Hillary_Tail of the Dog

by Angel Gelique

  Hillary looked at her with contempt. She was a tall, slender woman with her amber-colored hair up in a bun, except for a few loose strands that hung down to outline the sides of her face. She had dark eyes, a narrow nose and plump lips that were drawn together tightly in a smug manner. She was wearing jeans and a plain white tee shirt. She crossed her arms in front of her as she scowled at Hillary.

  “Who are you?” Hillary asked softly, trying to relax. Surely there had to be a rational explanation for this.

  “You can call me Monica,” she replied as she pulled a cell phone from her pocket, pushed a few buttons and held the phone to her ear.

  “She’s awake,” Monica said, and after a brief pause, “okay, see you soon.”

  “Please, I just want to go home,” Hillary whimpered.

  “This is your home now,” Monica answered as she slipped the phone back into her pocket.

  Monica looked at her with obvious disgust. It was clear to Hillary that this woman was no friend of hers and had no interest in helping her.

  “Where are my parents?” Hillary asked, tears streaking down her cheeks.

  “You really don’t remember anything, do you?” Monica asked as if up until now she believed Hillary had been feigning ignorance.

  “No! I have no idea what’s going on. I don’t ...I don’t even remember who I am.”

  Hillary cried as she tried to search her mind for memories—any memory at all. She couldn’t remember a thing about her identity or how she had gotten to this place.

  The door to the room opened and a man walked in.

  Hillary suddenly remembered her nakedness and tried her best to bring her knees together, to no avail. Overcome with shame and embarrassment, her face turned bright red as she looked away.

  “Can you please cover me up,” she asked quietly.

  “There’s no need for that,” the man said. “You’ve been here a long time. I’ve seen every inch of you already, there’s no reason to be modest.”

  “Who are you?” she asked, turning her head to face him.

  He was an average-looking man, except for the eye patch he wore.

  “Dr. Morrison,” he replied. “Hillary, do you remember anything today?”

  “Hillary? Is that my name?” she answered, which also answered his question.

  Dr. Morrison was holding a notebook. He opened it and wrote something in it.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” he asked Hillary.

  “I don’t remember any—well, I think I had a bad dream,” she said.

  Hillary was not afraid of Dr. Morrison. He was soft-spoken and didn’t look like he despised her, unlike Monica. She felt like she could trust him. After all, he was a doctor and he was there to help her…right?

  “What do you remember about the dream, Hillary?” the man asked softly.

  His friendly voice and demeanor put Hillary at ease, and she no longer felt self-conscious in front of him.

  “I think I was in a box or coffin or something and I couldn’t get out.”

  Hillary grew visibly anxious as she recalled the details of her dream.

  “Someone put insects in there with me, then crushed my fingers and pulled off my nails and—”

  “It’s okay,” the man said. “Nothing like that is going to happen to you here.”

  He wrote rapidly in his notebook.

  “Aren’t you the lucky one,” Monica sneered, as she walked to the stool, hastily grabbed her book then swiftly left the room.”

  “Why does she hate me so much?” Hillary asked Dr. Morrison.

  “She’s not usually here,” he replied, skirting around her question.

  “Who is she? Is she a nurse?”

  “No, she was just watching over you while I was tending to other things. Now Hillary, I need you to try your best to remember as much as you can. Will you do that for me?”

  “I’ve tried, Dr. Morrison, I can’t remember anything at all, except that awful dream and then waking up here. Where am I anyway?”

  “You’re in my home,” he said.

  “Why? What kind of doctor are you?”

  “I’m a neurologist, I specialize in conditions of the brain.”

  Hillary felt a wave of nervousness pass through her.

  Maybe he’s a mad scientist, she thought. Why else would I be tied up and naked in an empty room in his home?

  Dr. Morrison noticed Hillary’s facial expression change. He knew that look, and he was glad that she was safely bound to the bed. Otherwise, she would do everything she could to escape.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “I was trying hard to remember something,” Hillary lied.

  Maybe that’s all it was, Dr. Morrison thought. But all the same, he would not let his guard down again. Last time he did that, he lost his eye.

  “And did you?” he asked.

  “No, nothing. Can I have a drink please?”

  “Of course, you must be getting hungry too.”

  Hillary nodded.

  “Can I ask you a question? Why am I tied down to this bed?”

  “It’s for your protection,” Dr. Morrison replied.

  “Protection from what? Do you think I’d hurt myself?”

  “No, we just need you to be safe.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Why can’t I remember anything?”

  “I’m sure you’ll regain your memory in time,” he assured her.

  “Did you do something to me?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, though he knew perfectly well what she meant. It was a question she always asked him when she gained consciousness and couldn’t remember anything. Sometimes she was terrified, sometimes hostile, but always curious as to why she was naked and whether he had abused her in any way.

  “Did you touch me? I mean, inappropriately...did you rape me?”

  “No, of course not,” he said emphatically.

  “How do I know that? I can’t remember anything. Why else would I be naked?”

