Hillary_Tail of the Dog (17 page)

Just thinking her name made his stomach clench. He couldn’t wait to rid the world of her. He’d throw a big party.
Party
. He sighed. The thought of parties and social events stirred those sickening anxiety pangs in the pit of his stomach. How could he face his colleagues at such gatherings without her? It would be humiliating. Suddenly, Patrick knew that divorce was not an option. He didn’t love Monica any longer, but he still needed her around. He had an image to uphold, a reputation to maintain and he was not about to let her destroy everything he had worked so hard to acquire. Even if he hated her, he would never allow her to divorce him.

He swiped a stack of papers off his desk with a quick and violent shove of his arm, acting uncharacteristically immaturely. He cursed the day he decided to embark on this experiment. To think, he had placed his job and title at the hospital in jeopardy—for Hillary. He was so sure that he could develop a biological agent that diffused violence and pacified even the most psychotic mind. Now it was clear that his theories, his research—all of his efforts—had failed. Did he not think things through enough? Did he miscalculate something? Did he not give his trials sufficient time? He was a man of great competence and confidence. He was not used to doubting himself. He could not accept that his flawed experiment resulted from his own shortcomings. There was simply no possible way that he could have been so wrong. There had to be another explanation, some confounding variable that was impossible to foresee. Yes, that was it exactly. The flaw was not within him…not within his research, which surely was impeccable. The flaw, rather, was Hillary.

“
Hillary
...” Patrick hissed, feeling an overwhelming hatred well up within himself, a loathing that he’d never before experienced. He would make her pay for all the distress she’d caused him. He was almost glad that his experiment had failed, merely for the fact that it would justify her elimination. Of course, he had to wait for authorization to do so, but it was just a matter of time now. He would submit his final report and recommendations in the morning and wait for the directive. It was the only thing he had to look forward to now in his bleak, miserable life.

Stepping over the mess of papers on the floor, Patrick left his office in search of Monica. Though the possibility of reconciling seemed grim, he had nothing to lose. Even his pride was no longer intact at this point. He would lie—say whatever it took—make empty, meaningless promises, and get her back.

The door to Hillary’s room was still closed, and she was quiet now.
Probably plotting her escape,
Patrick joked to himself. He suppressed his urge to enter her room so that he could lash out at her further and make her life as hellish as she made his. If he had been a more professional, ethical man, he would have made sure that her urine bag was drained, her sheets changed, her basic hygiene needs met—all of the responsibilities that Monica had once assumed that now went undone.

Yet Patrick didn’t care if her limbs were massaged and exercised, whether her sheets were clean, whether she was comfortable at all. He didn’t care if she got bed sores or another infection or dropped dead, for that matter. In fact, he preferred it.

He came to a stop in front of the guest room—the room that Monica now occupied as her own. He tapped lightly on the door, waited a few seconds, then knocked more loudly. There was still no response. He was sure that Monica was ignoring him. At the risk of enraging her, he turned the doorknob slowly and opened the door. As he entered the room, it was clear that she was not there. He wondered where she had gone. He had never before questioned her comings and goings but now wondered if she was seeing someone else. After all, if she thought that he was unfaithful to her, what would keep her from straying as well? He abruptly left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Patrick walked downstairs to the den. Monica was not there. Nor was she in the laundry room. She had apparently left the house. Patrick trudged back upstairs angrily and peered through the window facing the driveway. It was just as he expected: Monica’s car was gone.

Overwhelmed by annoyance and resentment, Patrick walked down to the living room and sat on the couch. He would wait for her to come home and confront her then. He hoped, for her sake, that she had an acceptable explanation for her departure.

~12~

Patrick’s eyes fluttered open slowly. He was groggy and disoriented. It took him a moment to realize that he had fallen asleep on the couch while waiting for Monica to get home. Wondering what time it was, he checked his expensive Audemars Piguet wristwatch. He double-checked the time on the cable box across the room, disbelieving that it could really be almost two in the morning. Had Monica just paraded past him, leaving him asleep on the couch? He thought she was incredibly rude to do so and was fully prepared to return the favor by waking her to give her a piece of his mind. He sat up swiftly, wincing at the aches and pains that replaced his youth. He took a moment to stretch and adjust his stiff joints before walking upstairs.

Without knocking on the door, he threw the door to the guest room open and flicked the light switch. It was readily apparent that Monica had not yet returned home. Her bed was still made, the bedding flawlessly spread without a single wrinkle upon it. Patrick felt his chest tighten as his anxiety level rose.

