Hillary_Tail of the Dog

by Angel Gelique

  There’s a problem with Hillary, can you please return home ASAP? Thanks, Jake.

  That ought to do the trick, Hillary thought. She picked up Dr. Morrison’s phone and walked to the other end of the room. She placed both phones on the rolling table.

  “Looks like Monica will be joining us after all,” she said jeeringly.

  “You leave Monica out of this!” Dr. Morrison shouted, “she has nothing to do with this.”

  Hillary raised her eyebrows, surprised by Dr. Morrison’s outburst.

  “Look who’s grown his balls back,” she said, laughing.

  “I’m warning you— “

  “You’re warning me?” Hillary asked angrily. She didn’t take well to idle threats.

  “Maybe I deserve this, yes, but Monica...she’s an innocent party.”

  “No she’s not,” Hillary argued, “she saw me strapped down to the bed, naked, humiliated, unable to eat or pee on my own, she never helped me.”

  “She had no say in that. She made you as comfortable as possible.”

  “Bullshit!” Hillary shouted. “She didn’t even properly clean me, or brush my hair and teeth. She called me a whore. She deserves to die just as much as you do.”

  “You can’t just go around killing people. Don’t you have any regrets at all?”

  “I regret killing my father so quickly,” Hillary replied coldly. She glared at him angrily. “He was my first victim, you know...well, after the mutt. I hadn’t yet realized how fun and exciting it could be to hurt people, to make them suffer. What a rush!”

  “I beg you, Hillary, please—”

  “Save your begging for later, doc. Please let me live, please let me die...you’ll be begging soon enough.”

  “Oh God, please don’t hurt her.”

  “You know you’re just wasting your breath.”

  One of the phones on the rolling table chimed. Hillary gleefully reached over to see which one it was. Dr. Bentley had just received a text message.

  “Oooh, this is gooood,” she said, smiling.

  Dr. Morrison made a soft, moaning sound.

  “Your blushing bride is on her way,” Hillary announced playfully as she darted over to the shopping bag. She pulled out the biggest knife she could find, one with a long, sharp, serrated blade. She wondered how long it would take for Monica to arrive.

  Hillary could feel the tension in the air. For her, it was a treat. For Dr. Morrison, it was like trying to breathe underwater. He struggled to catch his breath, his chest heaving so heavily, Hillary feared he might pass out and miss out on some of the fun.

  “Relax, doc,” she said softly. “Breathe slowly. It’ll be okay,” for me, she added to herself.

  She could hear him sobbing.

  “I have to get something,” she informed him, “and when I come back, we’ll have a nice little chat.”

  Hillary left the room, the syringe clutched firmly in her right hand, along with one of the knives. She walked to the kitchen and with her left hand, picked up a glass of water that was on the counter. She had poured it for herself earlier, after she had showered, dressed and eaten a banana. It was warm, but felt good on her dry throat. She felt hungry and thought about eating something heavier but didn’t want to overdo it. She had work to do and she couldn’t afford to feel sick.

  She left the empty glass on the counter and walked back to the room to check on Dr. Morrison. She wondered when Dr. Bentley would wake up. She hoped he would wake in time to see the look on Monica’s face when she realized what was happening.

  “Did you miss me?” she asked Dr. Morrison, who was still whimpering quietly. He said nothing. Dr. Bentley was still lost in limbo. Dr. Morrison couldn’t help but envy him, at least for the time being. Once he regained consciousness, he was sure Jake’s fate would be as bleak as his own.

  “I have some questions for you,” Hillary said resolutely, “and I’d appreciate your truthful responses.” She glared at him banefully, daring him to defy her. She made a point of showing him the long, sinister blade of the knife. Dr. Morrison shuddered with understanding. It was enough for Hillary. She didn’t wait for a response.

  “How did I get here?” she asked. It was a question she had pondered since she began regaining her memory. She remembered just about everything that had happened but had absolutely no recollection regarding her capture and subsequent detention at the Morrison Penitentiary.

  “You tortured and killed that girl from your school, what was her name? Mary? Mandy?”

