Polly

Polly

The man sat there in his grimy, filthy flannel over shirt and drove in silence down the dark, desolate interstate. He had been chain smoking since he retrieved his ill-fated passenger. The toxic smoke from his cigarette burned and floated off into the night sky. His tailgate emitting black tar into the air. He kept to the speed limit, making sure not to attract any unwanted attention. He glanced every few moments or so at the girl bound and gagged in the passenger seat.

Polly. The girl from the show. The girl he watched, jump and dance and laugh and scream and live in the crowd. He was silent and stolid in the sweat filled moshpit. He knew his goal before he even entered the club. He wanted, needed someone to come home with him. It was his own loneliness that called out to him on those long cold, Washington nights. He had finally listened to it’s pained expression.

He decided, was convinced, that tonight was preordained. That this was supposed to happen. Someone was going to walk into that club tonight and grab Polly and it might as well be him. He heard her shouts for help, even if the majority of it was blotted out by the rag. He felt a tinge of guilt. It was small, but there. He took a long drag, the low glow of his cigarette lighting up, ash filling it’s place. It was already starting to be a long night.

***

The early morning rays of the sun started to peak over the thick forestry in a more wooded part of the interstate. The man huffed, wiping the sweat off his brow before trudging on, carrying the dead weight of Polly on his back. He didn’t know her name. He thought Polly was nice and reminded him of the girl when she was in the pit. Her head bobbing up and down, dirty strands of her hair swaying in the crowd reminded him of broken wings. That was his Polly.

He glanced around the dark woods, deciding this was as good a place as any he could find in such short notice before dumping her struggling body on the ground. She made a muffled groan of disapproval before fighting against the restraints again.

The man smirked a moment before grabbing her by the hair, putting a stop to her whimpering. He took another glance at her now still body. She had a small frame, couldn’t be above 5’2”. The left side of her face had a smudge of dirt from being thrown so unceremoniously to the ground. The man liked that.

***

The thick scent of pine was everywhere, filling the man’s nostrils making for quite the interesting aroma mixed with Polly’s burning flesh. He sat atop her, admiring the way the burns and boils tainted her pale skin like an abstract painting. Maybe he’ll cut that part out later and preserve it. Maybe he won’t.

She moaned and tried to scream something, the dirty rag still blocking her airway making it harder for her to breathe. He thought for a moment, glancing around, finally deciding no one would be around for miles to hear her. He quickly removed the rag, her chapped lips emitting a pained, mournful yell. The man thought it was music. More music than that of the club.

He pressed fingers to her lips, her crooked teeth trying to bite them but not quite reaching. He liked her will. It would certainly make his mission more interesting. He looked at her again. She was probably hungry. She’d want some water, maybe to put out the edge of her shirt that’s still on fire. The man patted it out in the dirt with a large hand.

He reached in his pocket, Polly’s eyes widening in fear before slanting in question. He pulled out a bag of seed. Was he going to get her high first? And before what?

The man pulled out rolling papers, placing them on top of her trembling belly, rolling two joints tightly, shoving one in her mouth and lighting it before lighting his own. He said nothing. What could the man say that wasn’t already so blatantly obvious?

He took a drag, exhaling the intoxicating fog. He glanced at Polly, fear still clear in her light almond eyes. He took another drag, exhaling slowly before leaning over, his face right above hers, lips near her ear.

“You don’t smoke?”

Polly struggled, groaning and coughing on the joint. The man smiled again, taking it out of her mouth, resting near her head again. He pulled something else out of his filthy jacket, this time something much more chilling. A knife.

He ran the blade from her neck, down her chest, shredding some of the thin material of her self-made shirt, down to her navel. Polly shuddered, holding her breath. The man looked at her face again, feeling powerful that he affected anyone this way.

“Please, I-I’ll do anything. Just please untie me,” her voice was quiet, controlled yet honest. The man stopped dragging the knife across her chest and stared into her eyes. He saw honesty and fear.

The man planned on saying something but did nothing except plant a kiss on her forehead and move part of her shredded shirt off of her, exposing the un-charred flesh.

