Hillary_Tail of the Dog (26 page)

When he seemed too much at ease, Hillary pressed down on the screwdriver, scraping the side of his neck as she worked her way down to his exposed lower torso. The pointed, star-shaped, sharp metal tip dug into his flesh, lightly at first, then deeply, puncturing the surface of his skin. Dr. Morrison cried out in pain as his sweat stung the newly formed stream of blood that ran along his body.

Hillary picked up the remains of Monica’s face that had been covering Dr. Morrison’s crotch. She looked down at his sweaty, shriveled member and scowled as she thought about how that nasty
thing
had been inside of her just hours ago. She was going to make him suffer for everything he had done to her.

“Do you remember how you put that awful catheter in me?” she asked scornfully.

Dr. Morrison did not reply. His mouth opened and his eye widened with the dreadful realization of what Hillary was about to do. He was shaking with fear. The sense of helplessness, dread and absolute terror he felt threatened to drive him insane.

“I couldn’t find any catheters,” Hillary continued, “so I’ll have to use something else....”

She held up the bloodied screwdriver to show him exactly what she intended to use in lieu of a catheter. Her feral eyes were lasers burning into his horrified brain. He turned his head away, sobbing frantically, unable to look any further. He closed his eye and braced himself for the agonizing pain.

Hillary grabbed Dr. Morrison’s flaccid penis in her left hand and yanked it upward, squeezing the shaft tightly so that the swollen, purplish head bulged above her tightened fingers. Dr. Morrison whimpered noisily, tears escaping his shut eye. Hillary brought the screwdriver over with her right hand and gently allowed the tip to caress the head of Dr. Morrison’s penis. The sharp tip, however gently Hillary had guided it along, caused significant pain and anxiety, albeit more mental than physical. Dr. Morrison took short, quick breaths, his anxiety level rising to an unprecedented high as he awaited the inevitable pain. He didn’t have to wait much longer.

With a tight grip on the handle, Hillary jabbed the screwdriver deep into the opening of Dr. Morrison’s penis, rupturing his urethra to the point of near disintegration. Dr. Morrison’s body tensed up and convulsed as he wailed so loudly, he would have impressed a banshee. A bright white light flashed before him, blinding him for the longest seconds of his life as he experienced a heightened sense of immeasurable pain.

Hillary had inflicted an enormous amount of pain and suffering during the past year of her life. She had witnessed the loss of each and every body function, heard every single plead for mercy, every octave of human misery from quiet whimpering to the shrill shriek of intolerable pain. Or so she had thought. Dr. Morrison’s prolonged, agonizing scream proved her wrong. It was the first time she had been pleased to be wrong. Nearly four inches of the screwdriver’s thick, metal shaft was lodged within Dr. Morrison’s painfully throbbing penis. Hillary slowly turned the handle clockwise. She laughed maniacally as Dr. Morrison’s screams intensified, the sounds of his suffering was like music to her ears.

With each turn of the screwdriver, the searing pain radiated up into the pit of his stomach before sending an explosive burst of agony throughout his ravaged urethra. It was an excruciating, unrelenting pain like no other he had ever felt. Just when he thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse, Hillary quickly pulled the screwdriver out of him. Blood oozed out from his pulsating, damaged member. A sick, queasy feeling combined with the pain to bring Dr. Morrison to the verge of unconsciousness. His eye rolled up behind his sagging eyelid.

Hillary walked over to him, screwdriver in hand, and slapped him across the face, hoping to revive him. His eye fluttered and he moaned loudly as drool ran down the side of his mouth onto the bed. Even in this semi-conscious state, Dr. Morrison could feel his penis throbbing and aching. Hillary slapped him once again and he wailed loudly as he regained full consciousness, along with full cognizance of the excruciating agony he was in.

Hillary walked away from him, glancing over at Dr. Bentley on her way back to the shopping bag. Dr. Bentley’s head was lowered and his eyes were closed as if he couldn’t bear to see his colleague suffering. Hillary had thought about slapping him too, but didn’t think it was necessary. There was no way he could tune out Dr. Morrison’s gut-wrenching screams. She had no doubt in her mind that he was experiencing some pain of his own.