  “You’re just going to have to trust me, Hillary. Now I’m going to get you something to eat and drink. I’ll be back soon.”

  Before Hillary could ask any more questions, he left the room, notebook in hand.

  Hillary looked around the room. Aside from the stool, there was a computer desk on the far right corner. Hillary didn’t see anything on it. She fought to get her hands free from the rope, but it was tied tightly, with little room to spare. Not surprisingly, it was the same way with her ankles. Her only hope of escaping would be if and when someone untied the ropes. She would have to be very clever and very cooperative, earn Dr. Morrison’s trust and then somehow convince him to let her out of the bed. It sounded good, anyway.

  Dr. Morrison returned nearly twenty minutes later with a brown plastic tray. It looked like one of those trays from a fast food restaurant. There was a bowl, a cup with a plastic lid and straw, a pile of napkins and a bag of chips on the tray.

  “Are you going to untie me so that I can eat?” Hillary asked softly.

  “Nope, I’m going to feed you,” Dr. Morrison replied, as he set the tray upon the desk and walked over to Hillary with the bowl in his hand.

  “I hope you like chicken noodle soup,” he said, as he stirred the soup with a spoon.

  “I’d like it a lot more if I was able to feed myself,” Hillary said, trying hard to suppress the rage she was beginning to feel.

  “Maybe in time,” Dr. Morrison responded, and he adjusted the head of the bed, propping it up at a forty-five degree angle.

  Hillary looked down at her naked body and became self-conscious again. She felt disgusted to be tied to a bed while this man—this stranger—hovered over her with a bowl of soup. She didn’t care what he said, this was not right, this was not normal.

  “No thanks,” she said, declining the soup as Dr. Morrison raised the spoon to her lips.

  “What? You have to eat something. You need your strength. You want your memory back, don’t you?”<
br />
  He moved the spoon about six inches from her face, hoping that the smell of it would prompt her to eat. This was the second time she had resisted food. Dr. Morrison had started noticing discouraging behaviors in her and he was none too pleased that all the progress he seemed to be making was rapidly deteriorating. He had hoped that Hillary would be more cooperative today.

  As he was bringing the spoon closer to her lips, some of the soup dripped onto Hillary’s stomach, just above her belly button. She gasped as the hot soup touched her skin.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Dr. Morrison said as he carefully put the spoon back into the bowl and hurried over to the tray to grab a napkin.

  Upon his return, he proceeded to wipe the soup off Hillary’s stomach as Hillary screamed.

  “Don’t, don’t touch me,” she shouted, as she moved her arms and legs as much as the rope allowed.

  “But I was just—”

  “DON’T TOUCH ME!” she repeated loudly as Dr. Morrison withdrew his hand and backed up to assure her that he had no intention of touching her.

  Upon hearing the commotion, Monica entered the room.

  “What’s going on in here?” she asked Dr. Morrison, but Hillary started yelling before he could answer.

  “I don’t want him touching me!” she screamed.

  Monica furrowed her brow as she eyed Dr. Morrison, waiting for an explanation.

  “I spilled some soup on her abdomen, I was merely wiping it off,” he explained.

  “You didn’t spill soup all the way down there,” Hillary accused.

  “What? What are you saying? That I—”

  “I’m saying don’t touch me!” Hillary interrupted angrily. She looked over at Monica.

  “Keep this pedophile away from me,” she yelled.

  “Now you know that’s not true,” Dr. Morrison insisted. “I just wiped the little drop of soup off your stomach, that’s all.”

  “Would you prefer if I fed you?” Monica asked unenthusiastically.

  “I would prefer to feed myself,” Hillary said, trying to calm down.

  “I did not touch her, Monica,” Dr. Morrison maintained.

  Monica said nothing. She looked at Hillary.

  “Do you want me to feed you?” she repeated.

  Hillary was hungry, but she didn’t want to eat the soup, or drink the drink. She didn’t want to be drugged again. Who knew what these people put in her food to make her lose her memory.

  Not to mention she didn’t want to have to use the bathroom...which made her wonder....

  “Uh...how have I been going to the bathroom?” she asked shyly.

  “Wow, you don’t remember anything. I used to take you…for a while, until—”

  “Monica,” Dr. Morrison interrupted with an icy glare, “did you want to feed Hillary?”

  “Until what?” Hillary asked curiously, “what happened?”

  “Nothing,” Dr. Morrison replied before Monica could answer. His eyes warned her to keep her mouth shut.

  “So, you wanna eat or not?” Monica asked bitterly.

  “I want some clothes,” Hillary demanded.

  “Jesus, Patrick, give the girl the hospital gown back,” Monica said angrily.

  “I’m not taking any more chances,” he whispered impatiently. Hillary heard him despite his attempt at silence.

  “Maybe you just like staring at her,” Monica sneered, as she walked over to the stool and plopped herself down, frowning like a child in the midst of a temper tantrum.

  “Don’t be absurd, Monica. This is not the time for this nonsense. I didn’t touch her.”

  “Please, at least cover me up,” Hillary begged.

