Hillary_Tail of the Dog (6 page)

“We’ve talked about this before…we can’t bring anything into the room.”

“But
why
? You never give me any straight answers, it’s always, ‘it’s for your protection, to keep you safe, that’s how it has to be, trust me, blah, blah, blah....’”

“I need to get back to bed,” Dr. Morrison said, and with the mop and bucket in hand, he made his exit, flicking off the light switch as he left.

“
SCREW YOU!
” Hillary shouted. “You think you could just leave me here to rot?
GO TO HEEEEELLLLLLLLLLL!
” Hillary continued screaming and wailing profanities at the top of her lungs until the door opened nearly fifteen minutes later. Monica entered the room. Hillary was shocked to see her. She had never seen her so early in the morning. She assumed she didn’t start work until later on in the day. She had been trying to stay on Monica’s good side, figuring that she could somehow aid in her escape, voluntarily or otherwise.

“What are you doing here?” she asked Monica.

“I live here,” she said, as if it were a well-known fact.

“You do?” Hillary asked, puzzled.

“Yes, of course, why are you screaming like that?”

“So you’re Dr. Morrison’s roommate?” she asked, ignoring Monica’s question.

“No, I’m his
wife
,” Monica replied, visibly annoyed.

Hillary’s jaw dropped. Now it all made sense—Monica’s animosity toward her. She recalled the day she heard the two of them arguing—the day Dr. Morrison inserted the urinary catheter. Having experienced such pain and trauma, Hillary didn’t think anything of it at the time—Dr. Morrison and Monica always bickered. But now that she thought about it, she remembered Monica complaining that Dr. Morrison didn’t wear gloves. She made that comment about skin-to-skin contact. Monica was
jealous
of her. Hillary smiled for the first time in—well, for as long as she could remember. Monica had just given her a gift: The key to speeding up her escape.

“You need to stop screaming like that—it’s not even five in the morning,” Monica reprimanded.

“I’m sorry I woke you...I didn’t know you lived here,” Hillary said softly, only partially lying.

“Please go back to bed, I’m wrecked.”

“It’s just that I keep having these awful nightmares.”

“That’s to be expected,” Monica said, and she turned to go.

“Why?” Hillary asked. “Because of the drugs?”

“You’re not on the drug any longer, go back to sleep now.”

“Any longer? Then I
was
on some drug…I knew it! Which drug?”

Monica didn’t answer. She walked slowly toward the door.

“He touches me, you know,” Hillary said in a childlike, innocent voice.

That caught Monica’s attention. She stopped in her tracks and walked back to Hillary.

“Why would you say that?” she asked angrily.

“Because it’s true...when you’re not around.”

“He’s a doctor, sometimes he needs to touch you,” Monica said defensively.

“Not the way he touches me,” Hillary said coyly.

“And how’s that?”

“He...he...well, at first it seemed accidental, like his hand would just happen to brush up against me, but now I know he’s doing it on purpose.”

“Doing what on purpose?”

“Touching me inappropriately.”

“And how does he touch you inappropriately?” Monica asked tautly.

Hillary could see that she had truly upset her. Either she was mad at her because she thought she was lying or she was mad at her husband for being a pedophile.

“He grabs my boobs, fondles my…fondles me,” Hillary whispered, as if afraid to divulge a deep, dark secret.

“
What?
” Monica yelled. “I don’t believe you,” she quickly added.

But Hillary could see the doubt behind her eyes.

“He pulls up the sheet and stares at me. And that time when he put the urine catheter in wasn’t the only time he slipped his finger in me....”

Monica looked distressed. Hillary was sure she could see the imagery forming in her mind. She needed to keep telling her more about Dr. Morrison. This was her golden opportunity. She had Monica’s attention. Now she needed to gain her sympathy.

Tears welled up in Hillary’s eye as Monica stared at her, speechlessly.

“
Please don’t let him touch me anymore,
” she begged. “I don’t want to be here. I want to go home....” She sounded like a wounded seven-year-old.

“Hillary,” Monica said dryly, “are you sure that Pat—uh, Dr. Morrison touches you in a sexual way?”

Hillary nodded and sniffled.