“Where the hell
is
she?” he muttered, unable to control his imagination. He envisioned her in the arms of another man. What were they doing at the moment? He could see her in his mind, her body entwined with another, her face full of pleasure. It made him sick, with jealousy or rage, he could not tell and it didn’t much matter. He had an urge to destroy everything she had left behind. It took all of his willpower to subdue his violent thoughts.

Breathing rapidly, he struggled to catch his breath. He knew he needed to calm down, to think rationally. He walked down to the den, leaving Monica’s door open. He walked straight to the bar and poured himself a glassful of bourbon. He swigged it down in a few large gulps and poured another. He walked over to one of the oversized leather recliners and dropped down within it, careful not to spill his drink.

“Here’s to my wife, the tramp,” he said out loud, bringing his glass up to complete the toast. He took a smaller swig, set the glass upon the nearby table and pushed back on the recliner to lean back and prop his feet up. Hateful thoughts continued to ravage his mind. He was sure that he would be unable to fall asleep, but sleep devoured him at last nearly two hours later.

The cell phone in his pocket startled him awake a few hours later. His head felt heavy and he was too disoriented to sit up just yet. He fished for his phone, cursing the high-pitched ringing under his breath. He pulled it out and squinted as his eyes slowly focused on the display.

“
Shit!
” he exclaimed as he pressed the button to answer the call.

“I know, I’m sorry. I overslept,” he said wearily, pausing as the caller admonished him. “I’m not going in today, there’s no way that I can, so just get Elliott to cover for me...yes, I can cover his shift later tonight, that’s fine...yes...yes...fine, thanks.”

Patrick placed his phone back into his pocket and stretched out on the recliner. His thoughts returned to Monica but he had neither the mental strength nor energy to deal with her indiscretions, not now anyway. Besides, there were more pressing matters to tend to. He forced the recliner into an upright position and stood up, grabbing the rock glass from the table before heading over to the bar. He refilled his glass, this time with gin and a splash of tonic.

The best cure for a hangover is more alcohol
, he thought, despite the fact that he merely had a headache, not quite a hangover. Still, somehow it justified his drinking at seven in the morning. Clutching his glass tightly, he made his way back up to his office. He stepped over the pile of papers he had left on the floor the night before and sat on his leather chair. He pulled his laptop toward him and opened a word document. He took a big swig of the gin and tonic before working on his report about Hillary.

He had originally planned to falsify the results, for his own benefit, but now he knew better. He deleted large sections of text as he thought about how he would, instead, exaggerate the results to the other extreme, effectively guaranteeing Hillary’s execution. After all, it was his report that would be relied upon for authorization, for justification. He couldn’t wait for that moment...to finally end the nightmare and be free of the curse. He managed a smile as he typed away.

He was making great progress when his momentum was interrupted by Hillary’s screaming. At first he tried to ignore her. Nearly ten minutes later, he slammed his office door, hoping to block out the sound of her wailing. He finished the remaining few sips in his glass and poured himself another drink, this time, straight gin. He could still hear Hillary, but it was a drastic improvement. He continued typing his report, at first keeping his usual pace. Before long, his concentration shattered and he found himself making numerous mistakes. He realized that the droning hum created by Hillary’s muffled screams was still distracting him. Angrily, he finished his gin and slammed the glass down. There was only one thing to do.

Patrick shoved the laptop violently across his desk. He opened the lower drawer on the left side of his desk and pulled out a bottle of scotch. He looked pleased to find that the bottle was just over half full. He twisted the cap off and nursed it like a starving baby. He needed as much help as possible to tolerate Hillary today. He could still hear her screaming.
Shut up, shut up,
he shouted in his head and took another big gulp for good measure.

He stood up, feeling the wooziness of an intense buzz. He had been drinking all morning on an empty stomach. There wasn’t much left in the bottle now. He carried it with him as he staggered toward Hillary’s room. As he got closer, her screams grew louder. He could hear what she was shouting: “
just let me die!”
Patrick couldn’t help but smile, as he thought, “
I fully intend to!”
He took a smaller swig just before turning the door knob and entering her room.

Patrick grimaced as he approached the bed. The stench was overwhelming. Between Hillary’s pungent body odor and the urine that was overflowing onto the floor from the overfilled pouch, Patrick’s stomach threatened to disgorge itself of all the alcohol he had ingested in lieu of breakfast. He made a loud retching sound, covered his mouth, but managed to retain the contents of his stomach. Hillary stopped shouting when she heard him. She turned to face him. Her eyes were sunken in, surrounded by dark circles, and her lips were dry and raw from all the gnawing she had done to pass the time.

“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.”