  “Maddie,” Hillary corrected. “Maddie Woodmere.”

  Dr. Morrison noticed how calm she was as she spoke the name. She was completely devoid of remorse, of any emotion whatsoever. Psychopath, he thought, you sick freak.

  “Go on,” she prompted, growing tired of waiting for him to continue.

  “You were still in the woods, mutilating her body when you were captured. They brought you over to Whiteshore Psychiatric Hospital since they knew you’d never be found competent to stand trial. That’s the hospital where I work. I was there the evening you arrived. You were unconscious. They had shot you with a tranquilizer.”

  Hillary could clearly remember disemboweling Maddie. She deserved it, that know-it-all rich bitch. She knew how to make friends, get guys to fall head over heels over her, shout stupid cheers holding flimsy pompoms, but she couldn’t outrun Hillary in the woods. Nope, she didn’t even last a quarter of a mile before Hillary pounced on her, yanking on her hair, ending the race. She had placed Maddie in a head lock as the frightened girl thrashed about trying to break free from her grasp. She had even tried, unsuccessfully to head-butt Hillary. That’s when Hillary got tired of playing around. She bit down on Maddie’s shoulder, clenching her teeth forcibly, removing a full mouthful of Maddie’s flesh, tendons and muscle.

  Hillary could still hear that piteous, loud scream. Maddie, having gone into shock, became submissive as Hillary continued to drink her blood and feast on her. Her eyes were open and she made a soft, sickly groaning sound. Hillary had an old, rusted pocketknife that she had used to cut through Maddie’s abdomen. At this point, the only sound Maddie made was a raspy gurgling sound from the gash in her throat. Hillary hadn’t meant to mete out such a mortal wound—she had fully intended Maddie to live through most of what she had in store for her perfect little body. By the time Hillary had her hands deep within the folds of her intestines, the gurgling had stopped. Hillary couldn’t remember anything after that, except for her memories here at Dr. Morrison’s house.

  “But how did I end up here, in your home?” she asked, still waiting for an explanation.

  Dr. Morrison sighed. He didn’t know if he should be forthcoming about what happened next. Hillary eyed him intently, her cold stare penetrating his misty eyes. What did he really have to lose anyway?

  “A lieutenant in the military with a medical background who knew about some research I was doing propositioned me and said I would be allowed to test my new drug. I just...I was trying to help you.”

  “So I was your guinea pig?” Hillary looked horrified.

  Dr. Morrison nodded. “You were my test subject,” he corrected. His mouth was dry. He didn’t want to go on. He could tell by Hillary’s reaction that she was growing angrier with each passing second.

  “So what was the point? What was this drug you were testing on me?”

  “It’s called Neuronentin. It suppresses rage—or at least it’s supposed to. But there were some problems.”

  “What problems?”

  “Well, memory loss, for one thing. And clearly, it didn’t suppress aggressive behaviors as hoped.”

  Dr. Morrison thought about how promising the drug had been at first. The research team was pleased by the results yielded by its experimentation on both mice and chimpanzee populations. Even the fiercest, most dominant and territorial test subject had been rendered docile by the drug. Dr. Morrison was certain that the drug would be just as effective in human populations. He wasted no time in submitting his
application requesting authorization to conduct human trials. He was both shocked and outraged when his request was denied.

  Several weeks later, Hillary was brought to the psychiatric center where he spent most of his days. He knew all about Hillary, the entire nation did at that point. She was one of the most savage killers he had ever heard about. Her atrocities made Jeffrey Dahmer look like Ghandi. She had brutally killed nine people, most of whom she had also partially consumed. It was sheer luck that she was caught.

  One of her intended victims held her breath when Hillary placed a chloroform-doused rag over her face. She pretended to pass out. When Hillary turned to grab her backpack full of tools of torture, the sixteen-year-old darted through the wooded area as fast as she could. It took Hillary nearly a full minute to realize what had happened. It gave the girl a much-needed advantage, as Hillary was a fast runner and could easily outrun her victims. The one who got away told the cops all about Hillary and where she had tried to kill her. Foolishly, the following week, Hillary dismembered her ninth and final victim just a mile away from that very spot where she was outsmarted. Little did she realize that military personnel canvassed the woods searching for her. By the time they had found her, deep within the dense foliage, it was far too late for victim number nine.

