How ironic that her name was Molly, as if her mother had known that one day she was just going to be trouble. Google “Molly” and you would get a lot of different things: Ringwald, songs, and of course, the purest form of MDMA. Packaged and sold by street pharmacists everywhere, predominately to kids between the ages of 12 and 17. Capable of producing seizures, and highly dangerous. And if you asked some of the people who knew, or thought they knew Molly Davis, they might say the same thing about her.
Molly Davis wasn't just your average seventeen year old with a knack for getting into trouble. No, she had once been a brilliant student. It wasn't even her fault she had become so troubled, a lot of people close to her would argue. It was never little miss Molly...it was always the big bad wolf around the corner. The gentleman Molly had set her sights on and had never looked back from: Brandon King.
He was the reason she had started getting bad grades, and not attending class, and then got hooked on something, and then...ultimately, the reason why she ended up the way she did. No, none of it was Miss Molly's fault.
She had met Brandon King at a party, and he had promised her the world. Molly had been fourteen at the time, and in the middle of her parents tumultuous divorce, she had sought solace in the arms of not only Brandon King, but of those little baggies containing the powder that made her feel better. It didn't matter that he was twenty, or that he only gave her the drugs if she promised to do sexual favors for him...if you asked Molly, she was just as addicted to Brandon as she was to the blow he kept casually in his pocket whenever he encountered her.
When they took their relationship beyond a weird friends with benefits/dealer and druggie in over her head type of thing, into an actual romantic relationship, Molly's parents both became more aware. She stopped going to her father's on her weekends, and refused to come out of her room on weekdays. Instead, she often snuck out and spent days in Brandon's dingy, dirty basement apartment, dancing to the humming of the microwave. He would organize eight white lines, and they'd split them equally before falling into each other's arms and waiting to feel the effects....and somewhere in the haze of all the coke, Molly had fallen in love.
She hadn't known it at first. She hadn't realized it until she had spent lonely nights in solitude in her room at either of her parent's house. She didn't HAVE to use coke...she knew she would have more the next day....but she felt an itch she couldn't scratch when she didn't have Brandon at her side...something just didn't feel right, and she hadn't been able to put her finger on it.
Until one day, when she could.
It was just like any other tuesday, except that Molly had not been able to go to Brandon's. She had been with her dad for the weekend, and he was driving her back to her mom's when he got a phone call and she was able to convince him to allow her to stop in and say "hi" to Brandon. Molly's intentions had been way more cynical. She had intended to stop in, take eight lines by herself, perhaps give her boyfriend a blowjob, and then go to her mother's house like nothing had happened.
But, when Molly walked into her boyfriend's apartment, she saw four white lines and a rolled up dollar bill. She took three of the four, and entered the apartment, where she found another woman performing the act she had minutes earlier been convinced she would be doing. Brandon met her eyes, and it was as if he didn't feel anything. He didn't push the girl off of him, or apologize, or even really acknowledge Molly.
However, he was unaware of the temper Molly held. He had no idea that she would blow past him, knock over and smash the microwave that had for so long hummed a melody that to her was enticing, and enter his bedroom. She opened the safe in which he kept his cocaine, took as many baggies as she could stuff in her pockets, and promptly exited the apartment, careful not to make more of a scene. She didn't want Brandon to know she had taken the drugs, or her dad to know that anything was wrong.
Instead, Molly left her dad the same way she always did, and spoke to her mom the way she always did. She walked into her room the way she always did, and she turned her music on. What Molly did after that, however, was not normal for her.
She took another line or two, entered her bathroom, and made her world go black.
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You wanted me to write hard and clear about what hurts, right? This is what hurts: driving home, in the middle of what seems to be a regular tuesday, and finding your house surrounded by cop cars and ambulances. Nothing can prepare you for the heart stopping terror, in the five minutes you don't know what happened.
Worse, still, is exiting your car, ensuring the cops you do absolutely live there, and entering your house to see your mother sobbing, your father holding her, and hearing things like "blood" "attempted suicide" and "unconscious."
I rode to the hospital, my heart pounding the entire time. I was in the ambulance with her, and could see her bandaged wrists. I was in the waiting room as the doctor explained to us that she had lost a lot of blood. I was there still, when Brandon finally decided to grace the hospital with her presence. My family had him removed, and hired posted security for Molly's door.
When they finally let us in the room, I was the first one who entered. I got to see my baby sister, sleeping so peacefully, with her hands in padded cuffs at her side, and bandages wrapped tight and bloody around her wrists.
I couldn't save her, my parents couldn't save her, Brandon didn't save her...Molly had to save herself.
