Hillary_Tail of the Dog

by Angel Gelique

  Hillary reached down and quickly grabbed the glass. It was small, but sharp. It looked sufficient to cut the rope.

  “I’m going to cut through the rope,” she said slowly, waving the glass around in a sawing motion above him. “If you so much as take a deep breath I’ll put you to sleep and use the glass to cut out your eyes. If you have any doubts, just look over at your friend the cyclops over there.”

  Dr. Bentley had no doubts. His will to live was greater than his will to escape, though he knew the latter was the only way to ensure his survival. He would allow Hillary to cut through the ropes then strike when the time was right.

  “You have my word, Hillary,” he said softly, lowering his head away from his fastened wrists, unsure whether he did so demonstrate his compliance or in an effort to hide his throat as much as possible.

  Hillary drew closer and quickly went to work cutting through the rope with the shard of glass in her right hand. Her left hand held the syringe in place against the back of Dr. Bentley’s neck with her thumb ready to depress the plunger if he made any questionable moves. Her fingers bled as she cut through the fibers. She didn’t even feel them as she inhaled the intoxicating smell of Dr. Bentley’s cologne intermingled with his sweat. It made her smile.

  She snapped out of her aroma-induced trance when the shard of glass cut through the last fiber of the rope, jerking her forward a bit. Dr. Bentley was free. He stayed perfectly still, assuring Hillary that he was not going to try anything foolish. She stared at him, wide-eyed, saying nothing for a long while. It was as if they could communicate in silence with one another: “You’d better watch it,” she warned. “I will, I swear,” he replied telepathically.

  Dr. Bentley was still kneeling on the floor, his arms at his side. Hillary dropped the shard of glass and transferred the syringe to her right hand, keeping it pressed against Dr. Bentley’s neck. She stood up, extending her arm to keep the syringe in place.

  “Get up,” she ordered, and added, “slowly.”

  Dr. Bentley obediently arose carefully. He slowly turned to face her and stood still, awaiting her next command.

  Hillary stepped beside him, keeping the syringe against the side of his neck.

  “You said you wanted to know about me, about the things I’ve done. I’m going to give you a front row seat to the Hillary show,” she said, smiling. “Of course, I’ll need a victim,” her smile faded.

  “What are you—”

  “I need you to pick Dr. Morrison up and put him on the bed,” she interrupted, her eyes staring fiercely into his, daring him to defy her.

  He knew he had little choice. She needed a victim. It would either be himself or Dr. Morrison. As long as he could help it, it wouldn’t be him.

  “Okay,” he replied, his voice as unsteady as his trembling hands.

  “I’m going to walk over to him,” he informed her before stepping slowly toward Dr. Morrison’s unconscious body at the foot of the bed.

  “I’m right behind you,” she warned, though unnecessarily, as Dr. Bentley could feel the syringe pressed firmly against the back of his neck—too close for his liking. If he stopped abruptly, he would be slipping into oblivion within seconds.

  When he was at Dr. Morrison’s feet, he dropped down beside him quickly to avoid being jabbed with the needle. Hillary hovered above him but gave him adequate space to untie Dr. Morrison’s left foot. When the task was completed he repositioned himself to reach the rope securing Dr. Morrison’s other leg. He worked quickly, untangling the knots binding his right ankle. He then maneuvered himself to lift Dr. Morrison’s heavy, lifeless body.

  Hillary knew Dr. Morrison’s dead weight would be difficult for Dr. Bentley to carry. He wasn’t the type of man who was used to any form of manual labor. The heaviest thing he probably ever had to lift was his gold fountain pen or a bottle of fine wine. She felt no pangs of pity, no regret for assigning such an arduous task. It needed to be done, and she was certainly in no shape to do it.

  She watched closely as Dr. Bentley bent down and struggled to lift Dr. Morrison up. He slowly and laboriously slung Dr. Morrison’s flabby, bloated, heavy body over his shoulder and strained to stand up. Hunched over, he walked forward and flung Dr. Morrison on the bed. The lower, naked half of his body hung off the foot of the bed. Hillary’s pressure spiked as she looked over at the tuft of coarse wiry brown hairs surrounding the limp mass of disgust between his fat thighs. She could hardly wait to start the show.

