Where's Molly
H. D. Carlton
To Sam, Kristie, and Samantha,
For sitting in that diner with me and talking about cannibalism until Molly’s story was born
Gabrielle Current- B&W
Underoath- Another Life
Little Oceans- Peace
Story of the Year- A Part of Me
Yung’cid & Maxx Xero- Endless Nightmare
Colorblind- Ghosts
The Used- Mosh ’n Church?>
Ellery Bonham- Sway
Amy Stroup- In the Shadows
This is a dark romance that includes triggers such as murder, gore, graphic language, graphic sexual situations, child assault and rape (not depicted), toxic relations between the main characters, child abuse and neglect, suicidal thoughts and ideations, human trafficking, drug and alcohol use, and animals being fed suspect shit (they are not abused, I promise).
This book also includes kinks such as biting, breath play, blood play, and degradation.
Please proceed with caution and prioritize your mental health.
—H. D. Carlton
Molly
Present
2022
The loud crunch of blunt teeth biting through bone is a lullaby I could fall asleep to for the rest of my life.
I wrinkle my nose.
The obnoxious sound of lip-smacking that follows is not.
“I can teach you to respect me, but apparently, learning manners is asking too much,” I mutter, my upper lip curling in disgust when bloody drool splatters onto the plastic tarp before my worn boots.
Gross.
I'm in my barn, crouched on the outside of their pens, keeping my distance while the five massive pigs eat their dinner. They can very easily grab me through the fence if I dare to get close enough, and that is not an attack I'm likely to survive. They're incredibly strong, and if I do manage to escape, I'll definitely be missing a few limbs.
It makes me wonder why the world is so afraid of a zombie apocalypse, when we’re already surrounded by animals more than capable of tearing us apart and devouring every last fucking bit of our flesh and bones.
We’re just lucky they haven't figured that out yet. Or rather, they haven't figured out how to escape the prisons we put them in.
When finished, they eagerly sniff the hay, searching for their next piece.
“Last one,” I warn them, as if they can even understand me.
Sadly enough, they're the only ones I can talk to most days. My human interaction is limited, and this pig farm gets awfully lonely. But it's something I chose for myself.
And I don't fucking regret it.
I toss the rest of the leg at their feet, watching them tear into the severed limb in earnest. Tendons, muscles, and veins shred in a matter of seconds, followed by that satisfying crunch.
Right then, my phone in my back pocket buzzes. Sighing, I slide it out and answer without bothering to see who it is. I already know.
“Is it finished?” the female voice asks tonelessly. She's been calling me for the last four years, and I still don't know her name.
“Yup,” I answer. “They just ate the last of him.”
“Good. We'll contact you when the next subject is due to arrive.”
The phone goes dead before I can respond. Not that I would've bothered to—that's always been the extent of our conversations.
My human interaction is very limited.
Especially because that’s what my pets like to eat for dinner.
“Thanks, Petunia,” I chirp to myself. Every time she hangs up, I give her a new name. One day, I'm confident I'll have guessed her real name correctly at least once, though I'd never know.
I have a feeling it's not Petunia, but crazier things have happened.
I double-check that the last of the man I fed to the pigs is completely consumed, and then I start the tedious process of cleaning their pens, my table, and the tools, along with burning his hair and clothes and scattering his powdered teeth in the mountains behind my house. Ensuring every last trace of Carl Forthright is gone.
He who was once a rapist and child trafficker is now pig shit.
So fucking poetic.
“You’re lucky I love you little assholes because you guys are fucking messy,” I complain to the snorting pigs, wrinkling my nose when I spot a chunk of flesh on the floor outside their pen.
They're absolute pains in my ass most days, but I wouldn't trade them for the world.
They keep me sane.
And the devil knows that's hanging on by a goddamn thread.
Molly
Fifteen Years Ago
October 20th, 2007
“I’m gonna head to the gas station to grab Layla a few things,” I tell Dad while frowning at the mess in the living room.
Five crushed, empty beer cans are scattered on the end table, along with empty chip bags and dip with the lid left open.
My father is anxiously peering out of the tattered curtains, shirtless, his pot belly bulging out over his jeans. His gray hair is balding on top, and despite his stomach, he's a tall, lanky old man with a defined jaw, eyebrows that are constantly furrowed, and wrinkles covering every inch of his face.
“No, I need you here. You’ve been gone all damn day,” he snaps, hardly sparing me a glance.
It’s after eight-thirty at night, and I’ve been waitressing at the diner all day. I’m exhausted, but for what feels like the millionth time, she’s out of diapers and no one mentioned it. I'm turning twenty tomorrow, but I'll have to pick up another shift now that I'm spending today’s tip money on Layla.
“She needs her diaper changed, and there isn’t any more,” I argue.
He snarls, letting the curtain fall as he faces me.
“She ain’t none of your concern.”
But she is.
She’s sure as fuck not his concern, even though she’s his daughter.
Dad scratches his arm, track marks blemishing his skin. Again, he glances toward the curtains, as if he’s waiting for someone to show up. Probably one of his creepy friends, sure to arrive with a book bag full of drugs, despite the fact that he just made me buy him some yesterday.
“I won’t be longer than twenty minutes,” I reason. “I just need diapers and formula.”
Anxiety spikes in my chest as Layla begins to cry from upstairs. I just laid her down, and I had hoped she’d stay asleep until I got back. She’s been fussy for the past week. Right when her eyes close and I think she’s finally asleep, they pop right back open and she releases a sorrowful wail that rips my heart out.
“Let me get Layla settled first, and I’ll—”
“No,” he barks. “If you’re going to go, then go now. I ain’t got all fucking night.”
“Fine,” I mumble.
My four-month-old sister is now screaming at the top of her lungs, while our mother is knocked out on the couch, her mouth open and drool trailing down her chin as she softly snores .
A used needle lies on the coffee table in front of her, a bead of blood still staining the tip.
She won’t be waking up, which means that Layla will be left to her tears while I’m gone.
Sighing, I head toward the door, pausing briefly when I hear Dad call out, “And grab me a pack of cigs and another six-pack of beer!”
I don’t bother answering—not that he expects one. He knows I’ll do what he says. If I don’t, I’ll have to invest in another bottle of concealer. The one I have is almost empty.
The sound of Layla’s screams is silenced as I shut the door behind me, my anxiety worsening and gnawing at my stomach. Her poor little throat will be sore, and I’m sure her head will be hurting by the time I get back.
She hates it when I leave her alone, and I hate what that implies. There are days that I wonder if it’s more than just an attachment to me that puts that fear in her eyes when I walk away.
If Dad is hurting her like he hurt me…
I don’t know what I’ll do. Except when I’m finished, I’ll be covered in blood.