Dr. Bentley, had, in fact, tuned everything out. He was in a deep state of meditation. Once he had seen the screwdriver in Hillary’s hand, he knew at once what she intended to do. He quickly went to work distancing himself from reality using a technique he had learned in India and taught to many of his patients. While he could still hear the shrill, agonizing cries, they were distant and transformed instead into the various sounds of the jungle: the loud hooting of a howler monkey; the high-pitched screeching of a macaw; the incessant wailing of hyenas. Lost and protected within his jungle, Dr. Bentley shielded himself from Dr. Morrison’s torture.

Hillary placed the bloody screwdriver back into the shopping bag and pulled out the wire hanger. She untwisted the thick wire at the neck of the hanger, just under the hook, allowing it to come apart. She straightened it out, working quickly, as Dr. Morrison’s cries were quieting down to a steady sequence of moaning and whimpering. She didn’t want his pain to subside, even a little; she wanted him in a state of prolonged anguish up until the very second of his death.

With the straightened-out hanger within her grasp, Hillary hurried back to Dr. Morrison. She grabbed his swollen, bloodied penis in one hand and shoved the thick wire deep into his opening with the other. Dr. Morrison’s guttural scream was even louder than his earlier one. It brought an instant smile to Hillary’s face.

The intensity of Dr. Morrison’s deafening shriek abruptly ended Dr. Bentley’s jungle reprieve and he lifted his head impulsively to see what was happening. He deeply regretted doing so. Hillary had a long thick wire shoved into the opening of Dr. Morrison’s blood-streaked penis. She was pushing it further and further into him as he writhed in pain. His ear-piercing cries were too loud and distressed to ignore. Too loud, even, for Dr. Bentley to hear Hillary’s deranged laughter, though he could see that she was laughing hysterically. He turned his face away, closed his eyes and willed himself back to the jungle.

Hillary thrust the hanger deep into Dr. Morrison, moving it up and down, pounding it in rhythmically just as he had pounded into her. When Dr. Morrison let out a loud, raspy gasp, she knew she had shoved it a little too far. She had punctured something. Dr. Morrison was in such pain, he could hardly utter a sound now. He struggled to catch his breath as he shook uncontrollably.

Hillary removed the hanger from his urethra, not out of pity, but for fear that she would kill him too quickly. It had been lodged almost ten inches within him and came out wet with blood and a whitish substance that Hillary suspected might be semen. When it was completely out of him, a mixture of blood and the white snot-like ooze gushed out of him. Dr. Morrison began to convulse violently. Even tied to the bed, his body shook wildly. He was having a seizure.

“Shit!” Hillary shouted. “What do I do, Jake? Jake? Dr. Bentley!”

Hillary walked over to Dr. Bentley and grabbed his face in her hand. His eyes opened slowly.

“What do I do?” she yelled.

He looked over at Dr. Morrison, assessing the situation.

“There’s nothing you can do,” he answered despondently.

“Is he going to die?”

“Isn’t that your objective?” Dr. Bentley asked sarcastically. He was grateful that at least Dr. Morrison’s screams had finally ceased.

“No I don’t want him to die...yet,” she replied agitatedly.

The truth of the matter was that Dr. Bentley didn’t want him to die either. That would only mean that it would be his turn to be tortured. As much as he wanted this nightmare to end, he wasn’t anxious for his own pain and suffering to begin. God only knew what Hillary had in mind for him.

“So...?” Hillary asked, waiting for him to tell her what to do to keep Dr. Morrison alive. Dr. Morrison stopped convulsing before Dr. Bentley could respond. He lay motionless for a while and Hillary was sure that he was dead. Then he began moaning, softly at first, then louder.

“
Pleeeaassseee,
” he begged, “
pleeease kill me.
”

Hillary smiled. She was back in business.

“
Aww,
is the great doctor in pain? Do you have a boo-boo?” she mocked.

“
Pleeeaaaseeee....
” he sobbed over and over, pitifully.

Hillary tuned him out. She was too busy thinking about what she should do to him next. Her eyes widened as a plan came to mind. She walked over to her blood-splattered shopping bag and grinned. She placed the soiled screwdriver in the bag and pulled out the grater, light bulbs and corkscrew. She carried her tools over to the bed, depositing the light bulbs and corkscrew at Dr. Morrison’s foot for future use.

