Eye For Her: A gripping must-read thriller

by A B Alexander

  “Doctor, I need to know what happened. How were Robert and Jonah murdered? I remember nothing. Help me remember!”

  “Some details are better left with the devil. Your mind is protecting you by blocking those memories. You’re not a monster, Abigail. You’re just sick.”

  His answer was cold and degrading.

  “Lies! I don’t believe it! You’re hiding something from me. Tell me the truth, damn it!”

  He didn’t leave her a choice. She had nothing left to lose, or at least so she thought. Playing hardball was worth a try.

  “I’m being held in captivity like a terrorist, not like a mental health patient. This is utter mistreatment. You’ll lose your doctor’s license for this. It’s torture.”

  The moment she let the cat out of the bag, she regretted it.

  “You’re delusional, Abigail. Sadly, it seems like you’re regressing again. We’ll keep on doing this cycle until we see some improvement. I’ll give you something a little stronger.”

  Before she could protest, the needle entered her arm like a dart pinned to the dartboard. Her eyes rolled in their sockets like bottle corks on the river. Her thoughts muddled once more.

  “You should seek forgiveness for your crimes and begin a path of repent. Focus your mind on that, and you shall find it.”

  Those were the last words she heard for the time being. Her final clear thought was that she did indeed have something to lose: clarity of thought.

  When she regained consciousness, everything changed. Her mind flipped from buzzer to buzzer, as if the alarm clock started and never switched off. There were no TICKS, no TOCKS, no recollection of mealtimes or conversations with Fiona. Eventually, the nothingness gave way to the TICKS. The senses of smell and sound returned, hurting her numb, sedated mind like repeated hammer blows. She was like a baby, unable to decipher their meaning and ruled by instinct. She would scream out in fear, giggle, and cry—depending on how her instincts perceived the senses.

  In time, Fiona’s or Dr. Falk’s voice interrupted the TICKS. Oh, she was there, alright. Her consciousness floating somewhere in the room above her frail, chained body.

  When the thoughts returned, so did the emotion. She was angry at herself. She shouldn’t have opened her mouth. Whatever the circumstance, she was a puppet now. The medicine that Dr. Falk administered was worse than the darkness. He rewired her brain so that being human would be foreign to her. Her body’s senses would be like an unknown language.

  It hurt to learn everything from scratch, but there were more factors at play that worried her. She was still in the darkness. Even if she got her eyesight back, would her brain remember how to decipher those visuals? More importantly, she feared she was losing a part of herself. A new chemically altered version of Abigail existed. The old Abigail was dead, along with Robert and Jonah. The battle to retain her identity was the biggest challenge. Letting go just felt so easy, so natural. There wasn’t even a glimmer of hope. Why fight? Why live on? Without her family, nothing had meaning. She was in the pit of despair, in deeper darkness than any blindfold. But there was the truth. That was the minimum she owed herself, and it would take precedence over anything else. For better or worse, it would be her salvation.

  After the experience with Fiona and Dr. Falk, she treaded with extreme caution. It was all about regaining full mental capacity and making small steps to find the truth. If she had committed these crimes, the reality was already in her grasp. If not, she would hatch a plan. Either way, her “medical care team” was driving her to the brink of permanent insanity—a point of no return. It was time to stay lucid and cooperative. Quiet and gentle, avoiding the hornet’s nest at all costs.

  Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick . . .

  Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  The sixth buzzer came and went. Abbie had counted right. Even if she had made a mistake, it was by one hour, not more. Fiona wasn’t coming with the meal. She licked her lips and swallowed the remaining tangy saliva lurking in her drying mouth. Thirst was her main enemy. The food could wait. Her throat had almost healed, but she wouldn’t scream out. The fear of retribution surpassed any physical urges. She would hold it off as long as humanly possible. She knew damn well that at some stage there would be no option. She kept her mind focused on the sound of the clock, counting the seconds, the minutes, ticking by. It was her mental exercise—a way to keep her depraved mind active, far from the dark thoughts that always lurked in the shadows. She appreciated the fact that she had some sense of time. She now tracked her days and mealtimes. In terms of the actual time that she had been in this state, it remained a mystery. Was it days? Weeks? Months? Could it have been years? No, it was somewhere between weeks and months, she estimated by the subsiding injury to her throat.

  Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick . . .

  Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  Another hour came and went. The seventh since the buzzer, and still no sign of Fiona. She heard a faint repetitive knock. The entrance door was to her right, and she inched her head in that direction, listening. The sound wasn’t coming from her right. It was above her.

  There must be another room on top.

  The repetitive knocking got louder and quicker. She contemplated screaming out. Contact with anybody besides Fiona and the doctor was priceless. It would shed more light on the asylum. Yes, her thirst to know the truth outweighed her fears. She had to scream out. She took a few moments to gather up the courage, as the consequences would be dire. One more medical retribution from the doctor, and she would never be Abigail Blake again. She opened her mouth to emit the loudest scream she could muster. But she stopped. The knocking got quicker and wild, but that’s not what disturbed her. Guttural moaning and groans accompanied it. It sounded like a man and a woman, maybe even two men and a woman. She wasn’t sure, but she did not doubt what they were doing. That made no sense. Were these other patients that found a private place to fornicate? It wasn’t unheard of in an asylum, but they made her believe that she was in a special ward of the insane and dangerous. In that case, this wasn’t possible. There would be no free-roaming patients.

  Am I delusional? she wondered.

  The knocking got louder, faster, and then screams of pleasure abruptly ended the ordeal.

  Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick . . .

  Silence engulfed the room. Only the ticking of the clock was audible. Abbie took a few deep breaths. The distant sounds made her lose track of the ticking. She no longer had a count of the seconds or minutes. Time was once again an enigma. If she didn’t refocus fast, time alone would drive her to insanity. Her thoughts drowned out the clock as she questioned what she heard. The sound was primal, passionate, but it didn’t evoke any feelings of excitement or yearning.

  The opposite, it terrified her. She was in a sinister place, either physical or mental. The moment had arrived to discover which.

  CHAPTER 5

  Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  As the alarm sounded, a lock clanged against the iron door. It made a rusty creak as it opened.

  “Hello, child. Wake up now. It’s time for your meal.”

  Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack., Clickety-clack.

  Fiona strode toward the bed.

  Abbie stirred to consciousness. Fiona was finally back, what a relief. Abbie had lost count of the number of alarms and had fallen asleep from exhaustion. She awoke dizzy and nauseous—spinning through the darkness like an astronaut lost in space. By the physical symptoms, she estimated it had been at least a day since she last saw Fiona.

  Her leathery tongue stuck to her pallet. A gooey dry paste forming in her parched mouth. She tried to speak but could muster nothing more than an incomprehensible grunt.

  “I know you’re happy to see me. I am too. I’ve got a surprise for you today.” Fiona sounded more jovial than usual.

  The metal food tray dropped with a metallic clang to Abbie’s left. There was more movement at the foot of t
he bed.

  “Waaataarrr.” Abbie made another concerted effort to speak.

  “Sorry, you said something, my child?”

  Abbie wrestled with her tongue. Her mouth was sticky like she had swallowed super glue. Her tongue was rough and prickly. Every time she wrestled it away from her pallet, it stuck to her cheek like a magnet.

  “Waaataarrr.” This time it sounded better, she was sure.

  Silence.

  Her craving for water overcame the terror. Plagued by a torturous thirst that needed quenching at all costs. For the first time in her life, she would do anything for water. She was so fragile, her body almost decomposing within the iron chains. There was no option.

  “Waaataarrr, please.”

  Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.

  Fiona’s high heels rounded the edge of the bed. Her mangled hair draped onto Abbie’s chest. Was it mangled or just pleated into dreadlocks? Abbie wasn’t sure. Either way, it smelled putrid and in need of an urgent wash. It didn’t help her nausea. Fiona was close, so close that she could smell her breath. Black currant, anise, a tinge of black pepper, the wine smelled sour on Fiona’s breath. It was strangely familiar, reminding her of Robert and their dinners at the cabin. Every night they would uncork a fresh bottle of cabernet sauvignon. When he kissed her, the smell of blackcurrant, cedar, and spice always lingered on her lips. Fiona had been drinking cabernet sauvignon; Abbie knew it.

