Disclaimer: I own none of the characters presented in this story. Red Dead Redemption and all associated with said property belong to Rockstar Games.

Disclaimer: Strong depictions of violence, murder, and other such heinous and repugnant acts, very harsh language used throughout, and some taboo and offensive material occasionally presented.

Part Forty-Eight: Molly

5:29 PM, August 25th, 1899

"Dutch is keepin' 'em safe. Don't you worry one hair on that pretty little head," Grimshaw had said when Molly inquired about the state bonds. She scoffed. Why am I even surprised? It was always Dutch, Dutch who needed to know everything, who needed to control everything, and who needed to keep his stupid stupid secrets because he got off thinking it made him smarter than her. Than everyone.

Dutch, Dutch, Dutch, she reflected as she entered their oppressively small ivory tent, embellished with all the finest baubles and adornments. Who needed silk jade drapes when you had coarse, grimy beige-gray tent flaps? Why buy a lovely silver mirror encrusted with dazzling rainbow gems when they already had a wooden one, screaming with scuff marks and a crack that dripped jaggedly down the middle? Varnished and polished hardwood floors, smelling of oak, and that pleasant factory musk? No, no, she much preferred a filthy brown sheet, riddled with disgusting weeds piercing from the soil below. Every night they seemed to rise higher and higher and soon, Molly feared, they would slither around her legs and waist and arms and throat and bury her into the terrible blackness.

She remembered her parents suddenly—it had been a while—and wanted to shriek. Her home had been beautiful then…

Before, she'd slept on a snow-white featherbed overlaying a soft mattress cushion with golden mulberry silk pillows, navy linens, and a stunning cerulean bed canopy that enveloped her with warm safety. Now there was only one narrow mattress that could probably fit two if they cuddled intimately—so of course Dutch loved to stretch out on it, making her sleep on the bedroll on the ground. Like a fucking homeless vagrant. Don't matter, she thought, smirking. I ain't spending many nights in here anyhow.

And once she got those state bonds from Dutch, she was never spending another night here again. Micah would take her to the finest city in the world, Paris, or New York, or London, or perhaps somewhere more exotic if her dangerous edge held. She'd be snuggling with quilts light as a feather, eating foods she couldn't pronounce. Everything was going to be better.

She just needed those bonds.

Which was why she brought a crate of beers with her to the tent. Liquid courage was compulsory for what came next. She sucked them down unsatiably, trying to force them down the hatch before taste set in. It was lukewarm from sitting out in the sun, and Molly was convinced it was fermented deer piss. Oh, how she craved airy champagne or rich bitter wine.

She downed them habitually from then on while she waited for Dutch to return. He was more withdrawn than usual, more stuck-up with his damn secrets, and seeing as how they weren't on the best of speaking terms, Molly only saw three ways to coax the information she needed out of him.

First, she could play to his fat ego, smothering him with praise and adoration. She obviously shot that down instantly. Just forcing a smile would be a Herculean labor. Second, she could intentionally get him drunk enough to spill his beans, but that was unlikely. The man held his booze far better than her and she didn't have the patience to spend all fucking night with him drinking this shitty yellow whale oil. The third option made her skin crawl. To take him, kiss him, seduce him, bring him to the brink, whisper in his ear until he called it out in pleased agony. Then, while he slept, she'd retrieve them and run off with Micah in the dead of night. He was packed and waiting for her. He didn't know about her plan, naturally. He was a jealous man, Molly knew. Well, actually she didn't, didn't know much about him at all, but she liked imagining he was jealous.

Nausea struck her barbarically, and not just from the awful beer. She pictured herself as Abigail, prowling the streets half-naked, flashing her pale muffs to strangers, cooing them up to the nearest hotel, cashing in all her dignity and self-respect—for a few bucks. But this ain't a few bucks, she told herself, it's six thousand.

She arranged herself in a flattering pose on the gaunt bed, her cheek resting on her hand, her auburn hair loose and flowing, and waited for Dutch to return with Uncle and that whore Sadie. At one point she got bored and tried stuffing her socks in her blouse to make her breasts bigger, but an unpleasant smell mushroomed and lingered at her chest, so she removed them.

Finally, she saw Dutch arrive through the peephole at the tent's entrance. He was driving Uncle off to the side for a talking-to while Sadie claimed a pail of water and got to scrubbing the gunk off her clothing. The Irishwoman studied her closely, drinking in every facet. She looked atrocious, wearing a saggy, tired face and hair knotted with mud; even with the meager lanternlight, her scar shone proudly on her countenance, and the ugliness of it gave Molly glee. She realized she no longer cared if Sadie fucked Dutch, and was very impressed by the maturity of that decision.

