Hillary_Tail of the Dog (23 page)

“Now wait just a minute,” Dr. Morrison yelled, “It wasn’t a frequent thing, just that one time.”

“You left me naked on a bed, spread eagle,” Hillary argued, “you fingered me and leered at me, it was just a matter of time.”

“I did
not
finger you,” he protested, “I was just inserting the catheter.”

“So, wait,” Monica interjected, “you mean he didn’t rape you before?”

“Not technically, but I was violated anyway...he abused me even if he didn’t exactly screw me until today.”

Monica felt dizzy. He really hadn’t raped Hillary before. Maybe if she hadn’t reacted so harshly, maybe if she hadn’t left the house, all this would never have happened. She began blaming herself.

“You’re all screwed up,” Hillary shouted. She walked over to Dr. Bentley. “Wake up!” she yelled, slapping his face. He remained motionless. She slapped him again, harder, leaving a bright red imprint on the side of his face. He slept through it peacefully.

“When’s he going to wake up?” Hillary demanded.

“I don’t know,” he replied, “I already told you that.”

Hillary turned around and slapped him hard across his face. The side of his face matched Dr. Bentley’s. It stung.

“Don’t speak to me like that,” she warned, “
I’m
in charge here now.”

Monica began to panic. She had witnessed Hillary erupt in anger before, back when she had first arrived. Hillary had been so drugged up on Patrick’s new drug that she couldn’t remember anything. She didn’t seem like much of a threat to them, despite her history. They hadn’t taken any precautions other than placing a lock on the door. Hillary was free to roam the room, which at the time, was furnished with the bed, a dresser with a mirror, a nightstand, and a computer desk. Hillary had always awakened distrustful, believing that she had been kidnapped by Monica and Dr. Morrison. Monica decided one day that she would pretend to be her mother. Dr. Morrison thought it was a brilliant idea.

“...my...my mother?” Hillary asked timidly when Monica shared the news with her.

“Yes, darling. You’ve hit your head hard. You should be getting your memory back soon. For now, you just need to relax.”

“My, my mother....” Hillary said it as a statement this time, her downcast eyes glazing over. She began to breathe rapidly. She looked at Monica, who was sitting beside her on the bed. Monica thought that perhaps she was sick, that she was going to throw up.

“Are you okay?” she asked, “do you need me to take you to the bathroom?”

“You’re not listening,” she said in a voice just over a whisper. Monica didn’t understand.

“What’s that, honey?” she asked. “What did you say?”

“You’re not listening to me. You’re not, you’re not...
YOU’RE NOT LISTENING TO ME, CAN YOU HEAR ME? CAN YOU HEEAAARRRR MEEEEE?
”

Monica jumped off the bed, startled by Hillary’s sudden outburst. Hillary’s eyes were cold and feral. A shiver travelled down Monica’s spine as she backed away from her slowly, keeping her eyes planted on the young girl who was slowly transforming into a monster.

“It’s okay, h-honey,” she said, hoping to pacify Hillary.

“You’re going to hear me,” Hillary replied eerily. In an instant, she lunged forward, jumping from the bed onto Monica, knocking her to the floor. She grabbed Monica’s upper arm, digging her nails deep into her flesh. Monica fought frantically to break free from Hillary’s grip. She yelled for help as Hillary released her arm but grabbed a hold of her ears instead—one in each hand. Hillary yanked at them furiously, attempting to tear them off Monica’s head.

Monica screamed even louder, in pain and fear as she tried unsuccessfully to escape Hillary’s grasp. Dr. Morrison had heard Monica’s cries from his office and already had one foot in the door by the time Hillary grabbed Monica’s ears. He ran to them, syringe in hand, and plunged the needle deep into Hillary’s arm. Slowly, her hold on Monica loosened until she slumped forward upon her, motionless.

Monica was still screaming hysterically. She thought for sure Hillary would rip her ears off and worse....

“I warned you!” she panted. “You should never have agreed to let her stay here.”

“Relax, Monica, I was just across the hall.”

“
This
time,” she cried.

Monica was right. Dr. Morrison was usually at the hospital at this time of the day. Had he been there instead of in his office at home, there was no doubt in his mind that Hillary would have killed Monica. It was a wake-up call. They needed to take greater precautions.

