Molly

3: Cellmate

Forgiveness one may call it, I describe it as a manipulating drug for sins to be endorsed and confuse every worst torture to be understood as nothing but a reaction, a very mild unforgettable kind of reaction. Fairly, I neither wanted to be forgiven.

I look at this woman who hardly names me as her son, almost not blinking. She seems to be up for a motherly hug after a year of not seeing her remaining child who never forgives. So the embrace she ought narrowly had a chance to capture my arms after the door— an inch away from hitting my shoulder just to save me— as my female roommate slammed it aggressively closed to be owning this room like her entire reason for living, I still can't understand.

"Sche's scary. Is sche scaring you?" her question submitting an emotion of concern, leaning into this barely hard door that she solely counted her gravity on, with the protection she's giving I secretly enjoy.

The doorknob rattles trying to win open, so I held it firm in contrast to being turned, but our opponent's move later transitioned into continuous rhythmic thumps interconnected with a piece of cursed advice no one will bother to absorb, "Would you mind... stopping whatever makes the police ruin your only dream? Your sister wouldn't like that"

Irrational blackmail, words I've come to expect.

"...can you stop it? can you?"

One thump she produces after her word triggers the visual of my nightmares, the beginning of everything worst can be represented as a mother's imprisonment of her own daughter, genuine love in the guise of genuine suffocation.

"...can you?"

Twice a knock reflected a retrospect of my sister in her cellar that used to be her room; she was 27 years old when she had her official prisoner name.

"...answer me"

Another knock and another doubt in my sister's room refill my head her face dying to escape. The lifelong dread in her sleepless eyes. A body of skin and bone. A skin of colorless soul. A face of permanent delirium.

"...can you?!"

And another of her last image in my head thrice much dead as the first anomaly in my brain, her corpse found with her head in a blanket where it's wrapped and strangled by her own pain of years she had lasted. The reason why human beings must lose the ability to reproduce.

"I can't!" I shouted when I began to lose it, a reopened misery blasting beyond the wooden door, bleedingly rehashing, "...you killed her! It's you!" I suddenly became the villain in the room ripping my vocal cords into two.