[ (Polly Q works one way, but Polly Q belongs to Sparrows. A little girl with a bad temper whose parents didn't want her, worth more shipped off to nowhere with no return address than taking up the spare bedroom and eating a girl-shaped hole through finances already stripped thin. Polly Q was nobody, and maybe still is nobody; she's never had anything, never needed and never wanted, but the girl hunched over in the back of Barry Weiss' car — she's different. She's something. If only by virtue of the fact that some dumb boy with nothing left to lose was willing to pack his only duffle bag on her behalf. It's maybe not the best bargain, but it's more than Polly Q ever had.) ]
Fuckin' right, y'didn't try readin' it.
[ More fumbling comes from the back of the car, interspersed with some cursing, all muttered beneath Polly's breath. There's a pause when she stops and takes a momentary breather, the pain coursing a little too loudly through her veins to just carry on, but it's not long at all before she's rummaging again, her hair hanging round her face in damp strands, the white too white against her face and her roots near to black in the ever-moving dark. When she finally finds it, and thumbs through to find the message, she curses again (louder this time) and throws the phone at the car door opposite, its battery splintering off and his screen cracking once, indelicately. ]
Jesus christ. [ Exhaling sharply, Polly drops her head into her own hands, that tenseness loosening to something slack and defeated. For a moment it seems as though she's going to cry again, her fingers crawling up into her hair while her arm throbs and throbs and throbs ]
no subject
Fuckin' right, y'didn't try readin' it.
[ More fumbling comes from the back of the car, interspersed with some cursing, all muttered beneath Polly's breath. There's a pause when she stops and takes a momentary breather, the pain coursing a little too loudly through her veins to just carry on, but it's not long at all before she's rummaging again, her hair hanging round her face in damp strands, the white too white against her face and her roots near to black in the ever-moving dark. When she finally finds it, and thumbs through to find the message, she curses again (louder this time) and throws the phone at the car door opposite, its battery splintering off and his screen cracking once, indelicately. ]
Jesus christ. [ Exhaling sharply, Polly drops her head into her own hands, that tenseness loosening to something slack and defeated. For a moment it seems as though she's going to cry again, her fingers crawling up into her hair while her arm throbs and throbs and throbs ]