Molly was a F***ing Tourist
The boys drank in one room. The girls in another. Always the same, no matter the letters.
Greek Letters.
Shabby sofa on the burnt-out lawn.
Sometimes the lawn was wet and green, and sometimes the sofa was plaid, but not that night. That night, I stood on the lawn thinking that I should have brought a coat but didn't. I thought I might leave to get one, but just as I thought maybe, yes, someone handed me a smile in a red plastic cup, a cramped closet to hide in, and a warm hand to lead me there.
There were rules.
The foyer was for arrivals and introductions. The staircase meant you were easy. Some girls got carried up, kicking and screaming.
Others sobbing.
I heard that a girl came with a padlock on her jeans. She didn't get very far. They held her down and cut those pants off her with a straight razor that one of the kids had stolen from his grandfather's medicine cabinet.
She didn't know the rules. That's what I heard.
I was there that night. The shabby sofa was gold, the lawn muddy, and I'd pushed myself hard into the crowd of shadows, clutched my purse against my chest, and said nothing. Molly was her name. I didn't know her, and it doesn't matter how much Kool-Aid you drink or how much Drano you snort, you can't make yourself feel something when you just don't feel it. Not scared, not sad, not even the faintest bit guilty for doing nothing. None of us feels anything anymore. I don't think we are supposed to. Shit. The last time I had a good girl cry was when my roommate's fuck-buddy blew chunks all over my bed on the second day of first semester, freshman year. That meant something for some reason, something personal to me at the time. I can't tell you why, only that it hurt a lot, in that quiet space between you and your bones and God, but since then. . .
There's nothing.
Molly was just a tourist.
I live here.
I'll be living here the rest of my life.
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Author's Note
This piece was previously published at Vagabond City Journal. Sadly the zine has closed, but I want to thank their very brave editors for accepting this piece. The subject matter is often a hard sell. Apathy often is.
what this feels like is authentic, and horrific for being so.
College daze. The patterns persist. The story stings.
I wanted to capture the fear of doing something, of not doing anything, of feeling too much, then feeling nothing at all, and more importantly - the shame. Thanks to both of you.
"Frat rat" is an apt term. *
Gritty and real, everything's on the page. No explanation necessary. Strong work.
*
You wrote about something important to you and it comes out in the strong voice and command you bring to it. This is a really great story. Well handled in all respects.
Strong work.
strong writing and an innovative way to approach a hard subject.*
Agree with Gary. Usually, the approach towards apathy is more subtle but this is uniquely aggressive, kind of like when sees something they don't want to and then swears to the cop that it didn't happen.*
*when someone
* After reading the last line, I wanted to shout at her, "No, you don't. Get out of there." And wanting to shout at a narrator means damn good writing.
Definitely got a strong reaction from me. This is a tragedy, both the events and the apathy. Well done.
Really strong, Cheryl. This was so real, I often feared the next line...with good reason. Excellent writing *
"Not scared, not sad, not even the faintest bit guilty for doing nothing. None of us feels anything anymore."
The modern nightmare.
Agree with David's comment.
*
Thanks everyone. I wish writing about fixed the problem.
Ah nice. Very tough.
Thanks Steven.
Strong and excellent piece. Just so you know: The word "fucking" in the title nearly kept me from reading it.*
I know. I had debated using symbols, but when It was originally published, the editors wanted it left in, so I was torn. However, since I am adamantly against censorship, I wouldn't have felt right toning it down. Sure, you risk losing readers, and I'm still not sure if I did the right thing. But "Molly was a Tourist" just doesn't have the anger I felt when writing it.
I added the symbols in an experiment to see if it will get more readers without having to censor the word itself.