Hillary_Tail of the Dog (5 page)

“If you don’t stop moving, this will hurt more than it has to,” he warned.

“
Please, please don’t do this, please let me go
,” she begged softly, but continued to move about as frantically as her restraints permitted.

Dr. Morrison tried as best as he could to hold Hillary’s arm still as he roughly inserted the catheter. His first attempt missed the vein. Hillary yelled in pain.

“I told you to stay still,” he admonished.

Hillary nonetheless continued to fuss. Dr. Morrison squeezed her arm down firmly as he jabbed the catheter into the vein. Hillary screamed in pain, anger and frustration and cursed at him.

“Well I warned you,” he said, with little sympathy. “All you had to do was eat. And if you think that’s bad, you’ll really hate this.”

Dr. Morrison held up a beige-colored latex tube, approximately six inches long, for Hillary to see.

She eyed it cautiously. She had never seen anything like it and had no idea what it was or what it would be used for.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked mockingly.

Hillary said nothing, but the fear on her face spoke volumes.

“It’s called a urinary catheter—it’s almost like the catheter that I placed in your arm, except this one I’ll put in—”

“
NO!
” Hillary interrupted in a breathless, desperate scream. Once she heard the word ‘urinary,’ she had a good idea where the doctor intended to insert the tube.

“Oh my God,” she protested, “you can’t do this to me.
You can’t do this to me
,” she sobbed.

“I didn’t want to have to resort to this,” Dr. Morrison said, “but you’ve left me no choice.”

“I’ll eat!” she exclaimed. “I’ll eat and drink whatever you give me.”

Long, warm, salty tears journeyed down across her face, some clinging to the contours of her face, moistening her neck, others dripping down to her bare chest.

“The man wiped tears from the right side of her face as he looked into her frightened hazel eyes, full of desperation and terror, begging him not to insert the catheter.

She’s so beautiful
, he thought,
so young
.

“I’m sorry,” he said, as he brought the catheter down toward her quivering legs.

“
Pleeeeaassssseee,
” she begged, her voice cracking. She shivered in fear and couldn’t stop herself from shaking. She screamed as she tried to bring her knees together, but once again, the ropes held her ankles firmly in place. Her legs were wide apart, and though she could turn her knees inward and move her thighs a little, such limited movement did nothing to help her keep the doctor from accessing her. She lifted her pelvis and shifted her hips wildly, left and right, then down on the bed again, left, right, up again, erratically moving, hoping it would be too difficult for the doctor to attempt insertion. He stood there watching her, with a smug look on his face.

“Are you done dancing?” he asked, rhetorically. “I’ve heard it can be excruciatingly painful to have a urinary catheter inserted, so I strongly suggest you stay as still as possible.”

Hillary continued screaming and moving, still hoping and praying that he would find it too difficult to attempt insertion. Dr. Morrison hunched down and brought the catheter down between her legs. She felt his hand brush against her inner thigh and cringed with fear and repulsion. It was apparent that her movement and cries of protest would not be enough to deter the doctor’s effort.

Monica entered the room and tried to speak over Hillary’s loud commotion, but Hillary could not make out what she said. She turned and faced Monica with swollen, terrified eyes that begged for compassion. Dr. Morrison straightened up and turned to Monica.

“What?” he said, looking increasingly annoyed.

Hillary whimpered loudly but ceased screaming once the doctor was no longer within close proximity to her crotch.

“What the hell are you doing to her now?” she asked curtly.

“As you can see I just hooked her up to the IV, and I was going to insert a urinary catheter before you interrupted me,” he replied hastily.

“Is that really necessary?” Monica asked.

Hillary shivered with fear as she listened to her captors talk. She hoped that Monica would convince Dr. Morrison not to insert the catheter. She could not discern whether the look on Monica’s face was pity for her or repugnance toward the doctor.

“Unless you want to continue changing diapers,” he replied snidely.

“Where are you putting it?” Monica asked naively, though she already knew.

“It goes into her urethra,” he responded. “In fact, why don’t you help me hold her down, she’s moving way too much.”

