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MOLLY CROMWELL WAS CONFUSED. In fact, she was downright bothered. And the fact she was bothered at all confused her even more.
There had been a shift in her relationship with Michael Langdon, painfully so - and it was in the complete opposite direction than she intended. Molly had went to his house after her encounter with the Satanists with the intentions of ending their Cold War once and for all; with his death.
But once she arrived and saw that he hadn't sent the Satanists to kill her, she lost that fury and drive against him. It was as if her anger that day had been so explosive, that when it calmed it completely sucked out any remnant of negativity.
She no longer looked at Michael as an enemy. In fact, she hated to admit she rather enjoyed their talks. It interested her to no end to talk with someone who was born to be her antithesis, but still managed to share the same life experiences as her. Well, ones that didn't end in fire and blood.
She thought that maybe she was wearing him down too. The more they saw each other, she could see his malice diminish further until now when they met eyes, he would often smile. And every time he smiled, he looked like an angel sent from the heavens like she was. Never had she ever felt more conflicted in her life.
But that was until he had stopped showing up in her dreams.
It was rather ironic, she had spent weeks trying to ignore him in their shared dreamscape. But now that he had vanished completely, she found she actually missed him. Molly even went out of her way to visit the grocery store often,hoping he'd be there. But she always knew the second she reached the doors that the pulsating energy he gave off from miles away wasn't radiating, meaning he wasn't there.
After a week, Molly had enough. She was bored to the brink of tears, which was saying something for someone born with the patience of a saint. Literally, speaking.
The last person on the planet she wanted to see was Ms Mead, but there would be no escaping that if she wanted to talk to Michael. Molly didn't feel like being rude and transmuting herself into his bedroom.
With a hesitant sigh, she politely knocked on the front door, it opening seconds later to reveal a sour looking Mead.
"What do you want, Jesus?" She rolled her eyes, planting herself in the gap between the door frame and the door.
"Christ would have been a more suitable nickname, but I get what you meant. Is Michael here?" She asked, knowing too well that he was. She could already tell.
"Yeah," he appeared in the hall, a blank expression on his face as he regarded upon her. Mead turned to look at him with cautious eyes, but he quickly nodded his head for her to leave, walking up to the entrance when it was clear. "What do you want?"