  “No,” Dr. Morrison said firmly.

  “You creep!” Hillary screamed, as she fussed about on the bed, “you sick freak! You like staring at little girls? You like touching little girls?”

  How old am I anyway, she thought to herself.

  “You know damn well I didn’t touch you inappropriately,” Dr. Morrison shouted back.

  “Stop looking at me!” she screamed hysterically, “what’s the matter with you people? This isn’t right. What are you doing to me? Why are you keeping me here? Let me go, let me go, get me out of here, stop—”

  “Calm down, Hillary. We’re being as humanely as possible. Eat your soup, you’ll feel better,” Dr. Morrison said. He walked over to the soup bowl.

  “Stop treating me like an animal—”

  Dr. Morrison approached with the bowl of soup as Monica looked over with revulsion.

  Hillary was crying and shaking her head wildly.

  “I think it’s time to can this proje—”

  “Shut up, Monica!” Dr. Morrison shouted, “we’ll discuss this later.”

  Hillary, through tears, noted that Dr. Morrison was clearly annoyed with the lack of support Monica was showing him, while Monica was clearly annoyed by his attention to her. She pondered the best way to use that information to her advantage. She had to escape. At the very least, she needed to get to a phone and call the cops. They would trace the call and find her.

  “Last chance, Hillary,” Dr. Morrison said, lifting up the soup bowl and gesturing for her to eat.

  Hillary shook her head firmly.

  “Have it your way,” he said sadly.

  Dr. Morrison looked down at her in dismay as he shook his head slowly. Her behavior today had confirmed his suspicion. Hillary was regressing. He thought about all the time he spent, all the efforts he made—all for nothing. His face turned red as his temper flared.

  “Fine,” he yelled, “you’ve forced my hand. You’ll just have to be fed intravenously, I guess.”

  The thought of being hooked up to an intravenous drip terrified Hillary. It would be just as easy—if not easier—to get drugs into her system that way.

  Dr. Morrison walked over to the desk, put the soup bowl on the tray and lifted the tray up. He turned to leave the room, but stopped at Hillary’s bed.

  “You said you were thirsty, do you want your drink at least? It’s lemonade.”

  “Uhh...I...I guess,” Hillary said reluctantly. She didn’t want the drink, but she didn’t want an IV inserted into her either. When Dr. Morrison placed the straw up against her lips, she let the straw enter her mouth and pretended to drink. After a few seconds, she pulled away.

  “Thanks,” she said dryly.

  “I’m glad you like the lemonade,” Dr. Morrison said, “I made it myself.”

  “It was very good,” Hillary said, with a thin smile.

  “That’s funny, because it was fruit punch,” Dr. Morris said, as he replaced the cup on the tray and walked out of the room. Monica followed him.

  Shit, Hillary thought, what do I do now?

  She waited for Dr. Morrison to return, knowing that he would hook her up to an intravenous drip, dreading his return. She had goose bumps all over, despite the heat of the eighty-degree room she was in.

  She could hear Dr. Morrison and Monica talking, though she could not make out what they were saying. Their conversation seemed to become more heated and escalated into a shouting match. Still, with the exception of a few words and phrases here and there, Hillary could not clearly hear them. She pieced enough to know that they were having a disagreement about her and Monica was not happy about having her there. She hoped Monica had enough influence to convince Dr. Morrison to let her go. If not, she would have to try her best to befriend Monica and get her to help her escape—which would be no easy task, given that Monica seemed to hate her.

  Within minutes, Dr. Morrison was back in the room. Monica was nowhere to be found. As expected, Dr. Morrison wheeled in intravenous equipment and what looked like a big medical bag. Hillary’s eyes widened and filled with fear as she wondered how she could possibly resist being hooked up to an intravenous machine.

  Dr. Morrison stopped on the right side of the bed and began doing something with a clear, plastic tube.

  “Now,” he said calmly, “are you certain this is how y
ou want it?”

  “No, of course not! she replied nervously, “I want to get out of here. Can’t you just let me go?” she pleaded.

  “You know that’s not possible,” he said quietly as he continued working with the intravenous apparatus.

  “Why not?” she questioned. “Why do I have to be tied up here?”

  Tears welled up in her eyes as her heart raced. She prayed that someone—maybe her parents—were looking for her, would find her soon. How much longer would this nightmare last?

  “Hillary, we only want what’s best for you. You need to trust us. Maybe one day you will and all this won’t be necessary.”

  “Where are my parents?”

  “I’m helping your parents.”

  “Liar!” she accused. “No parents would let a creep to do this to their daughter!”

  “Will you eat, drink and be merry?” Dr. Morrison asked sarcastically.

  “Screw you!” she yelled and started shouting, “help me, somebody help me!” as loud as she could, even though she knew it was a hopeless effort.

  Dr. Morrison wheeled the apparatus to the left side of the bed. He grabbed on to Hillary’s right arm and tied a band around it despite her fruitless resistance. He then swabbed her arm with an alcohol pad. He prepared the catheter for insertion.

  “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.