  Lieutenant Alan Langford introduced himself and asked if he would be interested in working with Hillary to perfect his drug. It was Dr. Morrison’s lucky break, the chance he had been waiting for. Even though he’d only have one test subject, what a test subject it was! If he could diminish Hillary’s aggressive tendencies, he’d be the richest, most famous neurosurgeon in the world.

  Of course, what Dr. Morrison failed to realize—what Dr. Bentley had repeatedly tried to convince him of—was the fact that humans, unlike animals, don’t solely react on instincts. In animals, aggression tends to be a natural byproduct of territorialism, alpha male dominance and predatory behavior. In humans, however, aggression is unpredictable, its causes uncertain. Some people just kill for pure pleasure, for sport, to satisfy their bloodthirsty cravings. Sociopaths. Psychopaths. Sick, scary people. People you never want to encounter. People like Hillary.

  “Earth to Dr. Morrison,” Hillary was saying, glaring at Dr. Morrison.

  Dr. Morrison gasped, quickly snapping out of his thoughts.

  “I-I was just thinking,” he said.

  “I’m still waiting for an answer,” she barked.

  “Uh, what? What was the question?”

  Hillary rolled her eyes. Dr. Morrison was truly trying her patience. She thought about getting started on him. She planned on spending a lot of time hurting him. Dr. Bentley wouldn’t miss much.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized, “I got lost in my thoughts.”

  Hillary sighed loudly. “The name of the army guy,” she said, “what was his name?”

  “Lieutenant Langford.”

  “What was his first name?”

  “Alan,” he replied. There was no point in lying. His contact information was in his phone, which of course, Hillary had access to.

  “Lieutenant Alan Langford...Alan Langford,” she repeated, mentally noting the name. She would not forget to show her appreciation.

  “So why do you think the drug didn’t work on me?” she asked.

  “Maybe it’s not suitable for humans,” Dr. Morrison replied.

  “So you were trying to cure me,” she said flatly, “hmmm...interesting. I once asked Dr. Bentley if he thought my ‘sickness,’ as you think of it, was a result of my father’s abuse. He believes that triggered it, but that I had...shoot, what did he call them? Violent propensities? Do you think I would be such a monster if my father hadn’t unleashed the monster within me?”

  “I don’t know, Hillary, it’s hard to say.”

  “Because to tell you the truth, I think I’d be like this anyway. He just gave me a reason to get started sooner.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I hate people,” she answered. “Long before my father even touched me, I never cared for anyone. People piss me off.”

  “I know you’re not a bad person Hillary, you just—”

  His sentence was cut short but Hillary’s loud, maniacal laughter.

  “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what you think,” she said facetiously.

  “Well have you ever tried to control yourself?”

  “I’m controlling myself right now,” she replied ominously, “fighting all of my urges.”

  The goose bumps returned to Dr. Morrison’s skin as his heart rate accelerated.

  Oh God, please let me die...please let me die before she gets her hands on me....

  “Anyway, those nightmare I’d been having,” Hillary said, “they were just my memories, but through the eyes of my victims. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “We had hoped your memories would stay repressed, that somehow you’d only believe them to be nightmares. We thought maybe if you couldn’t remember your past, you’d have no inclination to repeat such…behaviors in the future.”

  This was a lie. Hillary had no future. Once her usefulness as a test subject was exhausted, she would suffer the same fate as all test subjects: termination. Of course, Dr. Morrison wasn’t going to remind Hillary of that. He didn’t need to, though. She remembered what he had told her, how he couldn’t wait to dispose of her. She knew that had been the plan. Now the tables had turned.

  “And you let me believe that I’d be going—”

  “Patrick? Jake?” Monica’s voice rang through the house as the front door opened and closed.

  Hillary and Dr. Morrison both looked surprised, eyes big and wide, though Hillary’s were filled with excitement while Dr. Morrison’s were filled with dread.

