There are actually two different versions of this story. The first is a virtually clean version, where there is no cursing and no blood and less explicit details. The second is the explicit version where nothing is held back. This one is the explicit version. I'll upload the clean version another day, because right now I don't have it.

This story has been called disturbing a multiple of times, so if you don't want to be so freaked out that you'll have nightmares, don't read this. However, if you're like me and absolutely loves anything disturbing, go on and read at your own risk.

I don't own the song "Polly" by Nirvana. The lyrics sang by the Sadist belong the band Nirvana and I was simply using them. I also want to apologize to Kurt Cobain for using his song so negatively. Sorry, dude, and I miss you. We all miss you. :(

So, go on and read this. It was originally a English paper (the clean version was) and even the clean version was called "disturbing". If you do read this, please review!

Note: I forgot to add a small but significant part to this story. The Victim texts by using her feet, which is hard but can be done if the Sadist's attention it too occupied. You'll understand what I mean when you get to the part.

OooO

Insanity

Am I insane? I hope not.

Is she insane? I would hope not as well.

But today, for the sake of my well-being, we are going to fake insanity. This way I can ensure that I will not have to be for this heinous crime I have committed. Yes, I know I should be a responsible, considerate adult. But the thing is: I’m not responsible. I’ve never been. Never will be, most likely. What I am is a sick motherfucker who decided to pursue a little experiment to jump-start my soon-to-be infamous career.

I’ve watched her for months and came to the conclusion that she is perfect. Every morning, she wakes up to take a shower, spending at an average of 14 minutes each day. Sometimes, when she really loathes her family and her life, she would spend 45 minutes so she could piss off her mother. After that, she gets dressed and gathers her hair up in a butterfly clip, in a way she thinks is seductive. Her outfits are composed of primarily band T-shirts like Papa Roach and Nirvana with skinny jeans and chucks to top it all off. She usually wears black eyeliner and her nails are almost always painted her favorite color: dark purple, with electric blue painted at the tip.

Oh, how I’ve watched her!

Her older brother drops her off at her middle school, accelerating along the roads if she overslept. Instead of going to her classes, she would smoke behind the bleachers with some of her “friends”, not knowing what the tobacco would do to her body. Don’t they teach that in 8th grade? Oh yes, she loves to skip Health class!

After school, she and her friends would horseplay around a nearby Dairy Queen, smoking and gossiping about who stuffed their bras and who fucked the most popular boy at the school that week. Finally, when it’s around 9 o’ clock, she would return home to argue with her mother even more each day. Sometimes, she wouldn’t even return home: she would instead go strolling to her boyfriend’s house when his parents are out of town and they would watch “movies”, if you know what I mean. (More like star in a porno, but I digress.)

Just like me, she is irresponsible, thoughtless, and inconsiderate. That’s why we connect so! If it weren’t for my crime I’m about to commit, we would’ve been best friends. And hell, maybe even more. She is going to be my test subject to test my perspicacity on the human anatomy, psychology, and what it means to be alive!

But my excitement is besting me, so I must continue. On the day of my crime, I woke up at exactly 4:30 AM, about an hour earlier than her. I took a quick shower and wore a denim miniskirt, blue tank top which revealed my tattoos of stars, crosses, birds, and roses, and black high heels. I held my black hair back with a butterfly clip similar to hers, to show her that I love butterflies as well.

Ignoring breakfast, I speeded along to her school in my red Chevrolet Corvette, which I stole before moving into the neighborhood. I parked nearby, at a park she always goes to smoke before her friends arrive. I’ve deemed it the most logical place to kidnap her, where she’s all alone. I sat in my car for the next half-hour, waiting impatiently for her to arrive.

Come out here, I thought. Come out—come out and play—come out and play, polly—does polly want a cracker?—I know she does—

Finally, a black Mercedes rolled up by the school and she stepped out. As the car speeded away, she threw her middle fingers up at it. I can only assume those two had a fight early today. She trudged along the wet, fresh-cut grass as she neared her tree in the park. The dark, cloudy, grey sky shown over the empty, bright green park. She took out a cigarette and began to smoke.

Smiling a little at my beating heart, I exited my car and started towards her. Soon, I stood next to her and smiled. “Nice day, isn’t it?” I asked, glancing at the calm, dark weather.

“Just like any other day,” she grunted. “With the fucking school, and the fucking family, and the fucking work.”

“Ah, yes, life is very ‘fucking’, isn’t it?” She gave me a strange glance before returning to her cigarette. I watched as the fumes rose up and disappeared with each drag and asked, “May I have one?”

