# Chapter 4
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From the station to the depths of the south side, the landscape was all the same. Every corner of the city had broken, littered sidewalks and orange lampposts that stung the eyes. Unique to this neighbourhood, however, were the roughly-built houses: they looked more like giant Legos, stacked and crammed onto each other, than places to live; mostly orange-colored from the bricks, but often came some other, much more vibrant color to clash with all the others. Polly guessed her mom always avoided this part of town, since all she'd seen of Portcinnere was the dull gray; probably for the best, the sight got jarring quick. But it didn't matter. All was fine while Ronnie walked home with Polly. Despite the late hours---and the growling, nagging, empty stomach---her spirit was at an all-time high.

"So, how you doing at school?" he asked. Reflected lights swirled on his glasses with each step. "Is it as boring as here in Port?"

"No, not really boring, it's just hard work. I'd say I'm doing good."

"That's good. Got many friends?"

"Yeah, I guess I have plenty of them."

"Which one's the prettiest, out of you and them?"

"Hmm. I think Cotton has the best clothes, and she's all white and pink and soft---hard to get your hands off of her, really. But Sabrina has the best eyes: they're this really deep green with yellow edges, and when you stare into them it's like you're about to fall down a cliff."

"And how are you competing?"

"I'm not competing ... no. It's not a competition." She looked down.

"Oh, no, I mean like, what do you think is pretty in you?"

"Oooh. I don't know, I guess I look like a weird flower?" She shrugged.

"Now that you mention it, you do kinda look like a pretty flower. You got thick hips for your age, too."

"Is that good?"

"Yep, means you're gonna be a great mother."

" ... Really?"

"Yes. Just make sure to stay tight."

Before she could even ask what he meant, a closed fast-food joint caught her eye---and stomach. Signs showed pictures of burgers and fried chicken, with catchy letters and colors. "Those look pretty tasty, can we eat here tomorrow?"

He paused his steps to think, squinting. A grin crept on his face. "Why not eat here now?"

"Wait, really?"

He hurried towards the back alley of the restaurant, dragging her along.

"What, why, how? Why are we here?" she asked. "We're not gonna break in, are we?"

"We won't. But *I'm* gonna eat." He dropped his bag on the floor.

"You have a snack in your bag or something?"

"No," he came closer to grab her by the shoulders, "I have a delicious little girl right in front of me." 

"Huh?"

Both hands pushed into her. Polly fell to the ground, yelping---cowering. Thwack, thwack, into her waist. Again, and again. Every kick was a scream, a twitch---another tear squeezed out of her eye. Hard, grainy concrete chafed her skin. Guts stirred in boiling blood; an agonizing pain. Begging, at the top of her lungs, for it all to stop. Until it did stop. Finally catching some air, she writhed and whimpered. Rubbing her sore spots gave some relief.

"Ah, I missed this a lot." He crouched down to her level, tracing her new bruises. "You'll taste so good."

"Why did you---"

A punch to the face. White, then blurry. "You shut the fuck up, or I'm giving you another one."

A metallic taste took over her mouth; she couldn't feel her face. It was hard to keep the eyes open.

When he entered her spinning field of vision again, a white-and-red fox mask covered his entire face. "Get up, Polly."

Through the weakness in her limbs, she struggled her way up.

"Now, you give me a big old smile and tell me your name, age and where you live." He kneeled to her height and pointed his camera at her. The same red camera, filled with happy pictures. Where did horrors like these go, if not in the camera?

Polly bared her blood-stained teeth, folding at the aching cheeks. "I'm Polly, and ... I'm eight years old." Hiccups poured out of her chest---she could barely contain herself.

"Keep talking."

"I live in ... Braidenville."

"Why are you wearing this towel?"

"Because I got lost, and my clothes are gone, and---"

"You should take it off."

It fell to her feet.

"Do you like cocks, Polly?"

She swallowed behind her gritting teeth. "No."

"That's fine, you don't have to." He set the camera on a dumpster and entered its view, standing beside her. "You just have to cooperate."

Pants unbuckled and fell to his ankles. The thing's purple head throbbed at her, drooling and brushing against her beak.

"You know what to do. Suck it."

