“Why don’t you go up there and play for me, baby girl,” he gestures to the organ sitting in the right corner beside the pastor’s chair. Racing up toward the instrument, I sit my ass on the bench and place Gigi—my knife—beside me. My fingers trail the ebony and ivory keys before I close my eyes and play from memory.
It’s easy to recall the melody that I learned when I was so much younger. When Pike and I used to play hide and seek. It was always fun when he found me. He’d lift me against his hard body and tell me how pretty I was. He was the only boy I loved; he stole my heart the moment he stole a kiss.
I play the song that he hums along to. It’s nothing in particular, just something between me and the man I love. My Daddy. Pike.
“Who are you?” A gruff voice comes from behind me, interrupting my playing. My body burns in anger at the intrusion. Pike ceases his humming and my fingers still on the keys.
“Little Miss Molly lost her dolly, and now she wants to play, but everybody always runs away.” My rhyme is fun, it makes my heart flutter and calms my mind. There’s always noise in my head, in my ears. Only Pike knows how to make it better. He told me I’m a special girl, that I’m meant to have more love than others. I don’t know what he means, but he loves me a lot. I like how much he loves me. He makes my body fly.
“I’m going to have to ask you both to leave,” the man in the black long dress looks at us with fear and anger swirling together like a pattern of a candy cane.
“I don’t want to leave. I like this.” I poke the keys of the organ, causing the large space to fill with echoing sounds from the pipes.
“Please, miss, that isn’t a toy.”
“Toys are for boys, and dollies are for girls. Gigi wants to play the game, perhaps you’d like to bear her name? Bloody droplets, so pretty and red, I want them all over my hands.” I rise, strolling over to him, holding Gigi tight in my hand. I lean into the old man’s face, my eyes trailing over the wrinkles in his pallid skin. “Old men make me angry. They make me rage. I like to carve. I like to dissect. You’re nothing but an insect.”
“Sweet Molly,” Pike’s voice comes from the pew, he’s watching me with those big blue eyes. They hold me hostage for a moment before he gives me that filthy smirk and a naughty wink. “Have fun, my sweet baby girl.” He pulls a smoke from the packet, putting it between his lips. I watch him light it up, the pastor mumbling something about the devil’s children and I can’t help giggling.
The man’s face is a picture. It’s filled with fear and anguish, and I can’t stop giggling when he attempts to run away. Pike pulls his gun from his jacket. “If you want to live, you’ll come back here,” he tells the old man, cocking the gun like a real-life hero.
The pastor halts dead in his tracks and spins around. His eyes widen when he sees the weapon in Pike’s hand. The same hand that made me squirt all over it earlier this morning at breakfast. Then he licked all my juices from his fingers, telling me I was his favorite candy.
“Please, just leave. I won’t call the police.” His begging only makes me giggle some more. His body is shaking in fear, and I revel in it. Like a drug satiating my hunger, I smile. Lifting Gigi to my tongue, I slowly lick the blade.
“Please don’t cry, please don’t run, I’ll come all over the naughty nun.” I swirl the knife as I near him. My hand grips his black cassock, pulling him closer to me. Leaning in, I run my lips over his old wrinkled skin, “did you put your old cock in a nun, Father?” I question, laughing when he shudders. Father. It’s such a strange word. I prefer Daddy because Pike is mine and he’s good to me. My father broke me. He made my head funny, and now I do things that other people don’t. I lift my knife, pressing the tip along his papery flesh.
“Fathers need to hurt. Fathers need to cry. They do bad things all the time, but what they believe, is all a lie. Their fingers are dirty. Their cocks are filth. He pushed inside my little holes and made me cry. He was happy and smiley, until it was time for him to die.”
His eyes widen in shock at my words, at the poem I wrote just for him. I shove him to the ground until he is on his hands and knees. He attempts to crawl away, but I’m faster. My heavy black boot finds his ankle and I stomp on it as if I’m squishing a bug. A loud crack along with an echoing screech of agony is music to my ears.