  “I can’t hear you. Speak up, child!”

  A tremor ran through Abbie’s diminishing frame, like a new puppy adjusting to life outside the womb. Fiona’s reaction could be so rash, so unexpected; she had to be vigilant for the inevitable surge of pain. Abbie raised her chin, ensuring that her raspy voice carried the maximum distance. There was no choice. And when there is no choice, there are no regrets, come what may.

  “Waaataarrr, please.”

  “Oh, I hear you now. You’d like to play itsy bitsy, like when we have a wash. That’s sweet of you, child.”

  Fiona ripped away from Abbie’s face.

  Da da da dada da da da da . . .

  Abbie shook her head from side to side, exasperated. No, this couldn’t be happening. She had sworn to herself never to anger Fiona again. The repercussions were too severe.

  Plastic smashed against steel in the nearby sink, and water gushed from the tap into the bucket, while Fiona continued the rhythmic humming.

  “Please, God no, I’m sorry,” Abbie’s voice was inaudible. The fear had soaked the last remnants of moisture from her mouth. There would be no screaming. She would suffer in silence. Her mind kept making the same plea. Something terrible was coming. As the running water continued to splash into the bucket, her face burned from the rush of blood. Little green spots appeared within the black abyss. She gritted her teeth, bracing for the worst.

  The tap squealed to a close, and the water stopped gushing. Like everything thus far in this hospital, the faucet was rusty. Fiona stopped humming.

  “Along came the rain and washed the spider out!”

  The ice water splashed against Abbie’s face with force. She gasped, choked, the water shooting up her nose, burning her sinuses like a hot iron. Her face numbed from the cold.

  “There’s your water, child. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  Abbie coughed up the excess water infiltrating her lungs, desperate to regain her breathing. Her panic-stricken mind flooded with debilitating self-doubt.

  How could they keep torturing her like this? It didn’t add up. Were they trying to drive her to permanent insanity? A catatonic state from which she no longer required treatment or care?

  “Connect her to life support and let her rot on auto-pilot,” she imagined Dr. Falk instructing Fiona. “Yes, that’s an adequate punishment for a monster.”

  There was no other logical explanation for Fiona’s crazy behavior. Well, Abbie resolved, if she wants crazy, that’s what she’ll get. She absorbed the remaining moisture around her mouth with her tongue, which regained mobility. The bucket had forced a few mouthfuls at once, and it rejuvenated her. It was painful, but in her circumstance, she needed the water whichever way it came. Now it was time to be smart. Play Fiona’s evil game.

  “Thank you for your kindness, Fiona. That’s what I needed.”

  Fiona snickered, high heels clicking toward the edge of the bed. The mattress compressed near Abbie’s left foot, Fiona’s substantial bulk resting on the edge. A fibrous latex-gloved hand grabbed her foot.

  “Before you interrupted me, I promised you a surprise, didn’t I? Today I’ll treat you to a pedicure. You’ll feel much better after this, less like a monster and more like a human.”

  Fiona’s change of tone and attitude had taken a complete 360, with almost genuine empathy in her voice. She had flipped from sinister to saint on the drop of a dime, and it would hold true for the reverse. There would be no emotional reprieve for Abbie—fear and anxiety would remain constant companions.

  Keys jingled near Abbie’s ankle.

  “I’ll unlock your ankle. If you misbehave, no more special treats. Do you understand?”

  Abbie nodded.

  “Superb, my child.”

  A moment later, the heavy chain slipped off her ankle. She twisted it in a circular motion to relieve the cramps. It was liberating to have some level of mobility.

  Without delay, Fiona got to work on Abbie’s foot. She soaked it in warm water, moving on to the cuticles and the exfoliation process.

