Melancholy Polly Polly was not your garden variety little girl. She was a recluse by nature and her shyness kept her estranged from the groups all around her; be it from ones at school or her own family. As a young child, Polly was the poster-child for negligence. Often she was left at home by herself, discounted by her older siblings in charge of her care. Her mother was tied up with her work and good ol' Papa was tied up with the bottle. Poor little Polly was starved for attention, and it was a craving that went unanswered. She discovered ways of procuring attention from her parents. She horrified them countlessly with her consternating behavior. No pet was safe from her wrath. When she was six she drowned the family dog, Pickles, in the upstairs toilet. She stashed its madid brown body in the oven, leaving it for her oblivious mother to find that night when she was to begin dinner. Her siblings were not exempt from her peculiarities. One incident when she was eight, involved her nailing her younger brother's tongue to the floor. This, she claimed, was in retaliation to the verbal assault she'd taken from him. Patrick, the younger brother, said he'd merely asked her to hand him the remote control. Little Stevie, at nine months old, had been stuffed under the kitchen sink for over two hours before their father---still coping with a hangover---had discovered him. To combat these attacks on her siblings, her mother kept her isolated from the other children. Polly would sit at the table while her mother readied supper and the two would talk, Polly sharing her soul while her mother quietly listened. The bizarre acts dwindled, then finally ceased altogether. Polly, at long last, had achieved the undivided attention of a parent, and was infinitely content. But when Polly's mother died, her already thin tether to sanity snapped. Polly was a freshman in college when the news of her mother's death reached her. She sat draped over her desk in her dormitory that she shared with no one, a half finished term paper lay forgotten in front of her. She'd been letting her mind drift in and out of focus, catching bits and pieces of incoherent thoughts, when the shrill bleating of the telephone snapped her back into reality. She plucked it from its cradle and held it between her head and her right shoulder, twirling an unused pencil between her fingers. "Yeah?" she said quietly. The voice on the other end of the line was her father's. "Your mother's dead, Polly," he said solemnly, remorsefully. This abrupt comment passed right through Polly, numbing her as it did, but not taking root in her mind at all. She sat silently for a long while, staring blankly at the wall in front of her. Finally, she came to a conclusion. Her mother wasn't dead, she would never be dead. The very idea was ludicrous. If she was dead then Polly would truly be...alone. "No, she isn't." Her father sighed. Anger flared up inside Polly, anger toward her liar of a father, and her grip on the pencil tightened until her knuckles were bone white. "I knew you were going to take this hard, Polly," he said, "but she is dead. She took a tumble down the stairs and broke her neck." "No, she isn't," Polly repeated. The pencil snapped in her hand. She stared down at the ruined pieces of wood and lead and let them fall to the desk. "Your not the only one affected by this, Polly, she meant a lot to--" Polly dropped the phone into it's cradle apathetically, giving it a disgusted grimace as she did. She regarded it for a moment as one might a leper, than grabbed it and ripped it free of it's connection to the wall. With a shriek she heaved it across the room. It struck a photograph of her mother on the wall opposite her and both fell in a heap to the floor. Mixed feelings of hatred, anger, and loneliness swirled around inside her, but she did not cry. She sat in her chair, leaning forward, with her arms dangling limply at her sides. Time seemed to melt around her, crawling into infinity. The barely audible tick off the clock on her desk pounded in her eardrums. The generator-like hum of the refrigerator reverberated around her, a soft buzz that quickly grew into a sonorous roar. She remained this way, transfixed in a mental limbo, for the better part of an hour, and probably would have for even longer, if it were not for a knock at the door. "Polly?" called a voice from outside the door. Polly was wrenched into conscious thought at the sound, and she craned her neck toward the annoyance. She judged from the whiny, rat-like quality of the voice that it was Marcus Derringer at the door, coming from the room adjacent to hers. Marcus had been infatuated with Polly from the moment she'd strolled into freshman orientation, her head down, her sparkling green eyes half masked by her blonde hair. When Marcus saw an opportunity to reveal his feelings toward the beautiful damsel that had captured his heart, he leapt at it with all fours. Not a week ago, he and Polly had had a chance meeting at the college bookstore. "Hey, Polly," he said, summoning all of his courage and coming up to her at the counter. In her hands Polly had a package of pencils and a small eraser. "What is it, Marcus?" she said with a sigh. "I was just, uh, wondering if you'd, um, like to go get coffee with me or somethin sometime." Polly slipped the purchased items into her bag and headed toward the door. "You don't want anything to do with me, okay? So just leave me alone." Marcus, however small and unassertive, was a very determined individual and would not be so easily swayed. Her put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her. She turned and glared at him. "Well why not?" he demanded, though softly. "You just don't, alright? You wouldn't understand." she replied impatiently. She continued out of the bookstore, but Marcus did not stop her; he watched her go with a heavy heart. Now Polly rose slowly from her chair, her legs numb with sleep nearly tumbling her to the ground, and went to the door. She opened it and Marcus nearly fell inside the room. Polly guessed that he'd been pressed against the door, trying to peek through the peephole. "What is it that you want, Marcus?" she asked flatly. Marcus jammed his hands deep inside his pockets. "Um, I just came over to see if, uh, you were okay," he stammered, "I heard a crashing sound...and a scream." His eyes darted to the phone lying amidst the mess of glass, then back to Polly, though not being able to maitain eye contact. Polly closed her eyes and shook her head. She rubbed her temples, feeling a headache growing within the confines of her skull. A thought came to her mind, and her eyes popped open. A thought that would surely cause any sane person to doubt that sanity. "Come in, Marcus," she said. His eyes grew wide and he began to stammer, perhaps a thank you or maybe (unlikely) to decline. Before he could get a full word out, however, Polly took him by the hand and led him into her dorm. She pulled him along behind her and when they reached the couch, she instructed him to sit. "Do you really want to be with me?" she questioned the young man, whose thin tee shirt already had dark patches of sweat spreading from the armpits. "Uh, I, uh, yes, yes, I-I would very much." he said. She gave him a smile that made him uneasy. She strolled over the shattered picture and crouched beside it. "Then I guess you can stay here and keep me company," she said, and picked up the largest of the shards of glass. Marcus seemed about to explode with excitement. "Sure I will!" The words burst from his mouth. Polly gave him another smile and again he felt unnerved by it. Polly carried the piece of glass over to the couch and sat next to him. She put her hand gently on the side of his face and leaned in close as if to kiss him, but instead, buried the glass shard in his throat. Marcus coughed and sputtered, clutching at the large piece of glass protruding from his neck. Blood flew from the wound and splattered all over the couch, the floor, and Polly herself. She waved a finger in his face. "Tisk tisk tisk, Marcus," she said, "is this any way to begin a relationship?" Marcus fought for a few moments longer, but inevitably lost. Blood flowed from his neck and pooled on the cushion, where it soaked into the fabric, turning it a deep scarlet. He finally lay still, a look of surprise eternally frozen on his face. Polly laid back and enjoyed her company. She chatted with him, spoke of her mother's death, how it didn't really bother her that much anymore because of him. "But it would be better with more friends, wouldn't it, Marcus?" she conversed with the lifeless body. "I'll just get more. The more the merrier, right?"
Copyright © 2004 J Shartzer |