“So I guess that it’s, no one’s taking care of me now, why don’t you just shoot me...it’d be more humane,” she yelled, her voice cracking and her throat sore from all of the screaming she had done.
“What would you know about being humane?” Patrick countered as he looked at the intravenous pole and realized that the bags of fluid were both bone dry. How long had they been that way, he wondered, though he didn’t much care. Hmmm, starvation…dehydration, he thought for a quick second to amuse himself. Yet he knew he had to keep her alive, at least for now, at least until he received the directive stating otherwise. He yearned for that day. He could hardly wait to submit his report.
“Please,” she whimpered in a low, raspy voice, “just let me die.”
“All in due time,” Dr. Morrison replied cheerfully. “You probably feel like crap because you haven’t been receiving sufficient hydration and nutrition. Don’t worry I’ll get you what you need.”
“I need to get out of here,” she whimpered. It hurt to talk. It hurt to move even the small amount of limited motion that the restraints allowed for. Hillary was lying still on her back, eyes closed. She had never felt so weak before. A good part of her truly did hope that Dr. Morrison would just kill her and get it over with. Yet, another part of her—the part that resented such a defeatist attitude—clung to the shreds of hope that existed only in her mind, daring to believe that somehow she would escape.
“There you go again, whining and complaining. Do you think everything is about you? I have an important report to submit and your noise interrupted me but you don’t hear me whining about it. All you think about is yourself. You’re the most selfish, self-centered, loathsome, despicable creature I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. I’ll be so happy to finally be rid of you.”
Hillary said nothing. Nothing she could say would help her situation anyway.
“DO YOU HEAR ME?” he erupted suddenly, his booming voice magnified by the empty room. Hillary flinched, startled by his boisterous outburst, but she remained silent.
Patrick stumbled closer to her bed, took another swig from the bottle and brought his face inches from Hillary’s. Hillary could smell the alcohol and feel his hot breath on her face. Still, she kept quiet and did not move. Her eyes remained shut.
“What? Now you want to be quiet? You think its fine to ruin someone’s life then just ignore them? You bitch! All that I’ve worked so hard for, you’ve destroyed...”
Hillary could feel his spittle spray against her face.
“…all of the hours I spent creating a new drug, wasted. My research…worthless now…all because of you. My wife is gone because of you...because of your manipulation, and you just lie there. You must be so happy, huh? You must be thrilled knowing that you’ve ruined everything for me. Even tied down you still manage to destroy everyone around you.”
Hillary’s silence enraged Patrick. He poured the remaining scotch from the bottle onto her face then threw the bottle on floor beside him. It shattered around his feet. Hillary clenched her eyes and turned her head to the side. Dr. Morrison took hold of her head with both hands and forcibly turned it back. He leaned forward, stuck his tongue out and began licking the scotch off her face. Hillary thrashed about as much as she could, attempting to turn her head away from him, but he held her head firmly and continued to lick her cheeks, her chin, her lips.
He could feel his growing erection painfully straining within the confines of his pants. He stood up and pulled back the sweat-dampened sheet covering Hillary. Her eyes flew open, horrified, knowing what would happen next.
Hillary stared at the awestruck expression on Dr. Morrison’s face. He was grinning as he looked down at her as if she was a Thanksgiving feast for a starving man. He unfastened his belt clumsily. Hillary shook her head back and forth wildly. She was rendered speechless by her fear and anxiety but her eyes pleaded for him to stop. It made Patrick all the more excited. Her lips trembled as tears slid down her face. She tried with all her might to bring her knees together, knowing it was a futile effort, still hoping that somehow the ropes would break, stretch...anything.
Patrick pulled down his pants and underwear and tried to step out of them. He stumbled forward, realizing that he had to take off his shoes first. He stepped on the back of one shoe to pry his foot out then did the same with the other. He hastily stepped out of his pants, kicking them across the room toward the open door. He could feel the broken glass beneath his feet but could barely feel the pain from the cuts they were causing. He climbed on the foot of the bed and hovered over Hillary’s naked, trembling body. Patrick could not wait another moment.
