by A. R. Braun
That’s what what’s-his-name gets.
Friday.
Adriana sat on a bed waiting for the doctor to come in at The Sleep Medicine Center in Mowquakwa, Illinois. The trip from the suburb of Wampum had been silent. Thank God her husband was all right. She had no memory of throwing him over the TV, but he’d said his head only hurt a bit, and the ER had declared him fit for release, just a nasty bump on the back of the noggin and a minor backache. They’d prescribed some antibiotics.
She sat in a room with glass windows and one black window, where they probably evaluated her while she slept. A stocky man with receding black hair and glasses walked in, shutting the door behind him. He carried a clipboard and smiled at her as he made his way over.
He held out his hand. “I’m Professor Conover of the Department of Neurology, also just a plain old doctor.”
She took his firm hand in hers and squeezed. “Adriana Berry.”
“So, you’ve been having some nightmares, I take it?”
She nodded, wrinkling her nose at the antiseptic atmosphere and blinking from the rows of fluorescent lights. Adriana had requested her husband not be present for the treatment so she could tell the doctor what was going on.
“Can you tell me what they’re about?”
She exhaled a heavy sigh, gripping the sides of the bed with white knuckles. “I’m in the nursery, as I always am on Sundays, at church.” She sobbed. “A-and instead of being gentle like I usually am, I find a baby threatened by SIDS and I . . . and I . . . hurt this little girl.”
She bawled.
The doctor put a firm hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said.
She blinked, trying to see him through the veil of tears as she looked up at his face. “Am I going crazy?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. You have a condition called ‘night terrors,’ which is caused by poor sleeping and nutrition habits. Have you been cooking healthy meals at home?”
She sighed, looking at the square, yellow tiles of the floor. “I’m so on the go as an RN, I eat fast food for lunch every day. Then I come home and try to cook spaghetti or something similar but am always too tired. We had pizza last night and Chinese the night before.”
“I see.” He made some notes on his clipboard. “Were they good about giving you the time off at work?”
“I guess they had to be.”
He nodded. “When do you usually go to bed?”
She met his eyes. “I try to go to bed at eleven every night, but I lay there forever, unable to sleep. It feels like someone’s turning a screw in my mind. I never get eight hours.”
Dr. Conover nodded and made some more notes. He put his glasses into his pocket and pinned her with his eyes. “Night terrors usually attack in non-REM sleep, called “NREM Sleep,” where the eyes’ movement under the lids is slow. Your husband told me you thrash around and scream when you wake up—you even get violent—which are normal symptoms of the disease. He also said you didn’t recognize him upon waking. Amnesia is another symptom. We’d like to keep you here overnight to monitor your sleep habits, put you on a nutritious diet, and get your sleep cycle back to normal. I recommend, since you can’t fall asleep for a while, that you go to bed two hours early every night.”
Anxiety pricked her mind and she swallowed hard. “Overnight?” She ran her hands through her hair and fidgeted. “Is that necessary?”
Doctor Conover nodded. “If you want to get better.” He rubbed his eyes and slipped his glasses back on. “You’re probably sleep deprived, so I’m going to give you a sedative and let you take a nap so we can start monitoring you right away. We’ll take a look at you tonight and tomorrow night. We’ll need to take your vitals first. If you smoke, you can go outside for a cigarette. We need to get you a healthy lunch and then put you on a meal plan for when you go home.”
She nodded. Anything to make the child-murdering dreams stop.
The doctor handed her a form atop the clipboard. “If you’ll just sign here.”
She scrawled out her best John Hancock and marveled at the shit-eating grin on his face and the beady little eyes that stared her down.
Later.
Adriana’s eyes opened. What did that doctor give me? She lay in the institutional bed, electrodes hooked up to her forehead like Lovecraftian suckers of a creature with many tentacles that lurked underneath her bed. Her eyelids were heavy, and fatigue had turned her mind blurry, the glowing-white ink blot monsters writhing under her eyelids as darkness covered her.
