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Photo via Matt Hearne on UnsplashIt was never supposed to go this far. She only meant to scare him.
But now, as the coral Range Rover erupts into flames, and ashes swirl in the mild breeze, dwindling into the brisk November evening—with him inside of it—she knows she’s fucked.
A suffocating, syrupy sweet fetor clouds her nostrils, courtesy of that deceptively gentle wind. Burning leather elicits tears from her eyes. Sour bile rises in her throat.
“Jesus fuck, Molls.”
Betty, fairly unperturbed considering they only intended to key the car, crouches at the foot of the smoldering vehicle, plunging her joint into the fervid flame. She takes a long drag.
She extends the blunt to Molly. The normalcy of Betty, with her chocolate eyes and her impractical magenta tote, a modest little pre-roll from the dispo tucked between her press-ons, contrasted by the raging inferno swallowing the car before them … well, it’s bewildering, to say the very least.
Molly declines. And when Molly refuses a sativa chief, that’s how you know something is very, very wrong.
It was never supposed to go this far. She only meant to scare him.
Molly wasn’t always like this. Her pursed mouth wore a charming smile. Her aggrieved eyes were glimmering vessels of hope. Her ungainly drunken stumbling was a poised strut.
Molly was a house cat. Tamed, docile, the edge and stealth of her ancestors dulled by decades of domesticity. Her pelt was sleek; polished, nimble legs stifled by a lifetime of sloth, thirst for the hunt quelled by a brimming bowl she never had to fight for, keen claws an ornament for show. Careless, comfortable, rarely plagued with questions about the world beyond her serene bubble of complacency. After all, curiosity kills the cat, doesn’t it?
The idle house cat in Molly is dead. Curiosity killed the cat, and – in its place – lies a prowling tigress. When she opens her mouth, the meek mewling doesn’t leave her lips, but a thunderous growl. Her glossy coat is disheveled; rough, marred by the stripes of a warrior.
When crusty regulars at the restaurant pawed at her ass, and her hands were too occupied with plates and mugs to shrug them off, all the house cat did was grimace politely and scurry off to the kitchen before those revolting hands could wander any further. The tigress would’ve promptly mounted a table and smashed the china against their heads.
She plays by her own rules now. She slinks around, concealed in the shadows, minding her own, but that doesn’t mean she won’t unsheathe her claws if she has to. Her luxurious purr might be enticing but that doesn’t mean she won’t bare her teeth if you get too close. She’s never been caught by the law, but that doesn’t mean she’s not violent. Her predators, wily and cunning, have been reduced to prey. Nothing – and no one – fazes her anymore.
Right?
“He deserved it, Mendez,” Betty pipes up, as though she’s read her mind. “You know that, right? He said you were asking for it… but he’s the one who got it, huh?”
Although Betty’s reveling in twisted vindication from the crackling inferno, Molly’s the one who’d been scorned by the scorching remnants within it.
It started with scarlet rings around her throat. Bruised thighs. Silent tears, and seething fingernails digging into raw wrists. These blows were softened by brief snippets of affection, quelled by endless drives that crowned her passenger princess of his regal Rover, muted by empty promises of I’m a nice guy, really, I am, and you could do a whole lot worse, you know, and come back, babe, I’ll be better, I swear.
It escalated. It got sicker, the hate that spilled from his lips grew more vulgar as the months dragged by; the poison he exuded tarnished her mind and battered her soul as the nicotine corroded her lungs.
When Molly finally got out, he vowed to win her back. And if he wasn’t allowed to have her, she wasn’t allowed to breathe. Literally.
It was his kerosene. His matches. His scheme.
Molly was just too clever.
So, he was reduced to ashes.
Which brings us to here, and now.
“I… Betty, what did I just do?”
“What you had to,” Betty insists. “He took everything – your spirit, your smile – your body… all you took was his life.”
Molly’s spine straightens, clenched fists faltering to her hips. He is gone. She is here: anvil on her chest alleviated; guilt and dread whisked away, dissipating into the smoke. “Okay. Where to?”
“Ma says Tijuana’s gorgeous this time of year.” Betty jingles the keys of her ‘99 Toyota Camry with a roguish smirk. “Shall we? I’ll drive.”
“Hand them over,” Molly proclaims, a new vigor behind her eyes. “You’ve always been the real passenger princess.”
About Bella Pinter: Bella Pinter is a waitress, supervisor, and author who focuses primarily on fictional novels, particularly romance and comedy. She aims to bring a sense of humor to typically taboo subjects, such as living with OCD or enduring harassment in the workplace as a woman. She loves acting, true crime podcasts, listening to music, and neglecting sleep. Bella hopes to one day publish a book, or create a screenplay that she will be involved in. She is beyond honored to be a part of the Stories Matter program, and to have the opportunity to work under Leslie’s incredible mentorship.
About Stories Matter: Stories Matter, a mentoring program for young female writers founded by ENTITY Mentor and writer Leslie Zemeckis, nurtures the next generation and inspires them to tell their stories. Co-sponsored by the Santa Barbara International Film Festival (SBIFF) and ENTITY Mag, published female authors give their time to emerging talent to encourage greatness and share their writing process. “The recent group, whose assignment was to write about ‘A Woman You Should Know,’” noted Leslie, “was exceptionally talented and a joy to work with.” ENTITY Mag is thrilled to showcase the work of these gifted young writers.
