"ᴡᴇʟʟ, ʟᴏᴏᴋꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴡᴇ ᴀʟʟ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴏ'ꜱ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ɢᴜᴛᴛᴇᴅ ɴᴇxᴛ, ʜᴜʜ, ᴠɪʀɢɪɴ ᴍᴏʟʟʏ?"
"ꜱʜᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʟʟ ᴜᴘ, ꜱᴛᴜ!"
•••
|| 𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 . . . . according to the rules of horror movies, Molly Birist isn't going to last long in this real life thriller, or that's...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
november 17th , 2000
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The house was mostly silent, besides the soft music playing from a radio and the sounds of Dewey Riley and Mark Kincaid taping cardboard boxes shut from the living room, and the quiet snip snip of the scissors in Mollicent Birist's hands cutting through Stu Macher's hair on the back porch.
Two months had passed since Monty Lipton and Roman Bridger's deaths. Everyone's lives had gone back to normal - as normal as they could get. None of them spoke much about the events the night of September 5th, as it was past them, and they now had a more pressing matter on their hands.
"Are you sure this is a good idea, Molls?" Asked Stu, trying not to move his head as he stared out at the trees, which were slowly turning brown and dead as winter went on.
From where she stood behind him, Molly sighed. "That's the fifth time you've asked, Stuart. I told you, your hair is gonna look fine."
"I'm not talking about my hair, Molly."
Molly paused for a moment. She stared down at the scissors in her hands, and Stu's blonde hair. She said nothing, and instead went back to snipping away.
It was Stu's turn to sigh. He turned his head, despite Molly muttering an irritated "hey!", and looked up at the brunette girl standing above him. They stared at each other for a moment, silent, and then Molly sighed again, this time in defeat, and brought her hands down. Stu slowly slipped the scissors from her grasp and set them to the side. Then he looked back up at Molly and her dejected expression.
"We don't have to do this, Molly." Stu said, talking quietly. "You don't have to do this."
Molly swallowed the lump already building in her throat, and shook her head slightly. "She's my mom, Stu."
"And you owe her nothing." Stu stood up from the chair, so that now Molly was looking up at him. "She has done nothing but berate you and treat you as a waste of space and time your entire life. And correct me if I'm wrong here, but she's about twenty-four years late to try and make up with you."