Clicking footsteps walking into the room roused her from sleep. When she opened her eyes, Doctor Conover glared at her with a scalpel in hand. Two nurses clad in short, white doctor’s coats stood on either side of her. Their legs were bare and so long under the coats that they seemed to go on forever. She wanted to ask what the hell is the scalpel for and why aren’t those nurses wearing pants but she couldn’t move, as if paralyzed. The slim woman on the right had straight blond hair that fell across her head and onto her shoulders like running water. Glitter speckled her high, set cheekbones that framed full, pouty lips. She’d generously applied brown eye shadow above her blue eyes that sparkled with—was that desire?—and her deeply-tanned skin bronzed her frame like a statue. The brunette on her left sported heavily-applied gold eye shadow above wide green eyes that led to a slim nose, fine-structured cheekbones and thin lips; her slender neck exposed milky-white skin, and strands of curly charcoal fell around her shoulders.
Both nurses held needles at least fifteen inches long. They adjusted them, sending jets of water flying off the ends.
The doctor’s grin turned into a frown, then a scowl. He flashed white teeth big enough to belong to a horse and ground them together.
I’m in a madhouse! God help me, they’re going to kill me!
The nurses unbuttoned their coats and slid them off. The blonde’s huge, tanned breasts couldn’t be natural. Her baby bottle-tops in the centers of her twin peaks were hard. She rubbed the bald vagina between her legs, spreading apart the pink lips.
Are you kidding me? Lord Jesus Christ, get me out of here!
The brunette’s small breasts barely jiggled, they were so firm. She fingered the brown pussy lips that loomed underneath a triangular thatch of black pubic hair.
Adriana tried to speak and rise up off the bed, but again couldn’t move, just gurgled.
Doctor Conover twisted his face. “You know what we do to baby killers around here?” he yelled.
No, I’m not a baby killer! I’m here for treatment!
The nurses laughed and moved forward, undoing Adriana’s pajamas and running their hands over her breasts. She willed it to stop. My God, am I dreaming? Is that what’s going on? But, not only did it continue, Adriana found her nipples getting hard underneath their soft, clutching grips. The brunette ripped Adriana’s pajama bottoms off and spread her labia apart with her fingers, sticking a couple digits inside her sex. Though every fiber of her being was against the slutty adultery that ravaged her, blinding shock waves of excitement pulsed through her, making her undulate, and she moaned.
The wide-eyed blonde slapped Adriana’s left breast, then her right one. It hurt so well. “Child-killing whore!” she said with a chirpy voice.
The brunette stuck her fist inside her, causing a square shot of pain and pleasure. Adriana shuddered. Though violated, she could feel herself getting so wet someone might have stuck a hose up her vagina.
“This is what you get for being a kid-killing slut!” the brunette cried in a low voice.
The blonde smirked up at Dr. Conover. “Hurt her, doctor!”
He leaned forward and shoved the scalpel into Adriana’s right eye, half blinding her and causing white-hot jabs of pain to pulse through her socket. The throbbing agony gave way to hellish, excruciating torment as she saw dark red squirting all over the blonde’s hair and face. The nurse laughed, took her hands off Adriana’s breasts and stuck her tongue out, squealing as she lapped up the blood.
A
driana did scream then, and she felt a sharp, jabbing pain in her sex also, as if someone poked her with broken glass. She raised her head off the pillow to see a red face eating her pussy. The visage belonged to what must be the devil, for his cat’s eyes pierced her and curling horns stuck out of his forehead. She squinted her eyes and saw his razor-sharp, serrated teeth biting into her clit. Her blood made his face turn from bright red to dark crimson. The maddened look on his blood-speckled face, his huge eyes bulging out of his sockets, made her pass out from horror.
Adriana woke thrashing and shrieking like never before. She didn’t recognize her surroundings, wondering why she lay in a dark room that smelled like a hospital. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw the huge windows surrounding her. She kicked her legs so vehemently that she fell off the bed, slamming to the floor and knocking her forehead hard. A door opened and footsteps ran into the room. Hands helped her up and a light came on. It was a balding man in glasses and a redheaded, heavy-set nurse. A woman with long white hair stood at the door, her hand still on the light switch.
