“lacy, oh, lacy i just loathe you lately and i despise my jealous eyes and how hard they fell for you yeah, i despise my rotten mind and how much it worships you ” — inspired by lacy, olivia rodrigo.
molly has never been able to stand the way you look at her.
not because you look down on her. that would be easier. cruel, but simple. instead you look at her like she still matters, like there is something left worth saving under all the cracks. you do not see the hollow, broken shell she feels she has become.
and that is the worst cruelty of all.
she hates you for it.
she hates that you stayed when the camp whispered about her, calling her dramatic, unstable, too much to deal with. when dutch’s fire cooled and turned to ice. when voices dropped as she walked near, conversations cut short. but you stayed, steady, a light in her growing dark.
and now, she sees dutch.
she sees how his eyes linger on you, a moment too long, drawn to your laugh. how he drapes his charm around you like a net, waiting for a spark in your gaze, the very look he once gave her. and you undo him so easily, with nothing more than a smile.
she cannot bear it.
she knows that if you wanted, dutch would be yours by morning.
you are everything she no longer is.
the camp bends around you. the men wait on your words. the women trust you with secrets. hosea asks your advice. even arthur, even arthur, softens when you are near. and dutch? he swells with pride, boasts louder, grins wider, as if trying to shine brighter than you.
you, with your clean boots and soft hands, your bright hair, your easy laugh, your steady aim.
you’ve taken her place without effort.
but under the anger is something else she cannot say aloud: she does not truly hate you.
she remembers when you brushed her hair while she cried, when you held her hands and whispered comfort into the cracks of her spirit. she remembers the coffee you brought, the nights you sat beside her without flinching, when she told you things she never told anyone else.
and now she is alone again, burning with a fury she cannot contain. and still, you show her kindness she does not believe she deserves.
tonight, it is too much.
you find her at the water’s edge, arms wrapped tight around herself, jaw shaking after another fight with dutch. the moonlight runs over her like silver, the water below calm and mocking.
molly…
“i don’t need yer pity,” she spits, her voice cracking apart on the last word.
“that’s what you lot don’t get. i chose him. i stood by ‘im when no one else would. and now you’re here, all pretty an’ new, an’ he can’t stop lookin’ at you, an’ everyone just forgets me like i was never fockin’ there to begin with.”
her voice shakes, eyes blazing with something raw and desperate.
“i see you, y’know. with yer sweet voice an’ yer goddamn perfect face, walkin’ ‘round camp like nothin’s ever touched you. you can pretend you’re humble, but you’ve got it all all the things i ain’t. not anymore.”
silence. the water stirs below.
then, softer, bitter as spoiled wine:
“save it for someone else, love. i’m not yer charity project. i’m not some poor mad girl you get to feel noble about.”