Molly

2: Chained Image

"You, fucking whore!" the vulgar outburst of an old man alarms my attention originating from the door, to see Pops whom I thought now is a demented old man.

Still, it's not the rage that made me stuck daunting for a while, but my discovery.

"Goodness! What did you do!? what did you... what did you do... what did you do..." Grandma followed with the same intensity as her spouse's madness and concern, two minds praising the sinner's wickedness.

And I forgot what I should have known when this big old man approached the chained woman's stomach with a punch, dreading her stance cascading to the floor and driving me whimpering behind the cloth. Senses put weight on my pair of limbs sliding me into her way by the floor, as the least I can do is to catch my grandfather's forthcoming fist I deserve and oblige after everything I've known. I'll thank Heaven if I'll die right now.

"I... I didn't know he vas your..." The woman gave her remaining power to defend by words, while my remaining strength aims to offer her protection on my behind.

But Grandma tried to drag me away and began undoing my binds, and my watch is broken by the scene escalating fast with the sprinkle of woman's blood created by one's misconception. Now, I'm seeing the worst thing a pill had made me do.

"Shh, don't worry, Grandma is here, darling" Old woman trying to console me like a kid in front of someone slowly dying.

"No... no... no..." my first words were assisted by the shudder soon unlatched. Maybe, I am still high. Maybe, they are.

Pop took a break to approach me, then aggressively pushes me up through my shirt for guiding me to back my feet, "Out of here, Toris, she needs to be punished" 

"What did she do?!" I shouted with a meaning of disrespect.

"Why do you care? You're free to fuck her while I'm beating her to death!"

But my non-sense objection didn't stop this old couple from forcing me off the scene, feeding my face the sharp slam of the door and I'm detained outside. "No... stop! shit!" worry and guilt came out naturally from my deafening plea, compelled by my heavy thump quite good enough to make a crack in this hard defiant door, I remain in my guttural screaming, "...Stop! it's my fault! I scared her! I molested her last night! I was on drugs! Fuck! Please! Grandpa, Stop!"

Yet my scream didn't last, either my pounding, muted by the sounds of her cries and the riot of hands doing harshness on her bare innocent body and reasons. Pack of slaps crunching loud, consecutive punches whipping louder, I'm a guilty listener of her tragedy behind the door. So much to change my world. So much to finish me.