  Abbie relaxed her muscles, closed her eyes, and pictured her favorite spa. There would be no Indian Ayurvedic tea at the end. But what the hell, this was her first pleasant experience in the black abyss, and she was going to soak it up!

  Latex fingers moved along the arch of her foot and heel. She jerked her knee upwards on reflex, her feet sensitive to the touch. It caused a small metallic jingle, and she could sense something sliding along the mattress below her raised thigh and toward her buttocks. She quickly straightened her leg, stretching her foot toward Fiona until she once again felt the warm, moist air from Fiona’s mouth on the tips of her toes. The room was always ice cold, so Fiona’s breath was easy to discern.

  “I’m sorry. That was ticklish. I couldn’t help the reaction.”

  “That’s fine, child. Which color nail polish would you like? Red’s my favorite.”

  “Red’s perfect! Thanks.”

  She did her best to sound cheerful and inconspicuous. Something rigid had poked into her buttocks. It seemed like Fiona paid no attention to it, or she was just preoccupied with the pedicure. Either way, Abbie kept her buttocks stuck to the mattress, covering her new metal find like a treasure.

  “Red it’ll be! Splendid choice, my child. You know my lover visited me over the weekend. Red is also his favorite. He’s also a doctor, you know, such a lovely, passionate man. Somehow, we end up doing the craziest things inside this hospital. It sparks a common flame between us.”

  Ugh, disgusting. I heard it all too well and nearly died of dehydration because you had to fornicate with a doctor.

  “I’m so happy for you, Fiona, that’s beautiful.” It was better to keep her feelings to herself and feign stupidity. Her mind kept reverting to the hidden treasure. It was a risky move, but there was no turning back. The die was cast.

  “We have a special bond, me and the doctor, but sadly we don’t get to spend enough time together. He works in the city. When I started seeing him, he was a married man, living a miserable existence in a passionless relationship,” Fiona said, engrossed in the conversation, filing Abbie’s nails in short rapid motions. It hurt, but Abbie dared not complain.

  “I’m not sure if he ever loved his wife. He has this accommodating personality, seems like their marriage dragged on for so many years out of convenience.”

  A tense silence fell on the room, and only Fiona’s rapid filing motions were a
udible. She just kept going like a machine.

  “It took him a while, but he got rid of her. Men are so predictable, aren’t they?”

  Abbie bit her lower lip, her toes hurting. What began as a soothing pedicure evolved into torture. To make matters worse, Fiona was filing faster and harder, maintaining an unrelenting pace.

  “Don’t think for a moment that you can judge me. You murdered your flesh and blood, an innocent child, well, that’s a reflection of the devil, if I’ve ever seen one.”

  Abbie sniffled, choking back the tears, overwhelmed by bitter remorse for the tragic situation and her lack of any reliable memory. If she was here, something happened. There is no smoke without fire. Where did it all go wrong? What was her role? Why didn’t she have an inkling of recollection? This suggested her guilt. Her memory had always been stalwart.

  “Ouch!!”

  Abbie screamed out in pain as the nail file cut through the skin, ripping her foot away from the latex-gloved hand.

  Fiona slapped her thigh, pinning her leg to the mattress. “We’ll continue the pedicure another time. Now you lay still, child, while I clean up.” Fiona lifted her hand and washed up in the nearby sink. “You’re so high and mighty, Abigail Blake, that you’re still blowing your own horn. You refuse to accept reality. The successful architect and mother turned murderer! ‘The Lord will humiliate the proud and raise the lowly!’ You reap what you sow. The quicker you swallow that bitter pill, the better your living conditions will be.” Fiona’s voice took on such a deep tone when she hollered that she seemed possessed. She finished cleaning up and approached the foot of the bed. “Stretch out your leg.”

  Abbie duly complied. The scary Fiona was back. She fit the iron clasp on Abbie’s ankle with an aggressive jerk.

  There was a moment’s hesitation, followed by frantic fiddling. Hands beat down against the mattress.

  “Raise your leg, Abigail!”

  Abbie lifted her leg by arching her back. The metal parts lodged tight in between her butt cheeks.