Chapter 4 Chapter 3: The Garden

We stumbled out into the alley behind the bar, a world away from the thumping music and neon signs. It led to a grim, concrete patch that might have optimistically been called a garden once. Now, it was a repository for things no one wanted to see: a splintered picnic bench, two massive, reeking grind bins, and the pervasive, acrid stench of tetra piss and stale von-jar. The air was cold, and my clothes were still damp from the earlier rain, clinging to my skin with a clammy insistence that felt like a judgment. I hadn’t even showered after being with Joel; his scent still faintly clung to me, a ghost in the fabric.

The grimness of the place didn’t repulse me. It felt fitting. Honest. This wasn’t a scene for romance or tenderness; it was a transaction, a demolition. I wanted my making, my unmaking. I wanted the trembling that would shake loose the memory of his disinterested touch. A lucid, cold part of my heart knew the probable cost, that with three of them present, the alchemy of the act would likely leave me a Polli, an identity I had never wanted. But the alcohol was a fire in my veins, burning away the fear of consequences, leaving only the raw, primal fear of remaining forever in this limbo, unclaimed and un-gendered. The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, an invitation into the ruin. And they, of course, were only too pleased to come.

The tallest one, A Nate with the crooked smile, was the first to move. He didn’t kiss me. He simply backed me against the cold, damp brick wall, his hands finding my hips, his body a solid, heat-radiating barrier against the chill. The other two, his shadows, closed in, forming a living, breathing wall that blocked out the alley, the grind bins, the world. There was no more neon, only the faint, greasy light from a security lamp overhead.

“Cold?” he murmured, his breath a cloud of Von-jar against my cheek. I shook my head, a lie. My skin was pebbled, shivering. He grinned, a flash of white in the gloom, and one hand slid under my thin shirt, his palm rough and warm on my stomach. I gasped at the contrast, the shock of his heat on my chilled skin. This was it. This was the feeling I’d bought.

His mouth found my neck, not with Joel’s practiced, calculated affection, but with a hungry, open-mouthed urgency that was more about possession than passion. It was a brand. I let my head fall back against the brick, a dull thud that echoed the one in my chest. My eyes fluttered shut, and I saw Joel’s indifferent back as he turned away. I squeezed my eyes tighter, willing the image away.

Another set of hands, softer, found my waist from the side. A second Nate, the one with the laugh, began kissing my shoulder, biting playfully at the strap of my top, tugging it down. The third watched for a moment, a dark, pleased silhouette, before his fingers tangled in my hair, tilting my face up. He didn’t kiss me either, just looked, his thumb tracing my lower lip.

It was a dismantling. They were efficient, a team used to, working in tandem. Clothes were pushed aside, not removed, an admission of the place’s grime and the act’s temporary nature. The cold air hit my bared skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of their hands and mouths, a sensory overload designed to short-circuit thought.

When the first Nate undid his jeans and pushed my thighs apart with his knee, there was no preamble, no gentle seeking. It was a blunt, claiming entry that stole my breath and replaced it with a sharp, tearing sound that was part gasp, part sob. It was pain, bright and clarifying, and I welcomed it like a penance. He drove his anther into me, his rhythm jarring and relentless, each thrust slamming my back against the unyielding brick.

The second Nate pressed against my side, guiding my hand to him, and I fumbled with the rough denim of his jeans, my fingers clumsy. The third kept his grip in my hair, his voice a low, constant stream in my ear. “Yeah, that’s it. Look at you. Taking it so good.”

Their voices blurred together, a chorus of grunts and encouragement that wasn’t for me, but for the idea of me, the convenient, willing ruin before them. I was the canvas for their vibrant, uncomplicated celebration. The hollow ache Joel had left was being pummelled, filled, overwritten by a brutal, physical reality.

I clutched at the first Nate’s jacket, not to pull him closer or push him away, but simply to steady myself as the sensation built, a terrifying wave of purely animal response rising through the pain and the von-jar haze. It wasn’t pleasure, not as I knew it. It was obliteration. A seismic shudder that began deep in my core and fractured outwards, shaking loose every memory, every thought, every shred of the person who had left that dwellings. For a few seconds, I didn’t exist. There was only the cold wall, the hot skin, the crushing weight, and the silent, screaming void.

They finished quickly, one after the other, a series of hot, wet claims against my skin and clothes. The first Nate pulled away with a final, deep thrust and a satisfied groan, already fastening himself. The sudden emptiness was a shock, a vacuum.

The bubble popped.

The cold rushed back in, harsher now, biting at the sweat-sheened skin they had exposed. The stench of the grind bins, sour mack and rotting food, was overwhelming. I slid down the wall slightly, my legs boneless, the rough brick scraping my back. They were laughing again, that same boisterous, easy sound, clapping each other on the shoulder, their transaction complete.

The one who had been in my hair zipped his zip and looked down at me, a smear of my lipstick on his collar. He winked. “You’re alright, Polli.”

The brand was applied. The word hung in the frigid air, another scent to add to the rot.

They turned and stumbled back toward the mouth of the alley, their voices fading into the night. I was left alone in the concrete garden, surrounded by the things no one wanted to see. I pulled my clothes straight, my hands trembling not with passion, but with the shock of the person I had become. The ghost of Joel’s scent was gone, scoured away. I was empty, raw, and utterly, terribly alone. Still no trembling. I was no longer in limbo. I had been demolished.

And in the ruins, something new and terrifying began to grow: the sheer hatred of myself, my existence. I was numb. I could hear and feel myself crying, but it was from afar, as if it was not me lying there.

A voice, the barmaid’s, Silver’s voice, broke through. Then a fog of pain and confusion clouded my mind, a thick haze through which only shards of memory could penetrate. The nauseating sway of a hopper, the acidic taste of bile, and the surprising, gentle pressure of Silver’s hand holding my hair back. The strobing, sharp lights of streetlamps bleeding through the windshield. And beneath it all, a cold, leaden weight in my chest, the sickening memory of what I had done in that garden.

Then, a voice cut through the murk, quieter than the chaos in my head yet impossibly more, sure. “Are you okay?”

I forced my eyes open. The world swam into focus to find Silver, the barmaid, kneeling on the floor before my broken form. Her brow was furrowed with concern, but her gaze was steady. She asked again, her voice soft but clear, “Are you okay?”

I wasn’t. But the words were lodged somewhere deep, unreachable.

I have no memory of the journey between the hopper and here, but all of a sudden, the harsh world outside was gone. I was propped on a soft couch in a small, warmly lit apartment. It smelled of van-in and fresh laundry, unmistakably feminine. Silver turned from the doorway, jingling her keys as she dropped them into a small ceramic bowl on a side table.

“I haven’t been living here long,” she said, a slight apology in her tone as she gestured around the room. “Excuse the mess and the boxes.”

My eyes drifted across the space. It was, in fact, impeccably tidy. A single plant thrived on the windowsill, and a soft knit blanket was draped neatly over the arm of the chair. Only two cardboard boxes sat in the corner, their flaps folded shut, seeming less like clutter and more like promises of a life still settling. I tried to form a thank you, to offer some explanation for my state, but my voice had abandoned me. All I could manage was a weak, trembling smile.

Silver seemed to understand. She approached me, her movements calm and deliberate. “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes,” she said, her voice practical yet kind. “And into a waterdrop. You’ll feel better, I promise.”