Monica didn’t know what to say. She thought she had seen it with her own eyes when Dr. Morrison inserted the urinary catheter, but he was adamant that he did no such thing. That would be foolish, wouldn’t it…to do something like that right in front of his own wife?

Monica was filled with anxiety, disgust, doubt and anger. She just wanted this girl out of her house. She just wanted her life to return to the way it used to be before her husband’s brilliant idea to use Hillary as his own personal science experiment. She had always thought it was unethical. Now, if she were to believe what Hillary was telling her...she couldn’t just stand by and let a child be sexually abused, even if that child was Hillary Greyson.

Monica was overcome with waves of nausea. She had to get out of that room. She couldn’t listen to Hillary any more. She needed some time to process the disturbing allegations.

“I have to go,” she said and abruptly left the room, as Hillary sobbed quietly.

Hillary wouldn’t be the only one who couldn’t go back to sleep. As she lay there in bed, alone in the dark, she searched her mind for a memory—any memory—a shred of information about herself other than waking up in Dr. Morrison’s home one day, about a week or so ago—as far as she knew. But her mind was a void, darker and lonelier even than the empty white room.

Hillary sighed as she invented her own memories. She made up beautiful, loving attentive parents who took her to the park and bought her ice cream and told her stories before bed when she was younger. She made up friends that she hung out with at the mall and the beach. She imagined a boyfriend who doted on her, wrote her poems and bought her romantic gifts. She invented all sorts of people who loved and cared about her. And as Hillary thought about her perfect memories, sleep came to take her on another adventure. It wasn’t long before her sweet imaginary memories were lost within the depths of her desolate mind and she was engulfed by her most terrifying nightmare yet.

~5~

Hillary was on the verge of dozing off when Dr. Morrison entered the room. A taller, younger-looking man followed him into the room.

Hillary turned to watch them approach. She had dark circles underneath her eyes from the long stretch of restless nights she had experienced. Her sleep was plagued with nightmares, some worse than others, but all unpleasant. She resisted sleeping whenever possible, which was increasingly difficult given her tedious life, strapped to a bed in an empty, lonesome room.

“Hillary, this is my colleague, Dr. Bentley. I asked him to talk to you about the nightmare you had a few nights ago—the one you’ve been avoiding. Will you please tell him about it? You can’t keep things like that bottled up. I’ll be back in a while.”

Dr. Morrison left the room without saying anything further. Hillary was surprised to see a new face. Up until now, it had only been Dr. Morrison and Monica who visited her.

“Hi Hillary,” Dr. Bentley said with a warm smile. He pulled the chair up to the bed and sat beside her.

“Would you like me to prop the bed so that you’re sitting upright?”

Hillary nodded slowly. A light blue sheet was draped over her and pulled all the way up to her to neck, covering most of her arms. Dr. Bentley could see that her wrists were bound to the sides of the bed. He then looked at her feet, also bound on each side. He noticed the collection pouch for her urine was hanging over the side of her bed. He could smell it.

“Help me,” she whispered in desperation as he adjusted the top portion of the bed to a forty-five degree angle.

“That’s why I’m here,” he answered, again with a seemingly sincere, friendly smile. He had dark hair, deep blue eyes and a strong, angular jaw line defining his clean-shaven face. He wasn’t old like Dr. Morrison, or even Monica. Hillary thought he was very handsome, in fact. He was wearing light-colored khaki shorts and a navy blue polo shirt. Hillary could smell his cologne, which he seemed to have bathed in. The smell was nearly intoxicating.

He seemed friendly enough, despite his association with her captors.

Just how many people know that I’m here
, Hillary wondered.

After a long moment of silence, Dr. Bentley opened his right hand to reveal a small device. He pressed a button on the device then held it a couple feet from Hillary’s face.

“So, tell me, how—”

“What’s that?” Hillary interrupted, looking suspiciously at the device.

“It’s the same recorder I always use.”

“You’ve been here before? You’ve spoken to me before?” Hillary’s eyes widened. She was clearly surprised to learn that he had met with her before.

You don’t remember me at all, do you?” Dr. Bentley asked softly.

Hillary looked closely at Dr. Bentley as she wrinkled her forehead.

“I know you? You’ve been here to see me before?” she asked, bewildered.