To her dissatisfaction, Monica stepped toward her and bent down to get a firm grip on her legs using both of her hands. Even with the pressure Monica applied to her reddening thighs, Hillary was still able to lift her pelvis and sway her hips, albeit not as wildly. Continuing her grasp on Hillary’s thighs, Monica leaned forward to put her weight down upon Hillary’s abdomen. Hillary could barely move under the weight. She tried to head-butt Monica’s back, but she only exhausted herself. She panted and cried out faintly knowing there was no way to stop them.

“Perfect,” Dr. Morrison exclaimed, as he lunged forward and placed his left thumb and index finger on Hillary’s labia. She sobbed quietly and remained still as she resigned herself to her fate. The doctor’s fingers were warm, but rough. He placed his index finger in the center, just over the split, and parted them slowly. Monica eyed him suspiciously. She looked down at his fingers fondling this teen-aged girl and became enraged. From where she was standing, it looked as though he had inserted his index into her vagina. Her face turned bright red and it took every bit of willpower for her to hold her tongue. Instinctively, she turned her head to look between the doctor’s own legs, expecting to see him aroused, but his crotch was hidden up against the bed.

With his right hand, Dr. Morrison brought the catheter up to Hillary’s vagina, parted her labia as wide as he could—and not gently—and swiftly inserted the catheter into Hillary’s urethra. Hillary screamed out in pain as she pushed down on her pelvis, struggling to alleviate the pain. Dr. Morrison was right. It was excruciating, far worse than she had imagined. She shut her eyes tightly, whimpered, and waited for it to be over.

When he was finished, he stood up and Monica released Hillary’s thighs. She realized that she had applied undue force out of anger toward Dr. Morrison and felt a tinge of guilt. Yet, her remorse was quickly overshadowed by her rage. She stood up to face Dr. Morrison.

“Did you enjoy that?” she asked sarcastically.

“What are you talking about?” he asked as he removed a drainage pouch from his medical bag and began attaching it to the catheter.

“You really needed to fondle her?” she hissed through clenched teeth.

“What? I am a
doctor
, Monica, and this was a necessary procedure.”

“Doctors wear gloves,” she challenged, “what, you didn’t want them to interfere with skin-to-skin contact?”

Monica’s eyes were narrow and hostile. Her cheeks were bright red and she was so angry she was literally shaking.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Dr. Morrison retorted. “I don’t have time for your nonsense and this certainly isn’t the place for it.”

Without saying more, Monica stormed out of the room.

The pain was beginning to subside, to Hillary’s relief. Dr. Morrison was done with the urinary catheter and had moved on to connecting the catheter on Hillary’s forearm to a tube that hung from the IV pole. He retrieved a couple clear pouches from his bag and attached them to the other end of the tube. He hung the pouches from a hook at the top of the IV pole.

Hillary watched in a daze as he worked. There was no use protesting now. Whatever drug he planned to administer had just started making its way into her system. She could do nothing but accept all the torture that this man had in store for her.

~4~

Dr. Morrison ran into the room where Hillary lay, still bound to the bed, still attached to the intravenous line and urinary catheter. Hillary was screaming hysterically, on the verge of hyperventilating.

Dr. Morrison flicked on the light and stared at Hillary. She was covered by a light sheet which was damp from sweat. Her eyes were closed and she was thrashing about as much as the constraints allowed. She was having another nightmare. Dr. Morrison approached her and put his hand on her shoulder. He shook her gently.

“Hillary?” he called out. “Wake up, Hillary, you’re having a bad dream. It’s just a bad dream.”

Slowly, Hillary’s eyes opened as she panted and gasped for air. She began to focus and catch her breath. Her hair was greasy and matted to the sides of her face with sweat. She stared at Dr. Morrison standing before her. He was wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a white tee shirt. He looked tired.

This wasn’t the first time she awoke to find Dr. Morrison standing in front of her clad in his pajamas. All week she had been experiencing bad dreams, or “night terrors,” as Dr. Morrison referred to them. And each time it happened, Dr. Morrison insisted that she tell him every detail of the dream. Though the details always differed, one thing was always the same: In her dreams, Hillary was always tortured, frightened and killed violently and mercilessly.