Molly stripped off her shoes and socks, adjusting her blouse to make her cleavage more visible. God, how long is he gonna be talkin' to Uncle? she pondered. She kept envisioning him entering, his face lighting up when he saw her, his teeth curving into a shrewd grin. Molly nibbled on her thumb—against her better judgment, she was growing excited. How hot would he get for her? How many times would they make love? Last time it had been only once, but she'd barely tried then. Tonight, she was going to really try.

Micah, with his long blonde locks and soft face, slipped into her mind then, too, and pretty soon they were both on top of her, kissing, fawning, murmuring they couldn't live without her, that they'd kill the other, hell, kill themselves if she wished it. And she would, and they'd be on top of each other, naked, wrestling and jockeying, taking one another by the throat, and she'd lie on that mattress, but it wasn't a mattress, it was a French bed and she was staring at them while they fought, breathing with so much lust drool would drip onto her legs and she'd squeeze them, one hand on each thigh, strangling the creamy flesh, and then suddenly they would be her boys' necks and she would be on top of them, stealing their air while they thrashed and writhed, but she was too strong and though they would claw and scratch at her raw, exposed figure, the pain would feel amazing, and they would both still be inside her, hard as a rock because they still wanted her, still needed—

"Hey, Molly," Dutch said as he set foot inside, picking up the shabby mirror and turning to stare at it. He barely paid her any mind.

Christ, Molly thought, get control. Micah is not here, and even if he was, that scene wouldn't play. I'm a one-man woman now. After tonight.

"Dutch…" she purred as he began scratching a razor along his crooked reflection.

"Yeah?" he groaned, not registering her tone, just expecting her to be a nuisance. She called his name again, with more honey this time, and when he turned to face her, she was exactly where she wanted to be. Her smile was cute and flirtatious, her eyes were narrow and mysterious, and her body slunk and bulged in the perfect places.

And he laughed. "You cursed me out, and now you're… you're pullin' this? I don't get you, woman." Molly's cute simper shook with rage but she held herself together. He set down the shaving blade and fissured mirror, strutting to her and leaning his head a few feet from hers. "You tryin' to court me, Molly?" he asked coyly. "Was that what your move with the cigarette was all about?" There was something akin to relief in his voice.

"No," she said involuntarily.

The friskiness evanesced from his eyes instantly. He gyrated and returned to shaving. Shit. She took another swig from her horrendous beer before replacing it at one of the bed's feet. She skipped up and over to him, suckling his neck, caressing his chest…

"I'm too tired."

"No, you ain't." She lowered one of her hands to his groin, only to find it limp as a corpse. He wasn't aroused at all.

"I'm too tired," he repeated, guiding her back to the mattress. "We-we can get at it another time. Okay?" He bent onto his knee and kissed her fingers romantically.

"I don't want it another time," she said, yanking her hand from his, "I want it now."

Dutch sighed, stubbly cheeks falling. "Every time, Molly. Every time I treat you like an adult, you punish me."

"I bet you could get it up for Mary-Beth," she snapped, loathing seeping into her with more strength than she thought possible. "Or Sadie. Is that why she's covered in blood? You and old Uncle spent the day deflowering her?"

Dutch scooped up her beer, gulping a heavy load from it. "I used to find your jealousy flattering, y'know that?"

Molly snarled her teeth. "That's my beer." Who did he think he was? That he could always just take, take, take from her and keep, keep, keep everything for himself. Him, and his stupid secrets and handsome smile. I hate him. I want to go home. "Give it back!" She reached for it, but he spun out of her way, staring her dead in the eye as he took a slow, smug sip. He slurped tumultuously.

Molly saw the glimmer of his razor blade resting in the corner of her eye and was tempted to take it and gut him throat to limp, dead cock; strip off his whole face to erase that damn smirk. But she composed herself, straightening her back up like a proper lady. Be the bigger person, she told herself. "I want the state bonds."

He was taken aback. "Why?"

"There's a pretty necklace in town I want," she replied, amazed by her improvisational skills.

"A-are you jokin'?" Upon confirming she wasn't, he added: "We are barely makin' ends meet as is. No, I wouldn't give you six cents for such a stupid purchase, let alone six thousand."

"You just can't stand to see me happy, can you?" she said calmly, though her bosom bounced with enraged breaths.

"I'll never live to see you happy, Molly. You don't understand the concept."

