I am trying to stretch my arms and legs as far as I can while she comes to the end of her tale. I ache from immobility.
“All my life I thought the mollys were holding me back, but it wasn’t them. It was me all along.” Molly takes a sip of water. “You don’t have to believe my story, but you do have to remember.”
She stops talking, swallows the last of the water, and sets the glass down. The knocking on the door is as loud as thunderclaps. The door shakes in the hinges, like loose teeth.
“I’m a molly,” I say.
“Yes,” Molly Southbourne says.
“Why don’t I feel like killing you?”
“I don’t know. You guys don’t all behave the same. You’re the eleventh one I’ve tied up and tried to reason with like this. It didn’t end well for the other ten.”
I swallow. “So, what now? Do we fight?”
“We’ve already done that. That’s why I’m over here and you’re in chains.”
The tattoo itches. “What, then?”
“Have you ever read Roshodan? Of course you haven’t. You haven’t read anything. Well, my mother made me read his monographs. He said, ‘With each failure, each insult, each wound to the psyche, we are created anew. This new self is who we must battle each day or face extinction of the spirit.’ I think I’m the embodiment of that sentiment.”
I say nothing. The memory of that treatise surges to the surface, and I know the rest of the quotation. But is extinction such a terrible thing? Each mistake, when examined, can lead to positive change, to a stronger mind. Only by subordinating pride can we elevate the spirit. Is she going to make me extinct?
Play dumb. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing. You are free.” She gets up. “I’m tired. For sleep is good, but Death is better still—The best is never to be born at all. It’s up to you now. If you want, you can be Molly Southbourne, or you can assume a different name and let her never have been born. I do not care. I’m done with it.”
Molly Southbourne throws me a set of keys, then strikes a match and drops it to the floor. Flame bursts up, then rushes toward the door and under it. There are screeches from the other side, and the hammering stops. She sighs, then stands. She takes one last look at me, then opens the door. I can hear screaming just before she slams the door shut after her. Over the crackle of the flames I hear the sounds of hand-to-hand combat. I can imagine each move, each strike, as if it’s me in the fight. It is me in the fight, on both sides. I might have stayed mesmerized, except for the acrid miasma I have to breathe. I unlock myself, go for the second door, which opens to a short flight of stairs, and I try to get out of the front door, but it has been sealed with nails. I go upstairs, break a window, cover the jagged edge with a curtain, and slip out onto a shelf, and from there, I hang by my hands, then let go. It’s a hard, painful landing, but no injuries. No new ones, at any rate.
I limp away from the house and see that smoke is starting to rise from the windows, dark wisps against the dawn light. There is a phone box just at the end of the street. I call the number on my new tattoo after reversing the charges.
“Name?” says a voice.
“Molly Southbourne,” I say.