Without a word, she gave me one and even lit it on fire for me. I took a drag and coughed slightly, not used to the strong smoke. She laughed. “Amateur.”

Ignoring the comment, I asked, “What is a little girl like you do out here all alone?”

She groaned. “Don’t start with that bullshit. I already get enough from my mom and brother.” She grimaced. “Besides, nothing ever happens in this boring town.”

I stifled my laughter so I won’t unnerve her. Oh, she had no idea. “Don’t be too sure,” I warned her, biting my lip as I felt a small fluid drip into my mouth. It tasted sweet like berries. After observing her shirt, which read in clear print ‘NIRVANA’, I said, “Ah, a Nirvana fan.”

She glanced down at her shirt and replied, “Yeah, I’m a fan. What’s it to you?”

“I have their CD in my car. Want to listen to it?” I asked sincerely.

“Yeah, sure.” We walked to my car and she lounged in the passenger seat as I shuffled shakily through my CDs. She glanced at my fingers and asked, “Why are you shaking so much?”

I shrugged, but I knew full well why. Excitement often causes us to be clumsy and shaky. I finally pushed the CD into the CD player that was built into my radio and flipped to my favorite song of theirs: “Polly.”

She began to sing along with it and I just watched her. Oh, what a beautiful voice she has! Too bad it will be the last time I’ll ever hear it. The bell of her school rang and she did not recognize it at first.

“Is that the bell?” she asked, squinting in its direction.

The moment she was turned away, I grabbed a wet cloth from behind the seat and wrapped my arm around her middle; I shoved the cloth up her nose and mouth, holding her to make sure she did not escape. After a few minutes of mild struggle, she finally succumbed to the power of the drug and her head drooped down, eyes closed and breathing heavily. I quickly tied her up and dumped her in the backseat, topping it all off with a dark blanket. I drove the car away, singing “Polly” all the way home.

OooO

And now I stand here, wearing a pretty pink apron and fixing my butterfly clip to the right position. I gather up all my materials, including 3-inch brass nails and a hammer, humming the “Polly” tune as I went. I pretty soon find myself standing before her. She’s strapped into a rusty iron chair, with manacles locking her wrists, ankles, and neck, allowing almost no possible movement.

She glares at me. “You bitch! Let me go! They’re going to lock you up, you hear? They’re going to fucking lock you up!”

I smile pleasantly at her as I continue with my humming, balancing the heavy nails in my palm. Satisfied with their density, I set them aside and grab the tape recorder off the table next to the chair, inserting a cassette.

“Why are you doing this?” she shrieks at me, biting her lip down so she wouldn’t burst into tears. “I—I didn’t do anything to you!”

“Precisely,” I smile. “That’s why you’re the perfect candidate! It’s because you didn’t do anything that I chose you as my first victim. If I were to do what I’m about to do to an enemy, I would become the prime suspect. But if you die, nobody will suspect me, because I’m a stranger. See the genius behind all of this?”

She spits in my face and glares even more.

“Now, that’s not very nice,” I shake my head in disappointment. I grab the tape recorder and press the record button. “1, 2, check.” After releasing the button, my words floats back to me. I grin and continue. “Today is November 13, 2008, where I have my first victim locked into an iron chair. State your name,” I command her. In a whisper, she states her name, beautiful and symphonic. Nodding, I continue, “This is the first session, where I’ll test my perspicacity on the human anatomy.”

“NO!” she shrieks, her worst fears confirmed. I ignore her as I place the tape recorder away and grab the nails and hammer again. “NO! STOP! LET ME GO! I’ll—I’ll do anything, just let me go, please!”

I walk toward her and kiss her forehead; she stiffens. “Shh, shh, calm down, pretty ‘Polly’. Nobody can hear and I’m not changing my mind. It’s useless to scream here. You shouldn’t destroy your vocal chords. Think happy thoughts,” I smile.

She glares at me. “Go fuck yourself and die.”

“So explicit,” I murmur as I hold a nail to a finger joint, preparing to slam it down with the hammer. “I suggest you close your eyes. It’ll be over in a jiffy.”

This time she takes my advice and shuts her eyes, her eyeballs quivering behind the lids. I shakily hold the nail and raise the hammer up, it shaking as well. Then, I slam it down and I hear a crack. She screams, her screams bouncing off the walls and echoing throughout the dirty warehouse we were in.