Hillary was screaming now, despite her raw, sore throat. She begged Dr. Morrison to stop, to leave her alone. She called out to Monica desperately, unaware that she was not home.
Dr. Morrison brought his head down to her stomach and stuck his tongue in her belly button. His tongue moved like that of a kitten lapping up milk as he licked the salty sweat from her body. He moved his tongue in a circular motion around her belly, just as he had often done with Monica. The unwelcome thought of her made him hesitate, which in turn made him angry. Hillary was finally of some use to him and he couldn’t even enjoy himself.
He propelled himself forward until he was face to face over Hillary. He pressed his body onto hers. Hillary gasped under his crushing body weight. Even the limited motion she had just moments ago was now gone. She could only move her hands, feet and head, not that it helped in any way. Dr. Morrison placed his hands around her neck and squeezed tightly, choking Hillary as she fought for air. Once again he found her desperation satisfying enough to revive his dying libido. He knew that he had to act fast before another wave of rage or, worse—morality—overpowered him. He released the grip on her skinny neck and focused on the rigid, aching protrusion between his legs as Hillary sputtered and coughed. Her eyes squinted to stare up at him in terror. She knew the moment had arrived. Dr. Morrison’s weight was still upon her mid-region. She could not move her hips, not that it would do any good, but it made her feel all the more helpless.
Dr. Morrison’s hand groped her inner thigh then slid up to fondle the folds of her labia. She gasped at his touch wishing with all her might that he would just drop dead. He reached within her using two of his fingers and yanked the catheter from her urethra. Hillary cried out in pain as she felt the warm blood ooze out of her. Yet before she could fully process the pain of her ruptured urethra, Dr. Morrison thrust himself deep into her with one violent shove, lingering within her for a few long moments, indulging in the pleasure of her young body. He could feel himself throbbing within her, ready to explode any second.
Hillary gasped loudly and cried out in protest and pain. It was difficult for her to breathe. She wondered whether it hurt so much because it was so bitterly unwelcome or simply because Dr. Morrison was a bigger man than her father—the only other man who had ever violated her so.
While Dr. Morrison hammered into her, Hillary dissociated herself, lost in thoughts about the first time her father defiled her. It was just days after her thirteenth birthday. Imagine her surprise the night she awoke to find her father in her room, in bed with her. At first she thought it was a dream. Why else would he be there? In all her innocence she searched for a rational explanation until his hand slowly pulled up her nightgown and pulled down her underwear. She was in utter shock, total disbelief that her father could do such a thing to her. Was he drunk? Had he gone mad? She was speechless as she lay motionless beneath him, her eyes shut, pretending to be asleep, trying to convince herself that it was just a bad dream. When it was over, he just left without saying a word. In the morning, Hillary questioned whether it happened at all—until she saw the mess on her pretty pink sheets. Pink sheets with cartoon characters should never be soiled that way.
On the verge of spilling his vile drippings, Dr. Morrison didn’t even hear Dr. Bentley approaching. As he began ejaculating, Dr. Bentley grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him off Hil
lary. He stumbled back, nearly falling to the floor but managing to stay afoot. Outraged, Dr. Bentley shouted, “what the hell are you doing?”
Dr. Morrison stood there, naked from the waist down, his softening, glistening penis still dripping down his inner thighs. He looked like a drugged-up maniac.
“I...I....”
Before he could gather his thoughts or say another word, Dr. Bentley’s fist connected with the right side of his face. He went down like a sack of potatoes, passed out on the floor. Dr. Bentley walked over him and approached Hillary on the other side of the bed. She was whimpering like a wounded child. She looked so small, so frail and innocent. All Dr. Bentley could think about was his sweet little Amber Skye. What if this was Amber whimpering before him? What if some sick freak ever did this to her? His heart went out to Hillary. After all the things she had told him about her father when she was first brought here, he knew she had to be distraught. He pulled the sheet up to cover her despoiled body.
“I’m so sorry, Hillary,” he said softly, taking her hand in his. She struggled to free her hand from his grasp. She didn’t want any human contact after the inhumane one she had just sustained.
