Polly

“Don’t hurt me,” she says. Her eyes are blue and they’re welling up with tears, fresh and wet, not like the dry and sticky streaks on her cheeks. She’s pretty.1

“Why would I hurt you?” I ask her softly. I don’t understand why she’s so afraid. I just don’t want her to go away. She’s too pretty just to leave me alone with myself thinking about her like that. That’s selfish. She’s too pretty to be selfish.2

She starts sobbing. Great fat tears roll down her dirty cheeks. I crawl over next to her and she shudders violently. I touch the wet tears on her face and she cringes.3

“Are you cold?” She doesn’t say anything. “I want you to be comfortable.”4

I crawl over to the thermostat, adjust it, then crawl back. “It’ll get better in a minute.”5

I sit quietly and watch her while she cries. She cries until she can’t cry no more and I’m still watching her. She’s so pretty. She’s gorgeous. I think I love her.6

“I think I love you,” I tell her as gently as I can. It’s a powerful emotion so I say it as softly as I can so the room won’t shudder.7

She begins to shake again and I sigh impatiently. “Are you cold?” I crawl across the bed again. “Damn thermostat…” I thump it once.8

“Are you hungry?” I ask her. She’s staring blankly at her shoes, still quivering. Her lips quiver. They’re dry and cracked and quivering. They look soft like pillows and they’re beautiful. I wish I could touch them. I reach out and let my finger glide across the ridges, to the corner of her mouth, then up her cheekbones, to her earlobe. She’s beautiful.9

“I have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. You like those?”10

She doesn’t answer me. She’s quiet but that’s okay.11

“I’ll be right back.”12

I go to the kitchen. My kitchen is small and a little dirty. There’s dishes piled in the sink. Something’s rotting on the counter. It stinks. I’ll take care of it later.13

I go to the cabinet and open it. It squeaks and I dig through it and find a jar of peanut butter half full and I find some grape jelly in the fridge. There’s also some strawberry.14

“Do you like grape or strawberry?” I yell.15

She doesn’t answer so I grab both. I clutch all three jars to my chest with my arm and snatch up a butter knife that looks sort of clean and a bag of bread that’s not green-grey. I dump them all in front of her on the bed and sit down and began to open each. She’s still shaking so I turn on the heat. It’s the middle of summer but I want her to be comfortable.16

I make two sandwiches, one with grape jelly and one with strawberry. She won’t tell me which one she wants so I set the strawberry down in front of her and eat the grape. Oh, I forgot that she can’t reach it.17

I take out my pocketknife and she begins to rattle and shake and tears are coming again.18

“No, no, no!” I say. “I’m just going to untie you,” I say. “Don’t you want to eat?”19

She stops crying and nods her head quickly.20

I go behind her and begin to pick at the knots around her wrists with my pocketknife. She has pretty wrists, delicate and white. I finger one briefly but my hands are too rough. I go back to untying the knots.21

No sooner had the last knot snapped apart, she swung her wrists out in front of her with a frantic cry and began to scramble across the bed. I dropped the knife and went after her. She was crying hard and stumbling into walls as she ran towards the door. I caught just before she reached the handle and threw her over my shoulder. She cried harder and beat my back with her fists. I took her back to the bedroom and tied her back up with her hands in front of her so that she could eat now if she wanted to.22

I scolded her as she cried and squirmed and I tied her hands.23

“Why’d you have to run?” I said. “You didn’t need to run. I was just trying to feed you. That was selfish of you to run. You’re too pretty to be selfish.”24

It’s hard to tie someone’s hands when they keep moving and pulling them apart.25

When I finished, I sat her upright and sat back. She had stepped on my sandwich but I ate it anyways. There was jelly on the sheets. She was crying and shaking too hard to eat her sandwich so I ate it for her and turned up the thermostat some more. I probably should have made her some chicken noodle soup.26

“You want to watch some T.V.?” I asked her after a while.27

She didn’t answer so I turned it on anyways. There was nothing on but Jerry Springer and Oprah so I turned it back off again.28

“Are you always this quiet?” I say. It was irritating me a little but not really.29

By this time we were both sweating. I took off my boots, then my shirt.30

I look at her. She’s pretty.31

“You’re name’s Polly isn’t it?”32

She looks at me. Her hair is lank and hang heavy from her scalp with sweat.33

I smile. “I like your name, Polly. It’s like a parrot.” I laugh. “That’s really funny, Polly. You know, parrots usually talk a lot, you know, about crackers and shit, but you, Polly, you don’t say a word. Not about crackers or anything!”34

I like saying her name. Polly, Polly, Polly, Polly.35

She’s sweating. I see it running down her forehead. It’s like her tears but different. It runs down her forehead, to her pretty eyebrows, over her pretty nose, to her pretty mouth, down her chin, down her neck, over…over…36

I crawl forward.37

“Polly, I like you. I mean, I really, really like you.”38

I lean forward and I kiss her. Her lips are as rough as they appear but just enough like pillows as I’d imagined. They taste like salt, from the sweat (or from the tears?). I can’t decide but I kiss them and I’m shaking with delight.39

I pull apart from her and grin.40

“I guess it wasn’t the thermostat after all!” I laugh at my own joke.41

There’s an emotion on her face I can’t place and it puzzles me but I kiss her again. I kiss her and I touch her face and I touch her hair and I touch her body over her wet clothes and I feel it slick with sweat underneath and she feels so small under me and she’s crying again and she won’t kiss me back and I don’t know why.42

“Why won’t you kiss me back?” I ask her.43

She only looks at me. She shivers and she cries and her lip quivers and she looks at me.44

“Why won’t you kiss me back?” I ask her again, frantic.45

She closes her eyes and shakes her head. She’s crying.46

“Why won’t you kiss me back?!” I ask her again and I smash a lamp off of a table next to the bed.47

She screams and cries louder over my screams of “Why won’t you kiss me back?!”48

She’s screaming and I’m screaming and smashing things when the cops come in and tackle me to the floor and untie her and hold her as I scream to them, “WHY WON’T SHE KISS ME BACK?”49

You know why?50

Because she’s selfish.51