Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Summary: She's the spot of winter in a family of summers.
Winter
She's the spot of winter in a family of summers.
Beautiful, harsh, merciless. Nice to watch and occasionally play in (as long as you're properly protected from it. Can't let that coldness contaminate you, after all; can't give up your warmth just to help her melt the ice inside), but nothing anyone wants to be around for long. Not her parents, not her sister, not even the boys who whisper sweet nothings in her ear while they have their way with her.
The worst part is that she can't even blame them for it. They're right to keep their distance. She's not a good person or even a very pleasant one. She's a bitch, through and through, and she knows it. Why would anyone like her? (Hell, even she doesn't.)
But it still hurts. A lot. Especially when she sees Lucy (who she always thought was winter right along with her. Merlin was she ever wrong) so bloody in love with Lorcan, walking side-by-side with him and holding his hand. Maybe her sister is still reserved around other people, but not in the same way that Molly is. She's not cold on inside, as well as without; she's warm and happy at heart
Molly wants to be happy, too. She wants to stop feeling so empty all the time (it makes her think of herself as a black hole, taking anything and everything she can from the people around her in a feeble attempt to fill up the space). She wants someone who makes her feel wanted and whole and loved.
Except there's no one out there who can do that for her. There's no soul mate just waiting to find her, willing to brave the chill so he can melt her heart with his sunny smile. Lucy and Lorcan may have made her doubt her certainty that there is no "one and only" for each person, but she's still steadfast in her conviction that there isn't one for her. Maybe there was once upon a time, but not anymore. She imagines he died or that some twist of fate kept him from ever being born in the first place.
It doesn't matter which option it is—or even if it's something else entirely—because either way, her perfect match isn't there. If he was, she wouldn't feel so irreparably, irrevocably broken all the time. She would be the chilly beginnings of spring, like Lucy (because her parents have fucked both of them up too much to ever imagine a world in which they could be summers), just waiting for the sun to come out so she can fully bloom.
Instead, she's winter—cold, cruel, dead winter—and there's nothing she can do to change that.
(But, oh, how she wishes there were. She hates being so alone.)