.