Polly started to cry, crystal tears running down her pale and muddied face. Dirt and sweat mixing with the tears sliding down her cheek. The man looked up and smiled, a large, bright smile that belonged on the face of a boy at Christmas, not on a torturer.

His cold blue eyes turned back to the sight before him. Polly was bare, laid out in the open for only him. Her dirty, blond hair splayed out on the ground looking again like wings only these weren't broken. These were strong and beautiful, blonde wings that belonged on an angel. The man had always liked angels.

He moved his large, callused hand down her neck to her breasts, running a finger alongside them curiously with the attention of a scientist. This wasn't just sexual for him, it was exploration.

A thumb and forefinger came together to squeeze at the little brown nub atop her breast, squeezing her nipple tightly until she let out a scream. The man continued his probing, dirty hands sliding up and down the smooth skin of her stomach, down further to her ripped shorts.

"Please... please, no. God..." Polly whimpered as more tears slipped past closed lids.

The man sat up abruptly, a large hand splayed out against her chest as his other dug in a duffel bag for more rope. He had forgotten to tie her legs.

- - -

For an hour the man had touched every inch of Polly's body, charred and not. He had kissed her mouth, her breasts, the delicate skin above her hips. He had tied her legs together, though not as tightly as he'd done her wrists. He had placed lights bites and scratches wherever he could reach. To his surprise, he'd gotten harder more from the cuts than the kisses.

He'd been with women before, but he'd always paid for it. Late night lot lizards keeping the bed of his truck warm for an hour. He'd always wished they would stay. He’d always wished they’d say something to him other than discuss payment for their work. He was always alone and they were always so nice to look at. Though none had prettier hair than his Polly.

It was time, he decided, that he'd gotten what he wanted. He pulled his knife out again, sliced the fabric of her shorts of and tossed them aside. Polly started to scream words that certainly weren't befitting of a dirty, broken angel.

The man leant forward and slapped her across the face, leaving a bruise and a muddy hand print.

"Don't talk like that! You shouldn't..." he glared at her for a moment before his face cleared, back to the same patient, calm demeanor he'd had the entire night.

Polly looked back at him, with large, red eyes and the fear of a man sent to the gallows. She remained silent. Silent when he pushed her legs up again, silent as he pushed inside of her and silent when he'd finally had his fill, pulled out and wrapped his large arms around her for the night.

- - -

The bright, early morning rays had finally peeked over the trees by the time the man had opened his eyes the next day. Judging by the position of the sun it was almost noon. He blinked his eyes open slowly, gathering his bearings as the last waves of sleep washed away.

He looked down at the weight in his arms as scared, almond eyed looked back at him.

"My... my back hurts," Polly muttered, hoping her words wouldn't anger the man again.

The man just smiled down at her. There, she sounded like a good, innocent Polly again. He should have had her sooner. He ran his hand across her naked body as he thought. This was probably a lie. Probably a way for her to trick him and try to run off. Still, maybe a chase would be nice for a few.

It didn't take long to untie her wrists, a quick flick of the knife and they'd fallen down to the dark earth beneath their feet. The man was prepared for a toss of those dirty blonde locks in his face and a chase through the woods for an hour or so. The man was not, however, prepared for a strong punch to his throat, so strong that it had knocked the knife out of his hand and into hers.

Polly had the upper hand now and she didn't waste time. She had pushed the man down, stabbing the knife into his broad chest and shoulders as fast and hard as she could. The heavy amounts of blood that had spurted from the wounds she inflicted didn't bother her as she continued to cut and slice. Each slice for one he had inflicted on her, each deep cut for every thrust into her from the night before.

The man shouted at first, screaming as the pain overwhelmed him but after a few moments he'd quieted down. Polly stabbed him one last time before spitting in his face, rolling off of him to take his wallet, keys and anything else she might need.

He continued to smile, even as he coughed up blood from the extensity of his wounds. It had always amazed him, the will of instinct. The last thing the man heard were the crunching of leaves and twigs beneath Polly's feet and the last thing he saw were the wings of a small, yellow bird overhead.