# Chapter 6
\

St. James Hospital. This place was more well-kempt than the other hospital: instead of the green, dirty wallpaper, this blue one had childish, crude paintings of flowery fields atop its---rather minimal---holes and cracks; every hallway had a checkered floor, with white tiles shining wherever the dust wasn't. After a day of walking and stale conversation---complete with Mago's intrusions and Mystery's sermons on talking to strangers---she had to rest her feet for once. Room 327. Polly laid where the two beds joined together; her only companions, for now, were Mago, an IV pole, and a gray blanket. The doll sat on her stomach as she played with its arms; plain silence, broken by a growling stomach every now and then. The last thing she ate was a couple of chicken tenders after the bath. Mystery said he'd cook her something quick, but he'd been down at the kitchen for a long while now.

She looked at everything she wanted to---and could, since she was leashed to the bed frame and the light was dim. The paper drawings on the opposing wall were weird; some of them were about Mystery, but a bunch had characters with object heads---mostly flowers and scribble-circles. A few of the drawings on the floor were about abuse, the private-parts type. Out the window beside her, the orange lights peered from below; more of the city could be seen from this third floor, even as far as the subway station at 22nd. Impressive, considering the hospital was near the edge of town.

Edge. Mystery unknowingly brought Polly closer to her goal. If it wasn't for the rope on her neck, she would've jumped out this broken window; not to kill herself, but to escape again. She could hold onto a branch of that oak, climb her way down and run away. But she couldn't, not yet. There was still much to learn about this city, and---as much as she hated it---Mystery was her teacher.

Think of the devil. "Dinner's ready!" Mystery entered the room with a napkin-covered plate, faking a pompous accent. "I believe this is for the Madame?"

" ... No, it's Polly." She sat up as he set the plate on her lap; Mago was banished to a corner.

"Before I pull this napkin, I ought to ask the Madame---ah, yes yes, Polly---to keep an open mind. And please, keep all demonstrations of shock to a feminine level."

The dish for two was revealed: fried, breaded centipedes, curled up and surrounded by fried maggots; a side of mashed potatoes and cucumber, pumpkin seeds sprinkled on top; one quarter of a lime. She got a jolt from the surprise, but no more---it actually looked good.

"I hope this brings you the sustenance you need, like it once brought me. Jared made a noble sacrifice to---"

"Who's Jared?"

"He's the centipede on your plate," he dropped the fancy act to answer.

"There's like four of them, which one?"

"Yes. Anyway, bon petite---appétit."

With a fork, she tried the centipede first. A salty explosion in the first bite, then the hints of flour, grass and jerky took over. "This is ... not disgusting."

"Oh," he finished chewing, "Mystery, you've outdone myself in the bug department."

The maggots weren't all too bad, either; a similar explosion of salty water, then a nutty paste. Mixing the meat with the potatoes made it much better, so did the lime juice. For a dirty bum, Mystery was too good of a cook. When their meal was done, all that remained was a blot of juice and the pruned-up lime.

"Thank you for the meal," Polly said, then wiped her mouth on the sleeve of his lab coat---his idea.

"You're welcome, darling. I'll take care of this later," said Mystery, putting the plate on a countertop nearby; it joined the pile of plastic wrappers. "For now, I'm gonna relax."

"And I'm gonna sleep." She laid on her side and closed her eyes. 

"Yep, I'll join you."

Rubber snapping, fabric slipping off, zippers undoing---that was odd. When she turned to see what had happened, he'd just taken off his last piece of clothing: his underwear. "Wait, don't do it, not now, not now!" she said.

"Huh?"

"Don't do the nasty with me, let's just sleep, please."

He giggled. "Well, I wasn't planning on it, anyway. Get your mind outta the gutter."

"It's not my fault, you wanna do it so many times ...."

Lights turned off, Mystery took off her leash, then tucked himself under the blankets, next to her. "You can still touch if you like."

"I don't want to, let's just sleep." She hugged Mago and turned to the window.