“It’s all right,” he assured her, “I’m not going to hurt you.” Her sobs grew louder and more pitiful. Dr. Bentley could barely keep himself from sobbing along with her.
Against his better judgment, he reached over and unfastened one of her arms, then the other. He adjusted the head of the bed, propping it up to a forty-five degree angle. How long had it been since she had been maneuvered in any way? When was the last time her limbs had been massaged and exercised? Judging by the smell of her and the flood of urine on the floor, he knew it had been a while. Hillary stared off in a daze, facing the opposite direction, toward the door. She had calmed down a bit since her arms were unbound and she was sitting upright. She had even allowed Dr. Bentley to massage and exercise her right arm without any resistance.
“Things are going to be different,” he promised her.
She turned to face him. The blue hues in her teary eyes were so intense. The gold flecks looked like lightning. She had the most mesmerizing eyes he had ever seen. Lost in their seemingly endlessness, Dr. Bentley was taken aback when she lunged forward and reached for something on the table beside the bed. His eyes widened when he realized what she had grabbed and he stood up abruptly to try to wrench it free from her grasp. He slipped on the urine and before he could regain his footing, felt the painfully rough jab of the needle just below his shoulder, followed by a warming sensation radiating through his arm as the drug entered his system. Before he could regret releasing her, before the realization of what he had done could fully horrify him, before the fear could engulf him, he passed out.
Hillary stared at him in disbelief for nearly a full minute. Was this actual happening or was it just another one of the escape fantasies she had created to cope with the long, empty hours of all those days and weeks? Reality hit her suddenly as a wave of nauseating panic jolted through her chest. This was her opportunity and she had to act fast. She had no idea how long Dr. Bentley would be out for. He had mentioned that the syringe contained a mild sedative and it had been prepared for a young girl, not an adult man. Likewise, she had to worry about Dr. Morrison who was lying on the floor beside the bed. She knew that he could regain consciousness any moment. She could not waste another second.
Hillary carefully pulled back from where Dr. Bentley was slumped over on the bed in front of her and immediately began working on untying her feet. It hurt to bend her legs, which felt rubbery but she ignored the pain and focused on getting the task done. Her fingers moved clumsily. It took a great deal of effort and more time than she had liked but finally her left foot was free. She began working on releasing her right foot. Her heart raced knowing that at any moment her escape could be thwarted. She prayed that Monica would not walk in.
Hillary’s fingers grew tired fumbling with the rope. She opened and closed them quickly and gave them a shake, hoping to expel the fatigue. No matter how hard she tried, the knot would not come loose. She remembered the broken glass on the floor. She scooted to the edge of the bed and let gravity assist in lowering her torso to the floor. With her ankle still fastened to the bed, she could barely reach the shards of glass. Most of the pieces were shattered, only a couple of pieces had potential. Of course, those pieces were well out of reach.
Hillary stretched until the pain warned that any additional stretching would result in a sprained ankle. She couldn’t afford any further disabilities. She reached over to the head of the bed, grabbed the pillow then lowered it to the floor, swinging it out over the shards of glass in an attempt to drag the pieces closer to her. Her first few attempts proved useless. She cursed under her breath as her heart continued to race. She was so close to escaping, she wouldn’t give up now. She continued to use the pillow to extend her reach until at last she had successfully dragged a piece of glass closer to her. She stretched down to reach it and grabbed it hastily, cutting two fingers in the process.
Hillary quickly went to work cutting at the rope. In no time at all, she was free from its hold. Tears fell from her eyes. I’ll see you soon, Mom, she thought, then heard the rustling of clothing. Dr. Morrison was stirring, possibly starting to wake up. She looked over at him with contempt, flooded by the recent memories of the pain and degradation he caused her. She felt her anger and hatred take over as she stepped off the bed unsteadily, holding on to the bed frame to keep from falling. Her legs were weaker than she had anticipated—weaker than the last time she had attempted to flee.
