Dream.
Sometimes Molly wishes she could turn her brain off.
She's old enough to realize that this is a silly concept; she isn't a baby after all. She knows that you can't turn your brain off, otherwise you'd die. But still, sometimes she thinks it would be nice to stop thinking for a little while.
For example, when she's just sitting at the kitchen table in Mohinder's little apartment, doing her homework, sometimes she'll slip up and doodle that symbol, or a pair of eyes in the margin of her paper, as her thoughts drift to him, the man who can see her. She'll realize what she's done, and scribble over the picture hurriedly, but across the room, Matt's frowning slightly, and Molly knows he caught her thoughts. Its times like those, when Molly wishes she could stop thinking, so that Matt wouldn't have to know, so that he wouldn't need to worry, or try to get her to talk about it.
But mostly, it's at night when Molly wishes her brain would cease function. At night, when she crawls into bed, and Matt pulls the covers over her, while Mohinder kisses her forehead and they say goodnight and turn out the lights. Then, when Molly is alone in the dark, with nothing but her own thoughts to keep her company, she wishes she didn't even have them. Because, really, if you can't think, you can't dream, right? That must be how it works. And the dreams are what Molly is really afraid of.
They start harmless enough. Normal, pleasant, eight-year-old-girl dreams. Often she dreams of her parents, replaying memories of them, memories that she won't remember much of when she wakes. There's one dream where her classroom at school is filled with frogs, and she has to escape through the window, and another where she and Matt get in his police cruiser and drive through Brooklyn, sirens blaring. They're good dreams to start, they always are. Dreams change though, and Molly's always take a turn for the worst. The boogeyman comes for her parents, or she can't get the classroom window open. They almost always end with the nightmare man leering at her. Watching her.
One night, Molly's in the police cruiser, Matt's driving and she and Mohinder are in the backseat, laughing as they race through city streets. There's a screeching of tires, and then they crash, right in the middle of Kirby Plaza. Molly shrieks as the car comes to a halt. She shakes Mohinder whose eyes are closed, his blood trickling across the seat. Matt is slumped over the steering wheel, unmoving. Molly turns to open her door, to get out of the car, but he's there. Staring at her through the window. And even though she's screaming, even though he's outside the glass, she can still hear him whisper,
"I can see you, Molly."
She screams, shaking Mohinder again, one hand on Matt's back, calling their names, hoping they'll wake up, that she'll wake up and they'll all be okay.
"Matt! Mohinder!"
"Molly!"
"Wake up! Mohinder! MATT!"
"I can see you..."
"MOLLY!"
She wakes, shooting up in bed, screaming. Matt's arms are already around her, and he's dropping kisses into her hair, trying to reassure her with nonsense like, "It's over, sweetie, don't cry," and "Molly, baby girl, its okay." But Molly knows it's not okay, because he can still see her. The nightmare man is still watching her.
And later, when she's calmed down, and she's back in bed, with Mohinder sitting next to her, singing her a lullaby in a language she doesn't understand, Molly is certain, it would be better not to think.
Because then, she could not dream.
