Molly has nice knees. Jesus has nice knees. Molly must be Jesus then, and this somehow makes sense. It also accounts for the fact that Molly has a deep voice for a girl, but that just might be from the cigarettes.

But Molly is Jesus, and Jesus is slowly soaking away in my bathtub, picking at the noodles I made 2 hours ago. She refuses to let me take the plate away, but the sauce barely covers the gleam of the metal fork.

“Samantha?” she asks me.
“Yeah?”

She falls silent.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past couple of days, it’s that blood likes to slowly soak, coloring my bathwater crimson, and Jesus doesn’t like to see the truth.

“Well, if he doesn’t love me, who will?”

The silence slowly soaks into the air, and there are some questions that i can’t answer; that not even God can answer.

“Christ,” Molly says, licking the sauce off the fork.

“Will you let me pull the drain now?”

“No,” she snaps. Her eyes are bloodshot. I suppose mine are as well.

“Molly, can I get you some bandages? You’ve really got to stop scratching your wounds.”

“Just let ‘em bleed.” She laughs. “I want to remember him loving me.”

And I don’t say this, because I’ve learned in the past couple of days that girls are touchy as hell, but letting blood slowly soak into your bones, along with memories of indented cars and indented heads, rough hands and prying kisses everywhere besides the lips — Molly, I want to say, that’s not love. Even Jesus doesn’t have that much love for people who never say sorry.

“Christ,” Molly says again.

“I know.”