The man and the woman helped her back into bed, and the woman pulled out a small needle which sent Adriana keening as loudly as she could—she didn’t know why. All she knew was that everything became blurry and peaceful calm claimed her as she shut her eyes and drifted off.
Saturday.
“What did you give me?” Adriana yelled.
The doctor sat across from her in the white-walled cafeteria. Chatter and clatter from the hospital staff and the other patients stopped. Ignoring the stares, Adriana’s hands gripped a warm cup of coffee too hard. Her nails had gone white.
“Just a sedative,” Doctor Conover answered. “It’s your night terrors. You had another nightmare.”
She slammed her free fist down on the table. “I want out of this place!”
The doc moved his head back a couple inches and then sighed. “Mrs. Berry, it was just a dream. I’m sure they’ll dissipate after you catch up on your sleep and your diet is changed.”
Adriana looked into her cup of black coffee and saw a funhouse reflection of her plump face. Her visage was oblong, and matted hair flanked her frown. She met the doctor’s wide eyes. “I dreamed you were all devil worshipers, and you had X-rated nurses.”
The doc chuckled. “It’s all part of your illness. I’m Catholic, myself.”
She let out a vibrato, panicky breath that stopped and started over and over. “What am I saying? When I woke up, your nurses were normal.” She breathed deeply. “Will I really get better?”
“You got twenty hours of sleep yesterday and have eaten nothing but healthy food the whole time you’ve been here. I’d venture a guess that you’ll sleep well tonight, probably with no nightmares. I’d avoid horror films when you get home though.”
She nodded. “I hope you’re right.”
Yeah, no kidding, because church is tomorrow, and I have to run the nursery.
Sunday.
Adriana was woken up by the rotund nurse. The doctor smiled down on her. She blinked at the harsh glow of the overhead lights.
She yawned and rubbed her eyes. “W-what time is it?”
“It’s 6:00 a.m. on Sunday morning,” the nurse answered.
The nurse helped her sit up, putting her hand on her back.
Adriana stretched. “Did I have a nightmare?”
Doctor Conover chuckled. “I’m glad to report that you had no night terrors. You didn’t thrash around, and there was no trace of anything but good dreams. Looks like the change in your diet and sleeping habits worked.”
Joy filled her mind. “Really?” She giggled like a schoolgirl. “You mean I’m cured?”
“I think so.” The doctor pointed toward the door. “You have an anxious husband who can’t wait to see you.”
And the nursery. Oh, stop it. I’m cured now. She rose and hugged Dr. Conover. She couldn’t help it. “Thank you so much!”
“Just doing my job.”
She sobbed tears of joy.
After a healthy breakfast at the sleep center with her husband, they’d headed home. She’d explained to him that Doctor Conover had cured her, and Kerry had been overjoyed. Now they walked out the door of Bible study room, headed . . .
. . . toward the nursery.
The chatter of the other members seemed to echo, as did the laughter and screams of children and the band practicing in the sanctuary. As she moved closer to the danger zone, her legs became like jelly, her nerves were shot and her hands shook. She stopped.
I can’t.
Adriana looked at her husband, whose eyes were wide. “Honey, I—” She just shook her head.
He rubbed her back. “What is it, sweetie?”
“I can’t run the nursery. I never told you, but I had nightmares about . . . about . . .”
He hugged her. “Aw, baby. But the doctor said you were cured.”
She broke down crying on his shoulder. When she’d pulled herself together, she raised her head and saw Pastor Wilkes, a middle-aged, graying man with a jutting forehead that made him look like Frankenstein’s monster, cocking his head at her. He wore a white polo shirt and khakis instead of a suit—a typical Southern Baptist uniform.
“Are you all right?” Pastor Wilkes asked in a deep voice.
“I’m sorry, pastor, I’ve been sick lately. I don’t think I can run the nursery today.”
He put a hand on his chin and held her stare. Then he sighed and let his arm drop. “That’s okay. I understand.” He looked toward a tall, brunette teen staring into the nursery while resting her forearms on the half door. “Cali? Would you like to run the nursery today?”