  “Pull him up,” she barked, keeping a watchful eye to make sure that Dr. Bentley didn’t make any sudden moves. Dr. Bentley took a few seconds to catch his breath then quickly complied. He walked to the head of the bed where he reached over and pulled Dr. Morrison’s body forward. Panting, he looked over at Hillary, who was once again smiling. He could only imagine the thoughts that were forming in her mind.

  “Now tie his arms and legs good and tight, just the way mine were tied up.”

  “I don’t think there’s enough rope,” Dr. Bentley protested.

  “You’d better find a way to make do with what’s here,” she warned, no longer smiling. “And make sure he can’t escape.”

  Dr. Bentley gathered up all of the pieces of rope, with Hillary following closely behind him like an ominous black cloud threatening a devastating storm. He separated the pieces according to length. Some were way too small to work with.

  “Use the larger ones to tie his hands,” Hillary ordered. “Good and tight, remember.”

  With hands still trembling, Dr. Bentley fastened Dr. Morrison’s hands to the bed, just as Hillary’s had been. He pulled on the ropes to show her that the knots were good and tight as she directed. The remaining pieces of rope were of varying lengths. Only one of them seemed large enough to tie one of his legs to the bed.

  “Use the longer rope to tie Dr. Morrison’s leg to the bed,” she commanded.

  “Which leg?”

  “I don’t care, just hurry up already.”

  Dr. Morrison grabbed the longest remaining rope and walked over to Dr. Morrison’s left leg. He pulled the rope around his ankle and tied it as tight as he could. There wasn’t much rope remaining after the knot, but Dr. Bentley managed a second knot.

  What a good boy scout, Hillary thought excitedly. The time was drawing near.

  “There’s not enough—” Dr. Bentley began.

  “Tie the ropes together!” Hillary yelled frantically. “Use that handsome head of yours, Jake.”

  “But I don’t think—”

  “Get it done,” she shouted, moving inches away from him.

  For a split second, he contemplated an escape. Surely he was much stronger, much faster than Hillary. Yet she was so close to him now. All she had to do was stretch out her hand and it would be all over for him. He couldn’t take that chance. After all, she was much scarier and far more aggressive than Dr. Bentley could ever be. The odds were not in his favor.

  Dr. Bentley fought to control his shaky hands enough to tie the ropes together. It took a great deal of effort, but he managed to piece together enough rope to bind Dr. Morrison’s right leg to the bed. He knew the rope wouldn’t be secure, but what did he care? He wasn’t the one who wanted Patrick bound to the bed.

  Besides, if Patrick could escape, it would only increase his own chance of survival.

  Hillary was ecstatic seeing Dr. Morrison tied to the bed spread-eagle, shamelessly, just as he had left her there for all those weeks. She imagined all the things she could do to him, all the things she would do to him. Dr. Bentley turned to see the manic look upon her face. He knew he had just sealed Patrick’s fate. After feeling the sharp needle puncture his upper arm, he knew he had sealed his own fate as well.

  “But—” he said, unable to finish his thoughts as a fear he never experienced before shrouded him, wrapping him up like a cocoon.

  “You should have known better than to trust me, Jake,” Hillary said with a big grin on her face. Dr. Bentley heard most of it before everything faded to black.r />
  ~14~

  Dr. Morrison was first to awaken, with a fierce hangover and an overwhelming urge to throw up. He pulled forward to sit up, not realizing that he was tied to the bed. He had not recalled his encounter with Hillary until the ropes limited his movement and he looked over at his tightly secured limbs. Fear gripped his spine in its icy clutch, sending shivers throughout his body. He looked over to see Jake’s lifeless body upright in the leather chair from his office, his head slumped down to the side, his arms rendered useless by the duct tape wrapped tightly around his entire torso, effectively binding him to the chair. His legs were similarly taped to the seat of the chair. A pitiful sound escaped Dr. Morrison’s throat as his heart rate accelerated.

  “Aww...are you uncomfortable?” Hillary asked facetiously, tauntingly.