“She needs to be handcuffed,” Monica yelled, still shaking, as she stood up slowly, fell into Dr. Morrison’s arms and began sobbing.

Dr. Morrison held her close and stroked her back until she calmed down. Then he bent down, lifted Hillary’s lifeless body up and carried it over to the bed. He placed her down—oddly enough—very gently, despite the violence she had just displayed toward his wife. Her childlike, angelic face was just so deceiving, especially when she slept.

“Handcuff her!” Monica shouted.

“She’s not my prisoner, Monica, she’s a patient.”

“She needs to be handcuffed,” she insisted.

“We don’t even own handcuffs,” he replied.

“You’ve got to tie her down to the bed, then,” Monica said nervously, “now...before she wakes up.”

“Relax, dear, she’ll be out for hours. I’m going to up the dose of the Neuronentin and when she wakes up, she’ll be just fine.”

“
Bullshit
, Patrick.” she yelled. “It’s not working. She wakes up, freaks out, and acts increasingly more violent each time. You keep upping the dose, what good has it done? She’s a
murderer
, Patrick, a psychopath. You’re not dealing with just anyone. Tie her up!”

Dr. Morrison’s pride was too great to admit, even to himself, that his drug was not working.

“
She’ll be fine
!” he yelled back, as he pulled the sheet up to her chin, as if tucking in a child at bedtime.

Monica opened her mouth to protest then shut it. She knew Patrick well enough to know that she couldn’t reason with him. If he wasn’t going to take any precautions, she would. She vowed that she would never again enter the room without some sort of weapon with which to protect herself.

Monica shuddered at the thought of that memory. It was months ago but she still had nightmares about it. It had been the most frightening moment of her life...until now.

“I can’t wait any more,” Hillary remarked, her patience long gone. She walked over to the shopping bag on the floor, stepping on Monica’s left shin as she passed. Monica cried out in pain as she swung her bound legs over to her right. If Hillary had been wearing shoes, she probably would’ve snapped the bone with all the weight she had purposefully put down on her leg.

Hillary was so consumed by her thoughts that she didn’t even smile or make a snide comment as she normally would have. She got down on one knee and reached into the shopping bag. She pulled out a few knives, the tin can with the jagged lid and the salt. She frowned, put two of the knives back and pulled out the tweezers.

Monica looked pale and terrified as she saw Hillary’s collection on the floor beside her. Hillary turned to look at her, her soulless eyes aflame with bloodlust. Monica shook with fear and opened her mouth to scream. Her quivering lips parted but made no sound.

Dr. Morrison, however, shouted and pleaded with Hillary loudly, trying to draw her attention to him instead. He shouted profanities and insults, even hollow threats, but Hillary kept her murderous gaze firmly on Monica.

At last, noise escaped from Monica’s lips, a piteous series of squeals, as she fought to form words. In a high-pitched, tremulous voice, she begged for her life.

“
Pleeeaaaasssse,
” she screeched, choking on her sobs.

“Leave her alone” Dr. Morrison commanded, “or God help me I’ll...” He couldn’t even finish his sentence. He cursed his inability to help Monica, his impotence.

Monica shook her head wildly as Hillary picked up her tools one by one. She stared back at Monica each time she placed one in her hand, making a point to show Monica each and every item she had. She stood up and very slowly approached. She had only been about five feet away, but at the rate she was moving, it seemed to take ages for her to reach Monica. She ignored her desperate cries and Dr. Morrison’s idle threats. She stood above Monica staring down contemptuously. She kneeled down beside her, dropping the tools on the floor within her reach, maintaining her malignant glare. It was as if she couldn’t even hear Monica and Dr. Morrison. She was too focused on the task at hand.

Sorting through her instruments, she picked up the can and tore the lid off. She held on to the lid as she launched the can across the room, toward the open door. Monica’s eyes widened as she saw the sharp, jagged edges. Her heart was pounding, her rapid breaths were painful and her chest felt tight. She lost her voice again and grew silent, her eyes fixed on the lid.