Dr. Morrison already had his notebook and pen in hand. He pulled up a nearby chair and sat next to Hillary’s bed.

“Tell me about it,” he said, stifling a yawn. He grimaced at the mess on the floor not far from his feet where the drainage pouch had overflowed. The stench of urine was almost too overwhelming, but cleaning it up would have to wait. He wanted to make sure to record every detail of Hillary’s dream while it was still fresh on her mind.

“This time I was in a house—a friend’s house, I thought. I was happy to be there at first. There was no danger, no fear. I don’t remember what happened but I ended up locked in a closet. I banged on the door and begged for someone to help me, but they left me there for a long, long time. I didn’t have any food or water. Days went by, so many days passed and I was so hungry and so weak. No one fed me, no one talked to me. I was alone in the dark, just lying on the floor in an empty closet. Then one day I felt something wet. I knew I didn’t pee myself because I didn’t have anything left in me to pee out. I realized that someone had spilled something under the door and I was getting soaked in it. I smelled the fumes fill the small space—it was gasoline. I panicked and screamed out for help, but before I knew it, I was in flames. I could feel intense pain as I burned. I tried to roll on the floor to douse the flames, but it didn’t help since the floor was soaked with the gas. Then I felt nothing at all. I could see my body in flames, the flesh burning into ash. Someone opened the door. I caught a glimpse of a scary looking girl before I died. I think it was my friend....”

“Anything else? Any other details?”

“That’s the gist of it. I just remember the pain, like it was really happening to me.”

“Well you know you’re fine, you’re safe here.”

“But it’s no wonder I keep having nightmares. I’ve been tied up to this bed for so many days I’ve lost track,” Hillary said with a quivering voice. Her eyes grew misty.

“It’s necessary,” Dr. Morrison said and he stood up.

“
Bullshit
!” Hillary screamed. “This is torture. I shouldn’t be here. You’re not a real doctor. Why are you doing this to me?”

“I’ll be right back,” he said nonchalantly, as Hillary began to cry.

Hillary wondered what time it was, what day it was, for that matter. She knew it was summertime by the heat and the way Dr. Morrison and Monica dressed. Since she was hooked up to the IV and urinary catheter, she had been left on the bed, usually unattended with nothing to do but stare into space and wonder how this happened to her. She still could not remember anything about herself or her family, her childhood, her friends...everything remained a mystery. Monica came in from time to time to give her sponge baths and apply lip balm to her dry, cracked lips.

A couple days back, Dr. Morrison untied her left leg and told her to move it around. It felt like rubber. He bent her knee and brought her leg up to her chest, then extended it again. He did this several times. It hurt. Hillary tried to pull her leg away, but Dr. Morrison warned her that if she did, he wouldn’t help her any further. He said that exercising her legs that way prevented her muscles from weakening. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to walk anymore. It was encouraging for Hillary to hear—that perhaps one day she would actually be untied and allowed to walk again. Dr. Morrison tied her leg back up after he was done, did the same thing to her right leg, then her arms, one by one.

Every day, Hillary begged and pleaded to be released. Every day, Hillary begged to have the urinary catheter and IV removed. Every day, Hillary asked dozens of questions about who she was and why she was there. Every day, Hillary was denied even her simplest requests, never received any answers, was left alone—bored and miserable—most of the day, and never consoled. Every day, Hillary grew more impatient, more infuriated, more hateful. Every day, Hillary waited for a mistake to be made that would result in her freedom. It was clear that no one was searching for her. No one would rescue her. She would wait and wait and one day, she would escape. It was only a matter of time and time was all she had left.

Dr. Morrison returned with a mop and a small bucket. Wearing yellow latex gloves, he removed the drainage pouch and left the room with it. When he was done emptying it and cleaning it off, he re-attached it and mopped up the floor.

“What time is it anyway?” Hillary asked.

“Almost four thirty,” he replied. “You should go back to sleep.”

“All I do is sleep. It’s not like I can go for a walk,” Hillary said sarcastically. “Why can’t you at least let me watch television?”