“Yes. I first met you months back when—”

“What?
Months
? How long have I been here?”

Hillary looked terrified to discover how long she had been under Dr. Morrison’s “care.”

“You’ve been here a while now,” he answered.

“Why? Why am I here Dr. Ben?”

“Bentley. We want to help you, Hillary”

Hillary became visibly agitated. She huffed and rolled her eyes.

“That’s all I hear. If you won’t be honest with me, don’t expect me to talk to you either.”

“Dr. Morrison saved your life. You suffered a bad head injury.”

Hillary’s eyes widened with concern. That would explain her memory loss.

“How?”

“Someone hit you over the head with a large rock.”

Hillary furrowed her eyebrows.
Who would hit me
? she wondered.

“Who? Why?”

“Dr. Morrison spent hours operating on you,” Dr. Bentley replied, ignoring her questions. “He’s been helping you get better. You need to trust him.”

“Then why am I tied up? Why aren’t I in a hospital? Why don’t my parents visit me?”

“You were in the hospital for a while. Now you’re here until you can get your memory back.”

“But why
am I all tied up?
” Hillary said slowly, through gritted teeth. She had grown impatient and was tired of constantly getting the run-around.

“You tried to hurt yourself,” Dr. Bentley replied tersely.

“Why would I do that?”

“That’s why I’m here...I’m a psychiatrist.”

“Am I...
crazy
?” Hillary asked hesitantly, not entirely sure that she wanted the answer.

“You’re just confused,” he assured her, smiling warmly. “That’s why it’s so important for you to talk to us, to let us know how you’re feeling, what you’re thinking, if you start remembering anything.”

“Why am I here instead of in a hospital?”

“You’re not physically sick, really,” he replied, “there’s no need to take up the resources.”

“Why doesn’t anyone visit me then?”

“We’ve decided that it’s best for you not to be overwhelmed by visitors. Sure, they would be people who know and love you, but to you it would just be a bunch of strangers. You should remember things on your own time, not be flooded with other people’s emotions and memories. It could trigger reality distortion and cause you to create your memories instead of actually remembering them.”

Hillary took a moment to process what Dr. Bentley had told her. He seemed genuine, sincere, as if he truly wanted to help her. His replies and explanations seemed rational enough. She wanted to believe him.

“Why didn’t Dr. Morrison tell me any of this before?”

“I’m sure he has at one point and you just can’t recall. Besides, Dr. Morrison is a neurologist—he’s not interested in talking like I am.”

Dr. Bentley seemed so forthcoming and honest. Hillary was greatly tempted to trust him. Yet, she could not bring herself to do so. She was filled with too much doubt and suspicion. Her instincts warned her that this man, with the soft-spoken voice and radiant smile, was completely lying. It was all part of Dr. Morrison’s plan to get her to talk about the dream—the one she could not talk about...the one she was afraid to even think about. He was probably not even a psychiatrist at all.

“Can you untie me?” she asked shyly.

“No, you know I can’t do that. But Hillary, I need you to tell me if you’ve been remembering anything.”

Hillary thought for a moment.
Should I lie and make up memories
, she wondered.
Would they let me go then, think that I’m cured? Or would they know that I’m lying
? She wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Sometimes I get these strong feelings,” she said, “like I’m about to remember something but it’s not clear. I think about the woods a lot, but I don’t know if it’s a memory or because I’ve had so many nightmares about—”

“About what? Tell me, Hillary…you’ll feel better after you talk about it.”

“I’ve already told them all to Dr. Morrison.”

“Except the one you had a few nights back, what happened Hillary?”

Hillary shook her head. She couldn’t even think of that one, much less discuss it.

“Why can’t I have a TV in here,” she asked, abruptly changing the topic.

“Hillary, you want your memory back, don’t you? Just tell me about it.”

Hillary shook her head.

“You’re safe here. No one’s going to hurt you,” Dr. Bentley promised.

Hillary felt hot with anger that manifested itself in streams of warm, salty tears. Dr. Bentley stood up and put his arm around her. She retreated from his touch as much as possible and turned her head away from him. He withdrew his arm and sat back down upon the chair as Hillary whimpered. She turned and faced him with heavy, puffy eyes and a dampened face.