"Goodnight, sweetie."

Closing her eyes, she prepared herself to feel Mystery grope or hug her, but it never came; he remained on his back, and in no time, he was snoring. Strange, but still a relief. She prepared to sleep instead; her mind slowed down, little by little, for some relaxing idea to be her focus.

Ice cream at Chickie's. They always had unique flavors you couldn't find on any market, and the staff was very kind. One of the best experiences Polly had from there was seeing Sabrina all happy with every spoonful of gianduja flavor. Her best friend, almost a sister, despite being a couple grades older.

When Sabrina was in 7th grade, she invited Polly and some other boy for a picnic in the fields. It was under a tree, behind Mr. Wilson's barley. Once they were all done with sandwiches, Christoph, the boy, had to pee in a bush far from them. The entire time he was out, Sabrina kept making comments about how "horses have longer you-know-whats", or how "Chris should ditch the trousers". Polly, at the time, wasn't all that comfortable with the idea, but let her friend be.

How would've she reacted now? Chris was kind of cute, after all. Maybe she would've touched herself with her friend? Would've they harassed the poor boy into doing what Sabrina wanted? Oh, she would've pushed him to the ground and torn his dumb leather pants off; taken turns with her friend on riding him---riding a horse the completely wrong way; maybe even drunk from his peepee, shared the milk with her friend in a deep tongue kiss. Damn it. *Damn it. What have I turned into?*

Polly's eyes shot open. A slick fluid stained her crotch and Mago's; she wouldn't have dared touch it. If she got up to clean herself, that would've caused more trouble than good; better wait for the morning. She tried to sleep again, eyes closed. No nasty thoughts this time, she tried---except the moisture between her legs drew her constant and full attention. Maybe it was the position. On top of Mago, laid on her stomach; below Mago, laid on stomach; hugging Mago, laid on either side; no Mago, laid on either side; no Mago, butt in the air, face buried in pillow---grunting into it. She made a wet mess on the bed. Ignoring her crotch wasn't an option.

Laid on her back, she slid a hesitant finger between the lips. Guilt shivered from bottom to top with each poke. Wet noises turned frantic once she found her hole and entered it. Nothing hurt her, except for the massive shame; in fact, she craved a feeling her finger, as much as it glided in and out, couldn't give her. Two fingers spread her sides, but still not enough. Three hurt too much. Maybe Mystery's peepee was five. Mystery's smell was in every hitched breath of hers. Mystery couldn't help. Murmurs became louder, not anymore as an accidental sign of pleasure, but as a call for help. With faster fingers came more pressure. Glimpses of a big finale pulsed across her---finally; both hands worked her hole, faster and harder and deeper and---

"What are you up to?" Mystery growled, turning to face her with squinting eyes.

Polly stopped and stared back, unblinking.

"Do you need any help?"

" ... No."

"Are you sure?"

"No."

He chuckled. "Alright, spread 'em for me."

His fingers substituted hers; the occasional fingernail poke made her yelp, but besides that, he was as gentle as possible. Two slid inside---careful, careful---deeper than she could, then curled and dug back and forth into her. Pressure, depth, speed, he did it all. Her soaked fingers grabbed his wrist by its stripes, nudging it down at each wave of pleasure. As much as it embarassed her, looking at Mystery's sleepy, but satisfied smile added to the experience. That peak creeped in again, each pulse brought it closer, and closer; squeezing the wrist, arching her back, she closed her eyes. It's coming.

And never mind. Mystery's hand slowed to a crawl, then it quit. All that accumulated pleasure vanished; now, just his snores. She unplugged, with a sigh, and returned to a sleeping position. Thoughts whirred once again.

It was one thing to be abused, but to pursue further abuses---even inflict them on yourself? Polly knew that, when---and if---she came back home, everyone would know about her abuse; she had to tell. Could she tell it all? Would grown-ups punish her for enjoying it to any degree? The last girl that tried to tell spent her life at church. *What would Father say?*

*Father would tell me to go to sleep.*