Her eyes widened and she smiled an ear-to-ear grin. She nodded.
“Thank you.” He eyed Adriana again, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Maybe next week. Enjoy the service and get some rest after church, you hear?”
Adriana nodded. “Thanks so much. I will.”
The pastor walked away, probably to another of a hundred duties.
Kerry moved her towards the sanctuary with his hand on her back. “Let’s go worship.”
After church, her husband eyeballed her surreptitiously while driving to McDonald’s, where they always ate after the service. “You sure you’re all right?”
She hit him lightly on the shoulder with her palm. “Oh, quit coddling me. I’m fine.”
“I suppose you’re going to have the Southwest Chicken Salad while I scarf down on a Third Pounder?”
She pulled the sun visor down to shield her eyes from the blinding spring sun. “No. I saw on one of those shows about celebs losing weight that it’s okay to cheat a little, about twenty percent. I want Chicken Nuggets—a ten piece.”
Her husband laughed. “That’s my girl. A ten piece it is. I would’ve felt like crap grubbing down in front of you while you ate roughage.”
She laughed, and on this brilliant spring day, all was right with the world.
She had a great time beating him at tennis, and they celebrated her recovery by going out to a fancy dinner at The Supper Club. Adriana ordered a chicken salad with white wine. Then they hurried home and made mad, monkey love until midnight. They’d have had sex all night long, but they had to go to work in the morning.
Lying on her husband’s sculpted, muscular arm, she shut her eyes and let herself drift off without fear.
“You worthless fucking cunt!”
Live wires of terror fired off inside her veins as she eyed Pastor Wilkes at the foot of the bed. He wore the same white polo shirt, but no pants or underwear. His well-hung cock bobbed against his covered belly.
She wanted to scream what are you doing here but couldn’t speak—couldn’t move. She looked at her snoring husband out of the corner of her right eye. Why didn’t he wake up?
The pastor scowled, crossing his arms. “Just like the rest of the leeches,” he said. “Twenty percent of the members do eighty percent of the work.”
She found her voice. “I meant to ru
n the nursery, but I was afraid I’d hurt the children.” She wanted to yell. Her voice was barely audible, however. Though the room felt warm, her face broke out in beads of sweat.
He dropped his arms and clenched his fists. “Well now you’re hurting the church! And now I’m going to hurt you!”
She endeavored with all her might to turn and rouse her husband, but still couldn’t move. Pastor Wilkes tore the coverlet and the sheets from her side of the bed. She shivered. Her mind squirmed with bugs of panic as the strong parson lifted up her legs and then spread them, forcing his massive cock into her orifice.
The pain sent shocks of torment into her stomach.
God help me, the pastor’s turned evil! Why doesn’t my husband wake up?
She felt herself go mad as his Frankenstein’s-monster face shoved into hers, his tongue sliding past her teeth. He reeked of recently-eaten quiche. He bit her lips, drawing blood, and he rammed her so hard that her head banged against the headboard. Still her husband snored on. The feeling of being ravaged with broken glass returned as he continued to thrust into her.
Pastor Wilkes rose off her with wide eyes and his mouth formed into an O. He pulled out, scooted his crotch up and came all over her face with his salty, fish-scented spunk. She gurgled, cried, screamed, GROWLED.
Adriana woke, thrashing her feet and punching the head of the man next to her. He—whoever he was—grabbed her arms as he rolled over onto her.
Big mistake.
“Honey, you had one of those dreams again! The nightmare’s over.”
Who was this man, and how dare he mount her after . . . after what? Who was she? Where was she? It didn’t matter. All she felt was the rage.
She lurched forward and bit into his throat, chomping down with all her might. She shook her head, kept clomped down with her teeth and pulled his larynx out. Hot, metallic liquid filled her throat along with fresh meat and hard chunks of bone, which tasted so good, what a meal; that’s what the bastard gets. She masticated it in front of his red, wide-eyed face. She spit out the larynx, hitting him on the nose. He sat up and grabbed his leaking throat, which continued to spout dark blood. His face went from red to blue while she laughed.