Hillary moved her hand forward slowly. Monica slithered back as much as possible until she bumped into the desk and could not move any further. She lifted her taped-up hands to shield her face. As she had inched back, Hillary had inched forward at the same pace, her hand just inches from Monica’s face. Monica stared at the lid fearfully until it made her cross-eyed and she could no longer see it. But she could feel it. Hillary had the lid pressed up against her neck. Monica could feel its sharp, notched metallic edge. She was afraid to even breathe, certain that the slightest movement would draw blood. She let out a feeble moan. The muffled sound was lost by Dr. Morrison’s hysterical screaming.

Hillary was just about to slice into the side of Monica’s throat, just under her jaw line, when she froze, and listened to the multiple screams. It wasn’t just Dr. Morrison screaming. She turned her head to see Dr. Bentley, awake and terrified, begging for her to drop the lid.

This time Hillary smiled.

~15~

Hillary was up and walking over to Dr. Bentley, who quieted down as she approached. Monica wasn’t quite sure whether she welcomed the distraction. It only delayed the inevitable and her stress and anxiety levels were already dangerously high. Waiting for the pain, the torture...there was no denying it, it was itself torturous. Dread clung to her heart like shrink wrap, making it hard to breathe.

While suffocating in misery, Monica looked over and realized that Hillary was wearing her favorite dress. It hung loosely on the girl’s thin frame. A sudden bitter twinge of anger struck Monica, offering some much needed oxygen.
How dare she wear my dress?
Not that it mattered anymore…it would do her no good now. Besides, white wasn’t a good color to be buried—assuming Hillary would leave enough of her behind for a proper burial.

A long tear slid down the side of Monica’s face and into her ear. The wetness brought her back to the time when she and Patrick were just dating. He had once stuck his tongue in her ear, freaking her out. He always teased her about it. It became one of their little private jokes.

Monica continued to reminisce, recalling all of those happy memories. It was a brief respite from the torturous waiting. It was an escape from her terrifying reality. It was her last vacation.

“About time!” Hillary exclaimed, just inches away from Dr. Bentley. He had been unconscious for so long that she feared she had accidentally killed him and she definitely didn’t want that. She had a lot of tormenting to make up for. It irked her when her victims died before she was done playing with them. She always felt cheated when that happened. She wanted to desecrate their souls just as much—and perhaps even more—than their bodies. The feeling of their lives draining with each touch was euphoric...as long as it was on her terms.

Dr. Bentley was silent as the last lingering effects of the anesthesia wore off and the safe haven of his recent oblivion completely faded. He was left to face the cruel reality of his imminent suffering. He yearned for the comfort and safety of the mind-numbing void to engulf him once more, to deliver him from his grim fate. He wore a blank expression on his face as Hillary eyed him intently, waiting impatiently for some sort of response.

“Earth to Jake...
say something already!
” she shouted inches from his face.

His mouth opened to speak and after a short pause, he said, “I hear you,” his voice low and cracking. He coughed to clear his dry throat.

“Good!” Hillary said, slapping him hard upon his shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re awake now. It’s time for you to learn more about me, just as you wanted.”

Hillary turned and began walking toward Monica. A weak, frightened sound escaped Monica’s mouth and an icy cold shiver ran up her spine. Her happy thoughts were gone; Hillary’s were just starting.

Hillary reached down and grabbed the lid that she had dropped on her way to Dr. Bentley.

“Where were we?” she asked mockingly, as she knelt beside Monica.

She grew excited seeing the fear behind Monica’s widened, tearful eyes. Dr. Morrison and Dr. Bentley both resumed their ranting and protests. Hillary could barely make out what they were saying. She only heard fragments...“please” and “talk about this,” something about mercy, something about “not too late.” She turned to face them.

“Now, boys,” she scolded, with a smirk on her face, “you’ll have to stop that fussing...I’m two inches away from Monica and can barely hear her whimpering...and I wanna hear all the sounds she’s gonna make.”

Dr. Morrison quieted down a bit, fearful to incite her rage, while Dr. Bentley persisted, trying desperately to use his psychiatric skills to deter her from harming Monica. Even while he was trying to reason with her, he knew it was pointless.

“We should talk about this first,” he said softly, nervously.