  “Monica, run! Don’t—” Dr. Morrison shouted, trying to warn Monica to stay away. Hillary was on him within seconds. She dropped the syringe on the bed as she reached for a strip of duct tape she had torn off earlier in anticipation of Monica’s arrival. It was clinging to the side of the bed, not far from Dr. Morrison’s head. She quickly grabbed it and placed it over Dr. Morrison’s mouth despite his resistance.

  Dr. Morrison’s muffled cries were mostly inaudible. Hillary hoped that Monica wouldn’t hear his distress sounds—she would be there any second. She cursed herself for not taping up his mouth earlier. She just had so many questions to ask.

  Once she was done, Hillary retrieved the syringe. Her heart was racing.

  Where is she, she wondered anxiously. Had she suspected something? Maybe she was calling for help at that very moment. Hillary began to panic. She swiftly walked to the doorway, bumping into Monica as she was entering.

  Monica gasped, growing instantly pale. She froze in terror, unable to even scream.

  In a split second, Hillary had a hand full of Monica’s hair, yanking her head back as she pressed the syringe firmly against her throat.

  A feeble, steady moaning sound escaped Monica’s trembling lips. It was lower and even more piteous than the stifled utterances from Dr. Morrison’s sealed lips. Monica’s eyes widened as she shifted her eyes over to the bed, to find the source of the muzzled cries. It was her husband, tied to the bed and naked from the waist down. Monica began breathing even more rapidly.

  “You’re not going to give me any trouble are you?” Hillary asked coldly.

  Monica was too frightened to respond. She knew she was going to die and there was nothing she could do about it. There was no way she could win in a fight against Hillary. She had never been in a fight in her entire life.

  Hillary knew she had Monica’s full cooperation. She directed her over to the rolling table and grabbed the duct tape. There wasn’t much left on the roll, but it would do. Dr. Morrison’s protests increased when he saw Hillary tape Monica’s arms together, from her forearms down to her fingers.

  Why is she just standing there cooperating? Dr. Morrison thought. Fight, he tried desperately to scream, fight her.... Eventually he grew silent. It was futile. Monica couldn’t hear
him, and even if she could, she would never fight back…it was not in her nature. Now, her arms were bound tightly and Hillary was working on her legs. Monica just stood there, possibly in shock, undoubtedly in fear.

  The tape ran out as Hillary attempted to wrap it around Monica’s legs yet a third time.

  It’ll have to do, Hillary thought. She didn’t think Monica would dare to escape anyway. She shoved Monica violently, sending her flying back on her backside, her back lowered to the floor and her legs lifted up. She hit the floor hard with a loud thud against the hardwood floors. She cried out loudly as she snapped out of her trance and twisted on her side to help propel her to an upright sitting position. She sat on the floor sobbing quietly.

  “Yay, we’re all here,” Hillary said cheerfully. “Now if only sleeping handsome over there would just wake up....” She gestured toward Dr. Bentley who was still unconscious.

  Dr. Morrison continued to grunt and groan as if trying desperately to communicate with Monica. Hillary walked over to Dr. Morrison and quickly ripped the piece of duct tape off his mouth. Dr. Morrison yelped in pain as he turned his face away from her.

  “Did you have something to say?” she asked with a grin.

  Dr. Morrison was silent again.

  “Pat-Patrick,” Monica whimpered.

  Dr. Morrison turned to face Monica as tears streaked down the sides of his face. He thought about what he had asked himself the night before—whether he loved his wife. Yes, he did love her after all…he really, truly did love her….

  “Monica,” he replied softly, sadly. “I’m so, so sorry, sweetheart.”

  Monica began crying even louder, her body racked with sobs.

  “Why don’t you tell her how you raped me a couple hours ago? I’m sure she’d want to hear all about it. I know, Monica, you won’t believe it, but this time, I have a witness.”

  “It’s true, sweetheart…I was drunk, I was stupid, I was...I don’t know, angry. I was a fool and this is entirely my fault. My fault entirely,” he stressed pitifully as he whimpered.