Dr. Morrison was still moaning, crying and begging for mercy. Hillary gathered her saliva to the front of her mouth and spat it emphatically in his face. The frothy, thick sputum clung between his remaining eye and the bridge of his nose before slowly dripping down his cheek. When was she ever shown mercy? Compassion? Why should he be entitled to something she had been constantly deprived of?
Mercy...ha!
Death would bring him mercy, and as long as she could help it, it wouldn’t come any time soon.

“Open your eye,” she demanded, staring at him with contempt. Dr. Morrison did as he was told. He knew better than to defy the rabid girl. He gazed into her soulless eyes. They were completely devoid of any trace of humanity as they blazed with murderous rage.

“Do you see what I have here?” she asked angrily, holding up the grater for him to see.

He nodded once, slowly.

“Do you know what I’m going to do with this?” she said, her stern voice barely over a whisper.

Dr. Morrison made an arduous effort to shake his head as he imagined the parts of him that would soon be shredded by the menacing grater in Hillary’s hand. He wondered if the new pain would drown out his existing pain or compound it instead. He feared the latter.

His fear was confirmed when Hillary brought the grater down to his groin and rubbed it briskly along his tender scrotum. Dr. Morrison threw back his head and wailed in excruciating agony as Hillary pulverized his testicles, ripping the delicate sack partially off in the process. Blood gushed out of the gaping wound. The pain was worse than anything Dr. Morrison had experienced thus far. His eye began to roll up again. This time he lost consciousness.

“What the hell?” Hillary screamed. “Can’t this creep stay awake for five minutes?”

Dr. Bentley was sick to his stomach, having witnessed the worst thing he’d ever seen in his life. Without even realizing, he had clenched his knees further together, as if trying to shield his own genitals.

“He’s going to bleed to death,” Dr. Bentley said monotonously, his head slumped forward. His eyes looked puffy and tired.

“So what do I do?” Hillary barked.

“Let him die.”

Hillary’s already hostile-looking face grew even scarier as she raced over to Dr. Bentley.

“
NO!
” she shouted loudly, “I want him
alive
. I’m not done yet. Unless you’d like me to do the things I want to do to him on you instead.”

Dr. Bentley definitely didn’t want that. The bloody four-sided box grater was still in her hand. Bloody bits of Dr. Morrison’s testicular tissue stuck to the sharp, notched protrusions on the side panel that was meant for fine grating. It was an unholy, nauseating sight.

“You can only stop the bleeding by applying pressure or....”

“Or what?”

“Cauterization.”

“Cauter—oh, you mean burn it? Yes, yes I can do that,” Hillary said with a wide impish smile. She was more than willing to burn the doctor’s manhood, or what little remained of it.

“I was only saying—”

“Thanks, Jake, you’ve been a big help,” she interrupted, as she scampered toward the door.

Dr. Bentley bowed his head, regretful that he had even suggested such a thing. He felt torn between helping his friend and delaying his own grim fate. He knew that Dr. Morrison would much prefer bleeding to death rather than enduring the horrors that awaited him. Yet, he also knew that if Dr. Morrison did die, he would feel the brunt of Hillary’s anger, and it would be much worse for him than anything she already had in mind for him.

He hated to admit it to himself, but deep down, Dr. Bentley prayed that Hillary’s bloodlust would be satisfied between Monica and Patrick and that she would have no use for him. He knew it was highly unlikely, but it was his last remaining hope. He closed his eyes, hoping to find comfort by thinking about Patricia and Amber Skye. It only made him distraught. Tears welled up in his eyes then streaked down his face.

What if I never see them again?
The mere thought of never seeing his wife and sweet little daughter again frightened him even more than the thought of being tortured, even more than being killed. He had to fight, not just for himself, but for his family...for Amber Skye especially. He summoned the psychiatrist in him, determined to find a way to outsmart Hillary. He might be physically incapacitated, but as long as he had his mind, he could still put up a fight. He would find a way; he just had to.
For Amber...for Amber....