It pushed itself inside. Gagging, squealing, she backed her head to no avail---like swallowing without chewing, but it never went down. Ronnie's hands pushed and pulled her head, along with his thrusts; every cycle punched her throat. An awful, bitter smell and taste. Quickly, she lacked air; her chest contracted, her squeals were higher.

"For all I care, you could die around my cock right now," he growled, before pulling out of her at once. "Be grateful I'm not killing you just yet."

"No," she hiccupped, gasping.

"You are one *spoiled* brat." He hit her again. "Just bend over on the trash can. Now."

She propped her elbows on the lid, until he took it off; the lid clattered on the ground.

"Get in there, where you fucking belong."

He shoved her head down the can. Forced to smell and stare at decaying garbage. No amount of coughing, squinting and holding her breath would make it go away; her lungs ached. Something poked her behind, then rubbed across her holes before settling for her butt's.

"No no no no no! Not there!" Her shrieks echoed inside the can, enough to hurt the ears.

No use in begging. It went inside. Every inch of it squeezed against her muscles. She felt his skin's texture with awful clarity: rough, dry, with pulsating veins that synced with her own. Every slight movement caused it to chafe against her; his thrusts, even more so. Hands squeezed her hips, almost digging into her. Everytime it backed out, it tugged her muscles along. Blood trickled down her thighs. Unbearable pain, escaping in the form of earsplitting screams and bawls---the only audible thing beyond the beating heart in her throat.

Hard to not collapse. Whole body wobbled, back and forth, faster and faster. Feet, knees, arms, teeth, all numb and trembling. Her hands kept slipping from the rim of the can. Maggots below bathed in droplets of blood. The slightest grip on her consciousness tightened itself as she looked down at her fate. One of these days, it would all come to an end. This was hers. With the maggots. If not tomorrow, today.

Her thoughts were cut short by Ronnie's grunts. Acute awareness of her body overwhelmed her. His thing thrashed around as it spurted liquid; filling her, dripping and splatting on the ground. The grip on her neck pulled her back and forth. Thrust, thrust. Once the injections stopped, he pulled out. Polly's muscles throbbed and pushed gobs of fluid out, spilling more. Then, he pulled her out of the trash can, making her face the camera.

"Do you wanna tell your fans something?" he said, squashing her cheeks together.

" ... No." A string of drool fell onto his hand, followed by the little tears she had left. She couldn't scream anymore, or cry---only heave.

"Then say goodbye."

"Goodbye."
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Plastic bags were hard to tear into, but Polly managed. Hunched over, she hunted for food. Moldy, undercooked, half-bitten, rotting; a few had creamy, sweet fillings. She wolfed the sweetest ones first. Blood masked every flavor; no time to appreciate the taste. Three down, four more to go. Rain showered the breads and her, rinsing Ronnie's stink away. With an open mouth, she tried drinking from it, but few raindrops fell in her mouth.

The rats eventually caught notice of the food, as they joined to eat the undesirables; lumps of matted fur scurried in and out of the trash bags, pulling breadcrumbs and loaves. Tonight, they were her dinner companions---maybe tomorrow, her newest friends. Friends. Where did hers go? Behind her was Jenny's Bakery, unlit and closed, taunting her; its sign might as well have said "I'm behind all your suffering". Polly was no thief, but the shop was asking---no, begging---to be broken into. She would've banged at the glass, again and again; torn open the warmers and shredded every breaded goodness with her mouth; broken the register and grabbed every bill and penny---money she could've used to get home. The sweet taste of freedom.

Jolted back to reality, she stared at the damaged glass---from behind her fist, her fractured reflection stared back. Another punch to it. Another. In the end, she was more bruised than the window itself. Small shards sunk into her skin, where blood trickled downward. The reflection mocked her, despite showing the same empty, dark-haloed eyes she did. And the same stressed smile. No tears could come out anymore, as much as she wanted to cry. So there was no point in moping.

She felt it was a good idea to sleep near the bakery. After gathering her food and munching on another piece, she walked further. By the time she ate the rest of her breads, she reached the bakery's back alley. Inside one of the dumpsters, a lake of packaged bagels---best by date: three days ago---mixed in with random boxes and empty sacks of powder ingredients. Comfortable enough to sleep in, but cold. Very, very cold.