She looked around frantically for something she could use as a weapon aside from the shard of glass she still clutched closely within her bloodied hand. The only thing worth grabbing was a pen that was on the rolling bedside table. She knew it would not be enough especially if Dr. Bentley regained consciousness. She carefully maneuvered closer to where he was slumped over the bed and proceeded to tie his hands to corner of the bed frame where her right hand had been bound just minutes ago. She hoped she tied the knot tight enough.
Dr. Morrison was still unconscious. Hillary figured he was sleeping off his intoxication. She knew he could awaken at any moment. She thought about how she should deal with him. Should she try to make a run for it? What if she ran into Monica? She worked her way over to the opposite side of the bed. It was a slow and daunting trek, but fortunately, an uneventful one, and she managed to untie the ropes that were fastened to both the top and bottom of the bed. She worked as quickly as her weak hands allowed, repeatedly looking over her shoulders at Dr. Bentley and Dr. Morrison to make sure that they were still unconscious.
Dr. Morrison’s right leg was conveniently near the metal post at the foot of the bed. Hillary quietly made her way over to his leg and carefully secured his ankle to the post using one of the ropes. She nearly had a heart attack when he shifted a bit. Sweat covered her forehead and she wiped it off with the back of her hand. She pulled at the knots she had just completed, making sure that they were as tight as she could make them. She reached over and shoved the remaining shards of glass far under the bed so that Dr. Morrison would be unable to reach them. She knew she had to find a way to secure his hands.
Hillary slowly crawled toward the other side of Dr. Morrison, closer to where Dr. Bentley’s body was half on the bed, half off. She had one rope left to use. She thought about how to best use it. She decided to try to secure Dr. Morrison’s other leg to the opposite post at the foot of the bed. This meant that she would have to drag his leg over to the post and risk waking him. She held the shard of glass in her hand in case he awoke. It was her only weapon. She grabbed his foot and very slowly pulled his leg over toward her. She jumped when he kicked his leg out, extending it closer to her, closer to the post. As she continued pulling his foot, she looked disgustedly at the flaccid mound that became more and more exposed to her as his legs widened. She had the urge to stab the shard of glass deep into it, but she knew that as tempting as it
was, it would not work out well for her.
When Dr. Morrison’s foot was as close to the post as Hillary dared to pull it, she tied the rope tightly around his ankle and then fastened the rope to the post of the bed, tying multiple tight knots. She pulled the excess rope back down to his ankle to secure it further. She had never been a Girl Scout but thought she did a good job with her knots.
There was nothing left to do but venture out of the room now and hope that she didn’t run in to Monica. She knew it would not be an easy task, making her way out of the room without the bed rails to support her weight on her weakened, practically useless legs. Cautiously, she tried to stand. She felt like the scarecrow from “The Wizard of Oz.” She stumbled, but fortunately had the bed to grab on to. She decided it would be safest and fastest to just crawl—or rather, creep—along the floor.
Hillary didn’t know whether it was the adrenaline pumping into her system or her limbs remembering their purpose, but she felt stronger with every passing minute. She found herself able to stand, wobbly at first, but gradually gaining confidence and endurance. She trudged slowly through Dr. Morrison’s office, exploring his belongings in search of additional rope and his medical bag. She didn’t find any rope but spotted his medical bag easily enough. Its contents pleased her. The medical bag replaced the shard of glass she had clutched on to so securely. It slipped from her hand and made a surprisingly loud sound, breaking the silence, as it shattered upon the floor. Hillary cursed herself for being so careless and hoped that no one heard it. She had already formulated a plan and she fully intended to carry it through...for herself, and for her mother, whom she longed to see. Failure was not an option. She had to go home.
The weight of the medical bag seemed immense compared to its size. Hillary placed it on Dr. Morrison’s desk. She only needed a handful of items, why carry the whole heavy thing with her? She opened it and pulled out three syringes. Her aunt used to be a diabetic. She knew all about them. She was less familiar with the bottle labeled “thiopentone” but hoped it was what she needed. She carefully added the drug to the syringes. She had no idea if she had added too little or too much, or whether the drug would work at all, but she had little choice at the moment—it would have to suffice. If it turned out she was wrong and had administered a lethal injection, would she really be choked up? Definitely not. Disappointed, yes, choked up, no.
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