“I’m sorry!” I exclaim, dropping my hammer and falling to my feet before her. I wrap my arms around her shoulders and explain. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break your finger bone. You see, I was aiming for the ligament. I’m so sorry!” By now, the previous withheld tears flow freely, rolling down her cheeks and splashing onto her shirt, staining it. She breathes irregularly: deep, short, deep, deep, short, short, deep, deep, deep, deep, short. She suddenly shrieks and shakes violently, as if she’s about to vomit.

“LET ME GO!” she shrieks once more and sobs as her fingers quiver and shake.

“Shh, shh,” I murmur in her ear. “Calm down, deep breaths. Yes, yes, that’s it. They’re you go! Are you better now?” She didn’t reply, breathing still irregularly but significantly improved, still shaking slightly. “You are,” I state. “Let’s continue then!”

OooO

She cries a lot more now. About a dozen nails are jammed into random ligaments in each hand, with some bones broken by complete accident. I brush her tears away with a motherly affection.

“It’s over now,” I remind her, brushing her blonde hair back.

“Can you let me go now?” she sobs, biting her lip in an attempt to stop.

I shake my head, which causes her to cry even more. “That was only the first session, sweetie. We have several more sessions to go.” The news causes her to weep even more. “Shh, shh,” I murmur.

“Please, forget about the other sessions,” she sobs.

I shake my head again. “You see, sweetie, I’m going to be an infamous serial killer. Now, I can’t be a killer if I let my victim escape. Since I’m going to be known, you’re going to be known as well as my first victim. Didn’t you always wanted to be famous? I heard you told that to Drew.”

She freezes and stares at me with wide eyes. “How do you know Drew?”

“Sweetie, I know everything about you. I know that your step-father used to both sexually and physically abuse you. I know that you would sneak out in the middle of the night to have sex with Drew. I know that you secretly watch reruns of Malcom in the Middle. I know everything.”

She begins to sob again. I hold her head in my arms and start to sing in an attempt to calm her down. “Polly wants a cracker, I think I should get off her first…”

She glares at me suddenly. “Don’t sing that,” she says in a dead serious voice.

I giggle. “Okie-dokey! I’ll just go get ready for the next session!” I release her head and wander back into another room, filled with different types of knives, guns, whips, and explosives. I return the hammer to a rack and begin to look through my little assortment of drugs.

As I find the ones to use next, I begin to wonder about how I became this way. Maybe it was my mother. The whore used to abuse me whenever she wasn’t sleeping with a man for his money. She’d pull my hair, kick my legs, and scratch at my face. Now thinking about it, she enjoyed it. Whenever she saw my pain-filled expression, she would smile. I guess sadism runs in the family.

I glance down at my apron and groan. There is a dark stain on it, most likely blood. It ruined my pretty pink apron! After staring at it for a few seconds, I couldn’t help but think it look like a flower. Oh, flowers, the beautiful display of a disarray rainbow. So beautiful, so perfect, so innocent, they could wilt away at just one touch! I sing “flowers, flowers!” on my way back to where my own flower sat.

I suddenly freeze. I stare at her. She stares back. We stare at each other. It suddenly dawned to me that she was no longer crying. Suspicious, I pace around her, observing her from every angle. Her sweet, tear-streaked face calmly stared back; her fingers twitches ever so often, nails still jammed in and blood still flowing; her limbs are manacled; a cellphone lays near her feet—cellphone!

I snatch it up and stare at it. There is no way in hell she could’ve called someone, but text… I scroll through her outbox and read the final message: SOS. Shit! No doubt the police are already tracing it and in a matter of moments, they’ll arrive here.

Knowing I had no time to waste, I grab my syringe full of drugs and sprint at her, grabbing her arm. She struggles to move away from me, but she can’t, considering the manacles and nails that hold her in place. I shove the syringe into a vein, thinking that if I can give her an overdose, I can kill her. I can kill her!—Overdose!—Kill her!—I can—!

“Open up, it’s the police,” a male voice suddenly grunts at the door.

Without waiting for a response, the police shove the door open. I turn my heel and run. However, within seconds I get knock to the ground as the man slips manacles around my own hands. “You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used in a court of law—”

From there, I could see one police officer staring at my flower in horror, staring at the nails jammed into the joints. She sobs with delight and glances back at me, perhaps hoping to see some sort of remorse in my eyes.

I stare back and I realize—I enjoyed every fucking minute of it! I grin at her and her eyes widen in horror at me. The police shove me toward their car in disgust and I wonder what I’m going to say when I am interrogated in court. Yes, yes, I’ll fake insanity. I’ll fake it, and then escape from the asylum to look for a new flower to crumble.