"That's my goddamn beer!" She lunged with ungodly speed and swiped it from his hands, spilling nearly all the remaining contents. She'd have an empty bottle before she let him have a quarter-full one. Her face glowed with a triumphant madness and she brought it to her lips snobbishly, slurping as loud as she possibly could. To her disappointment, it didn't vex him.

"That's all you're good for, ain't it," he chuckled dryly, "whining and drinking." She closed her eyes, too infuriated to see his stupid atrocious face any longer. She aimed the bottle's bottom at the sky, draining every drop. Dutch leaned closer, she knew, because she could feel the air of his words on her cheek. "And I ain't tired, you know. Just would rather put it in a cow than you."

"Fuck you!" she bellowed, spitting half-consumed beer at him. "Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!" Dutch's wet brow gradually furrowed, and when it did, he clasped her arm firmly. "Ow! Let go! Let go!" But he didn't. He dragged her outside the tent, storming over to the cave. Molly kept screaming and behind them the camp glared with orange light as folk started waking up.

When they were inside the cave, eclipsed in the thick shadows, Dutch let go of her. She heard rocks rustling as he fidgeted in the dark, searching for something. When he took her hand again, he stuffed it with sharp papers. "There," his disembodied voice said, "the state bonds. You win. Now leave me the fuck alone!"

He burst from the cave into the light outside, his shoulders still wet, but from more than Molly's beer. It was raining now, a fainter downpour; the droplets were light and made quiet pop sounds when they fell.

Molly had her future in her hands, but she didn't care. There was something about the sight of Dutch turning his back on her, shunning her like she was the problem that caused twitching ire to burn through her whole body. Her leg twitched and she nearly collapsed as she followed him. She scratched her neck so hard she drew blood, but didn't stop. Bastardbastardbastardbastard! Always talking down to her, always trying to control her like a fucking puppet.

The razor was in her hand, she realized. Water slid into her eyes, blurring her vision but she didn't blink. She hastened to Dutch until he was an inch away, until his plump, juicy neck was within her reach, begging to be cut, begging her to carve another handsome smile from his Adam's apple to chin. Molly's fingers twitched with desire, and she had to struggle to cling to the razor in one hand and the bonds in the other. People were stirring, gathering nearby, but it didn't matter. They weren't close enough to stop her.

Molly grinned and opened her mouth to say the last thing she'd ever say to him. "You're such an idiot! What happened to stashing money off of camp? I hate you! I hate you more than life itself! I'm not yours, you stole me! Stole all of us! Oh, and don't worry, I won't tell anyone 'bout your little impotency problem! You're wrong, you couldn't fuck a cow if you wanted to! Couldn't even fuck Annabelle!"

Then Molly got what she wanted. A right hook to the face, one that broke her nose and popped a tooth out. She slumped onto the wet dirt, feeling the cool rain on her swollen visage. The drizzle blossomed into a full storm, water fell so thick Molly felt her dress grow sodden and shrink against her figure—even though she was still wearing clothes, she felt naked, vulnerable. A weed itched against her lip and though it didn't snake around her, the inky blackness was taking her as Dutch drove vicious kick after vicious kick. Her ribs were on fire, then her ass, then her face again. The pain was so constant and so vast her brain couldn't process it and she just felt numb.

Dutch was above her, like he always, always was, and he wasn't stopping. His features were marred with murderous hate; he screamed, but the rain's endless chant drowned him out. Molly did make out one voice amidst the tempest and whispered to its owner: "M-Mi-Micah?"

But it wasn't Micah—it was Abigail, eyes as blue as the bruises swelling all across Molly's battered form. "Stop! Dutch, dammit, STOP!" She shoved Dutch, actually, shoved him out of the way. Dutch glared at her and for a moment Molly thought Abigail was next…

But he simply roared instead and retreated to the safety of his canopy. All cats hate the water, even lions.

Molly was in so much misery she decided quickly that death would be preferable and stabbed herself in the neck with Dutch's razor. But it wasn't there, of course. It had never been there, don't be ridiculous. She couldn't kill Dutch—she loved him.

However, the other bit of cargo she was ferrying in her other hand was most assuredly real. Weakly, she rolled her head because she couldn't move the arm, it wasn't broken, just too heavy. She unclenched her fist to find the bonds.

The rain was heavy. And paper is paper. The bonds were soaked nearly translucent, and when the wind picked up, they flitted from Molly's hands in small, worthless shards.

Hope you enjoyed this version of Molly-liked the idea of her being just a crazy, emotionally inconsistent self-destructive mess of a person who constantly contradicts herself.

Thanks for reading! Share it around if you feel inclined.