  Dr. Morrison tilted his head all the way up and shifted his remaining eye up to see Hillary standing behind the bed. His lips trembled. His bladder let loose its warm, wet inhabitant. It looked like he was trying to say something but couldn’t quite form the words. He struggled fruitlessly to free his limbs from the ropes. Hillary knew he wouldn’t succeed. She had reinforced each rope with the duct tape, particularly the one that had been pieced together. Dr. Morrison was not escaping on his own accord.

  Hillary was wearing one of Monica’s dresses. Dr. Morrison recognized it right away. It was the white dress he had bought her during their last vacation together last spring. The thought of Monica saddened him. He would never see her again. Depression quickly gave way to terror as he heard Hillary’s voice again.

  “Relax, doc,” she said, as she walked around the bed to stand in front of him. “I’m not ready for you yet.”

  She winked at him and ran her fingers from the top of his thigh to his ankle, careful to avoid the urine-soaked bed sheet underneath him. Her touch gave him the creeps. It made the hairs at the back of his neck stand as goose bumps carpeted his flesh.

  “Wuh...wuh...what are you g-going to do to me?” he asked, shaking so badly that it looked as though he was having a seizure.

  “Nothing yet,” Hillary assured him. “I have to wait for Jake to wake up. You were out a lot longer than I expected. I was afraid I’d killed you.”

  “I...I’m sorry...I...I....I was just d-doing my job.”

  Hillary lifted her eyebrows, clearly amused.

  “Really?” she said. “Is that so? So I guess it was part of your job to rape me, huh?”

  “I...I was d-drunk. I’m so, so s-sorry.”

  “Not yet,” Hillary chuckled, “but you will be.” Her eyes narrowed as she glared at him.

  Dr. Morrison’s heart hammered away in his chest. He felt hot and cold all at once. He feared he might suffer a heart attack, but after greater deliberation, actually hoped death would visit him so easily. Contemplating his impending mortality made him queasy, especially with Hillary’s savage eyes staring down at him, just waiting for the opportunity to torture him.

  Dr. Morrison felt his chest tighten. Pangs of pain shot through his body with each heavy heave of his chest. It grew harder to breathe. Sweat formed along his head, slowly dripping down the side of face. He grew pale and sickly.

  “You don’t look so good,” Hillary commented to him.

  “I think,” he said slowly, gasping for air, “I think I-I’m having a heart attack.”

  “Well let’s hope not,” she said calmly. “Where’s Monica? When is she getting back?”

  “I...I don’t know,” he replied truthfully.

  “Liar!” she accused, “I guess you want to do things the hard way.”

  Dr. Morrison shook his head frantically.

  “No, I’m telling you the truth, r-really.”

  “God, can you stop stuh, stuh, stuttering already,” she mocked. She flashed an object in front of his face. Dr. Morrison recognized it as his cell phone.

  “I’m going to call Monica,” Hillary said slowly, “you’re going to tell her that she needs to get back here now.”

  Dr. Morrison shook his head. Even though he had been angry with her, he would never endanger her. He would never let Hillary hurt her.

  “S-she’s mad at me, she won’t come,” he said, unsuccessfully trying to control his stutter by speaking extra slowly.

  “Bullshit!” Hillary shouted, becoming angry.

  “Ruh-ruh-ruh-really,” he stammered nervously through his quivering lips.

  “Well we’ll just see about that,” Hillary said, flipping open his phone and scrolling through his contact list. She found Monica’s name and pushed the send button. The call went through.

  “Be convincing,” Hillary warned, as she held the phone up to Dr. Morrison’s ear. She listened in closely.

  To her dismay, the call went to her voicemail.

  Dr. Morrison looked relieved.

  “I’m sure she’ll return sooner or later,” Hillary said, “hopefully sooner. But just to be sure....”

  Hillary quickly typed in a text message and sent it off to Monica. It read simply, “there’s been an emergency, please come home immediately.”

  She smiled as Dr. Morrison grimaced, not knowing what she had written. He prayed that Monica’s anger and typical steadfastness would keep her away. It was the only chance she had.

  Hillary walked over to place the phone on the rolling bedside table that was pushed across to the other side of the room. She stretched then turned to look at Dr. Bentley. He was still completely unconscious.

  “When do you think he’ll wake up?” Hillary asked Dr. Morrison, growing bored and eager to begin the fun.

