Everyone assumes Molly has seen the musical.
She has, many times in fact, but it would still be nice to be asked. She wants someone to take her into account just once, just one time, and ask her what she thinks.
She knows who she is. She's never been under any illusions as to her role in life. She's the sidekick. The Plain Jane friend. The mousy wallflower regulated to the shadows in favor of other more beautiful, more interesting women.
Or men.
It's hard not to hate John. It's not his fault really. He didn't ask to be the obsession of two such powerful, enigmatic men. He didn't ask to have his name thrown in the mud. He didn't ask to be hunted and hounded by the press. He didn't ask to watch his best friend die.
He didn't ask for Jim to take his world apart, piece by piece.
And she knows she should feel bad when jealousy and hatred curl themselves around her and seep into the marrow of her bones, thrumming through her body when she can't sleep at night. She knows she should, but she can't. It eats her up inside.
She wonders if Meg Giry ever felt this way, late at night when the lights were out and no one was looking. Did she ever feel the heady rush of anger and rage towards her friend? Did she ever cry herself to sleep wondering, 'What is wrong with me?'
Why should Christine have the Phantom and Raoul? Why should John have Jim and Sherlock? What did he do that Molly couldn't, wouldn't do? How much has she risked and sacrificed, trying to make herself worthy, only to be stiff-armed back into the chorus line?
Another dancing gypsy.
Jesus Christ, she wasn't even worth a bullet. Jim had completely passed her over on his rampage to destroy Sherlock. Oh but John, John warrants special treatment, even after Sherlock's "fall".
John with his jam and jumpers and too bright smile.
God, it isn't fair.
So to hell with it, she thinks. To hell with Jim and John and Sherlock and everyone else.
The Opera House can burn to ashes for all she cares.
She's cried enough tears to put out a thousand fires.