Sequel: The Epilogue ›
A Place on My Pillow
.38
Pollyanna had to walk home from work one night, since Cady was sick and Alex was working a double shift. Millie had already gone home, leaving the young girl to close. She had decided that she would be fine. It was a small city. There wasn’t an serious danger. Or, at least, that had been what she thought.
She was wrong.
Polly walked along a dark alley that ran between two large brick buildings, a shortcut she’d discovered one morning when she was running late for the third day in a row. She had been spending a lot of time in the clearing with Maria’s cross, just laying on the soft grass and staring up at the clouds that pass by. The sky always looked so perfect in that oval, that perfect space of the world that was visible from her space. It was hard not to get lost in the blues and whites of the sky, the rustling of the trees in the gentle breeze, the warmth of the early morning sun spread over her skin. It was heaven, a haven where nothing bad happened. Unless you were Maria.
She noticed the dark shadowed figure almost immediately but did nothing, hoping they were just on the same path unintentionally. Most shadowed figures, however, weren’t just incidentally on the same path. They were on the same path as you, because they wanted to be.
It wasn’t until he turned the corner right after her, heading into the darkened corner park that her heart began to race uncontrollably. The adrenaline was beginning to pump throughout her veins, setting them on fire. The flight response started pushing her limbs faster, but the figure was faster. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her into one of the two brick walls that border the park. Polly yelped and twisted in his grip so she could face him, identify him if needed.
Most of his face was in shadow, the streetlamps and his hood casting them. But Polly could just barely make out the long scar that ran from the shadow of his right eye down to his jaw line. He had a strong one as well, angular and well-defined. He was much taller than Polly, standing well over 6 feet, with meaty hands and strong, thick muscles that banded through his arms. She could feel them as he pressed her into the wall. There was a strong scent of whiskey on his breath as he leaned in, the smell repulsive.
“Get off me!” Polly struggled, trying to fling all of her limbs at the attacker. He chuckled, his laugh low and devious. Evil, almost.
“You want this, sweetie,” he murmured.
She closed her eyes and yanked a hand free. She couldn’t do much. He was too close. He pressed his entire body against hers, spreading her legs so he stood between them. He was smart. He knew that, given the chance, she’d knee him in the groin and get away. He was smart to think of that, when he obviously wasn’t sober. It made her think maybe he’d done this before. So, she did what she could. She slapped him as hard as the awkward angle would allow. He chuckled again, the sound impossibly creepier. He gripped her wrist in his hand and pressed it into the brick wall, scraping her skin harshly along the biting surface.
“I like when they fight,” he murmured gently into her ear, as if lulling her into submission. It wouldn’t work. When it didn’t, when she tried to claw at his hand, he moved both of her wrists above her head and held them within one hand. With the other, he slammed his curled up fist into her jaw. She let out a loud whimper as he forced her to the ground. He stood back, staring at the girl who had curled herself into the fetal position. He nudged her legs down with his foot and took a step back. Just for a second, she thought foolishly, that maybe he had changed his mind. He hadn’t. He slammed a well-aimed kick into her stomach and she cursed. Scared to death, Polly stared up at him. The shadows were darker than ever, his thin lips curled into a sinister smile.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked him weakly.
“I like to hear them scream,” he replied, with a casual shrug, as if she’d asked him why he liked cupcakes.
“I won’t scream for you then,” she retorted, staring angrily up at him. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Yes, you will.”
She couldn’t remember what happened next. The next few hours were blurry. She remembered that he had picked her up by the throat, her weight meaning nothing to him. He had slammed her into the wall repeatedly, giving her a no doubted concussion and possibly a cracked skull. She remembered a second figure, broad shouldered with olive skin. She wanted to recognize him but her thoughts, alongside her vision, were swimming. She couldn’t even properly remember what her own name was, let alone who that second person had been. He was, thankfully, her savior. Polly couldn’t see what he did but her attacker fled the scene and left the pair alone.
The second figure was asking her a question but she could only focus on his eyes. They were the darkest brown and she knew that she knew them from somewhere. His name escaped her. Hers did not however escape him. He was saying her name as he scooped her off the ground.
“Polly.”
She mumbled and buried her aching head into his chest. His welcoming, warm chest. Before he could stop her, she had passed out in his arms.
She was wrong.
Polly walked along a dark alley that ran between two large brick buildings, a shortcut she’d discovered one morning when she was running late for the third day in a row. She had been spending a lot of time in the clearing with Maria’s cross, just laying on the soft grass and staring up at the clouds that pass by. The sky always looked so perfect in that oval, that perfect space of the world that was visible from her space. It was hard not to get lost in the blues and whites of the sky, the rustling of the trees in the gentle breeze, the warmth of the early morning sun spread over her skin. It was heaven, a haven where nothing bad happened. Unless you were Maria.
She noticed the dark shadowed figure almost immediately but did nothing, hoping they were just on the same path unintentionally. Most shadowed figures, however, weren’t just incidentally on the same path. They were on the same path as you, because they wanted to be.
It wasn’t until he turned the corner right after her, heading into the darkened corner park that her heart began to race uncontrollably. The adrenaline was beginning to pump throughout her veins, setting them on fire. The flight response started pushing her limbs faster, but the figure was faster. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her into one of the two brick walls that border the park. Polly yelped and twisted in his grip so she could face him, identify him if needed.
Most of his face was in shadow, the streetlamps and his hood casting them. But Polly could just barely make out the long scar that ran from the shadow of his right eye down to his jaw line. He had a strong one as well, angular and well-defined. He was much taller than Polly, standing well over 6 feet, with meaty hands and strong, thick muscles that banded through his arms. She could feel them as he pressed her into the wall. There was a strong scent of whiskey on his breath as he leaned in, the smell repulsive.
“Get off me!” Polly struggled, trying to fling all of her limbs at the attacker. He chuckled, his laugh low and devious. Evil, almost.
“You want this, sweetie,” he murmured.
She closed her eyes and yanked a hand free. She couldn’t do much. He was too close. He pressed his entire body against hers, spreading her legs so he stood between them. He was smart. He knew that, given the chance, she’d knee him in the groin and get away. He was smart to think of that, when he obviously wasn’t sober. It made her think maybe he’d done this before. So, she did what she could. She slapped him as hard as the awkward angle would allow. He chuckled again, the sound impossibly creepier. He gripped her wrist in his hand and pressed it into the brick wall, scraping her skin harshly along the biting surface.
“I like when they fight,” he murmured gently into her ear, as if lulling her into submission. It wouldn’t work. When it didn’t, when she tried to claw at his hand, he moved both of her wrists above her head and held them within one hand. With the other, he slammed his curled up fist into her jaw. She let out a loud whimper as he forced her to the ground. He stood back, staring at the girl who had curled herself into the fetal position. He nudged her legs down with his foot and took a step back. Just for a second, she thought foolishly, that maybe he had changed his mind. He hadn’t. He slammed a well-aimed kick into her stomach and she cursed. Scared to death, Polly stared up at him. The shadows were darker than ever, his thin lips curled into a sinister smile.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked him weakly.
“I like to hear them scream,” he replied, with a casual shrug, as if she’d asked him why he liked cupcakes.
“I won’t scream for you then,” she retorted, staring angrily up at him. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Yes, you will.”
She couldn’t remember what happened next. The next few hours were blurry. She remembered that he had picked her up by the throat, her weight meaning nothing to him. He had slammed her into the wall repeatedly, giving her a no doubted concussion and possibly a cracked skull. She remembered a second figure, broad shouldered with olive skin. She wanted to recognize him but her thoughts, alongside her vision, were swimming. She couldn’t even properly remember what her own name was, let alone who that second person had been. He was, thankfully, her savior. Polly couldn’t see what he did but her attacker fled the scene and left the pair alone.
The second figure was asking her a question but she could only focus on his eyes. They were the darkest brown and she knew that she knew them from somewhere. His name escaped her. Hers did not however escape him. He was saying her name as he scooped her off the ground.
“Polly.”
She mumbled and buried her aching head into his chest. His welcoming, warm chest. Before he could stop her, she had passed out in his arms.
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