  Dr. Morrison sighed. He was in no rush for Jake to regain consciousness. He had hoped that his heart would give out and that he would die long before then, but, of course, he wasn’t that lucky.

  “I don’t know,” he said without his stutter, sounding much calmer, annoyed even.

  “What’s this? The great Dr. Morrison doesn’t know anything all of a sudden. No worries, I have ways of making you talk,” she joked.

  Dr. Morrison didn’t find it very funny. He wished she would just get it over with already. Waiting for the pain, the horrors that were sure to come was itself torturous. He knew Hillary thrived on his fear. That’s why he had decided to be strong. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. He had already made enough of a fool of himself, crying out and wetting himself like a weak child. He was going to die with whatever dignity he had left intact.

  “Well I guess I’ll make the best of my time,” Hillary said, “I have a lot to plan for.”

  Dr. Morrison did not respond. He turned his head away from her and stared at Dr. Bentley. He wondered how Hillary had managed to escape. Surely Jake had something to do with it. Jake and his self-righteous attitude. Look where it had gotten them.

  Consumed by resentful thoughts, Dr. Morrison failed to notice Hillary leave the room. Not that it made a difference one way or another. Between the knots and the duct tape, there was no way for him to break free on his own. His range of movement was even more restricted than Hillary’s had been. Hillary was confident that she could accomplish her tasks in sufficient time before Dr. Bentley awoke. The only possible snag in her plan was her uncertainty as to when Monica would return.

  Hillary was on a gathering mission. A short while back, when she was searching for more rope, she had found the duct tape in a utility closet. There was a large tool box filled with plenty of great tools she could work with. She had stored them in Monica’s room. She walked from room to room searching for items that might come in handy.

  After twenty minutes, Hillary thought she had a decent collection. Not bad, at least, given the fact that she didn’t have the time or resources to get the items she would normally enjoy using. She would just have to get creative.

  She found a large shopping bag in one of the kitchen cabinets and placed the items in it one by one as she collected them: a wire hanger, an empty can of vegetables that she had opened and drained into the kitchen sink (she just needed the can—or rather, it shar
p, jagged lid), several knives of various lengths and blades, a small grater, a corkscrew, a straw, a small container of toothpicks, a bottle of peroxide, blunt-tipped tweezers and a canister of salt. She carried the bag to Monica’s room and added the other items she had found earlier—several screwdrivers, a pair of scissors and a pack of light bulbs. She smiled happily as she walked back to her former room, shopping bag over her shoulder, the third syringe clutched carefully in her right hand.

  Hillary was pleased to see everything in order just as she had left it. Dr. Bentley was still unconscious. Dr. Morrison looked grim lying there on the bed staring straight up at the ceiling. She wondered what he was thinking about. A lengthy list of regrets, perhaps? Was he imagining what she might do to him? No...that couldn’t be it. For one thing, he was far too calm. For another, there was no way in the world he could imagine what Hillary had in mind for him. She could hardly wait.

  “I’m baa-ack!” she sang merrily, prompting Dr. Morrison to jump, a startled expression filled his worried face.

  Hillary placed the bag on the floor by the foot of the bed.

  “So, did your phone ring? Did Monica call or text back?” Hillary asked as she made her way over to the rolling table to retrieve Dr. Morrison’s phone. She placed the syringe on the table as she picked up the phone.

  Not surprisingly, Dr. Morrison did not reply.

  Hillary examined the phone. Her smile widened when she read the “1 missed text” message. She quickly viewed it. Her smile faded.

  Deal with it yourself, the message read. Apparently, Dr. Morrison had not been lying. Monica would not be joining the party.

  “Shit!” Hillary yelled. She thought about sending another text but changed her mind. She had an even better idea. She walked over to Dr. Bentley’s inanimate body. She could see his cell phone in his shirt pocket. She pulled it out and turned it on. Monica might be angry at Dr. Morrison but it was unlikely that she’d be angry with Dr. Bentley too.

  Backing away from Dr. Bentley, Hillary searched the contact list on his phone. Monica’s name was not on the list. No problem, she thought, as she created a new contact entry and added Monica’s number from Dr. Morrison’s phone. She then dropped Dr. Morrison’s phone and prepared a text to Monica: