Hillary_Tail of the Dog

by Angel Gelique

  He hated to admit it to himself, but deep down, Dr. Bentley prayed that Hillary’s bloodlust would be satisfied between Monica and Patrick and that she would have no use for him. He knew it was highly unlikely, but it was his last remaining hope. He closed his eyes, hoping to find comfort by thinking about Patricia and Amber Skye. It only made him distraught. Tears welled up in his eyes then streaked down his face.

  What if I never see them again? The mere thought of never seeing his wife and sweet little daughter again frightened him even more than the thought of being tortured, even more than being killed. He had to fight, not just for himself, but for his family...for Amber Skye especially. He summoned the psychiatrist in him, determined to find a way to outsmart Hillary. He might be physically incapacitated, but as long as he had his mind, he could still put up a fight. He would find a way; he just had to. For Amber...for Amber....

  ~17~

  Hillary ransacked the kitchen as she searched for matches or a lighter, anything she could use to cauterize Dr. Morrison’s seeping crotch. She knew she had to act quickly. She didn’t want him to bleed to death. He didn’t deserve to escape the pain that quickly or easily.

  She feverishly rushed from drawer to drawer, quickly scanning the contents of each for anything that could be useful. During her earlier hunt for tools, she didn’t recall seeing any matches or lighters but wasn’t particularly looking for them either. She hoped something would prove useful.

  When Hillary was just about to give up hope, she found a small cooking flame torch—the kind used for creme brûlée. She squealed in delight as she reached into the back of the cabinet and pulled it out anxiously. Dr. Morrison was waiting to be saved....

  As she hurried back to the room, she pressed the trigger, hoping that the torch contained fuel. A small flame emerged from the nozzle. She experimented with the knobs, adjusting the flame and heat intensity until she found the perfect combination.

  Dr. Morrison was still unconscious as she entered the room. It was apparent from the dark crimson stain between his thighs that he had lost a great deal of blood. Hillary hoped she wasn’t too late. Just as she was about to place the flame to his lanced genitals, she remembered seeing a box of smelling salts in the bathroom medicine cabinet. She had meant to grab it at the time but had gotten distracted when she found the peroxide.

  Hillary placed the torch on the foot of the bed and dashed over to the bathroom. She returned in less than a minute with the box of smelling salts in her hand. It was a brand new box and she quickly tore it open as she approached the bed. The box contained ten ampoules. She pulled two of them out and wrinkled her nose as she caught a whiff of the pungent scent of ammonia. She placed the ampoules between her fingers and pressed firmly on the dots next to the bold letters that read “CRUSH HERE.” She held her breath as she extended her hand and shoved the opened ampoules underneath Dr. Morrison’s nose. Dr. Morrison was instantly roused to alertness as he cried out, protesting the burning sensation within his nostrils.

  Hillary was beside herself with joy. Dr. Morrison was fully alert; she could resume torturing him. She threw the acrid ampoules to the floor and grabbed the torch. Seeing the torch within her hands made Dr. Morrison’s stomach sink as he awaited the pain. He had given that flame torch to Monica last year, after she had taken an interest in cooking and baking. Now, in Hillary’s hand, the culinary tool was transformed into an instrument of torture and he cursed the day he bought it.

  As the scorching flame came into contact with his most delicate area, Dr. Morrison shrieked in pain. He turned beet red and began sweating profusely. Hillary could smell his hairs and flesh burn as she cauterized the torn seam that once held Dr. Morrison’s left testicle to his crotch. His flesh blistered then blackened as he screeched in merciless agony.

  For good measure, Hillary moved the flame to Dr. Morrison’s nipples and seared them as well. The smell of scorched flesh made her stomach growl loudly. She smiled as she shut the torch off and placed it on the bed beside Dr. Morrison.

  Dr. Morrison whimpered, moaned and cried out in pain. At times he uttered unintelligible gibberish that Hillary could not comprehend. During his more lucid moments, he begged Hillary to kill him. He knew she would never show such mercy, but he pleaded nonetheless. He just wanted to die. He had nothing left to live for. When his heartfelt beseeching yielded no results, he decided on a different approach. He prayed it would work to his advantage.

  “Your father was a smart man, you deserved to be raped, you whore,” he shouted.

  Hillary, who had been walking toward the shopping bag, stopped in her tracks. She looked back at Dr. Morrison. Had he really said that? She could feel her pressure rising.

  “What did you say?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  “I said your father was a good man, you got what you deserved, you bitch!”

  Hillary became infuriated, nearly tripping over her own feet as she rushed to the shopping bag. She crouched down and turned the shopping bag over, sending the contents crashing onto the floor. She angrily pushed items aside until her hands came upon the corkscrew. She clenched it in her hand as she stood up and dashed over to Dr. Morrison, who was having second thoughts about his strategy as Hillary entered his line of vision. She was livid; her eyes were narrowed and fixed intently upon Dr. Morrison’s wide, fear-filled eye. He watched her approaching, her hand clutching the shiny, extended corkscrew. He turned his head and tightly shut his eye. Hillary forced his head forward, pried his eyelid up and lodged the corkscrew deep within his eye.

  Dr. Morrison first felt the intense pain then a gush of warm liquid oozing down his face. As Hillary used the corkscrew to remove his remaining eye, he was enshrouded by darkness. He could feel the sharp metal scraping along the empty socket as his severed eyeball dangled upon his cheekbone.

  The pain was bad enough, but the perpetual darkness frightened and disturbed him far greater than his physical suffering. He wailed in misery for several minutes before his cries lulled to a sorrowful sobbing. He could hear Hillary laughing at his pain, mocking the pitiful, broken, emasculated, blinded creature she had reduced him to. He, himself, began to laugh along as he wondered if this was part of his plan or if he had actually gone mad.

  That’s it, Hillary thought, I’ve driven him insane....

  Dr. Morrison’s laughter grew even louder than Hillary’s, more manic. She stopped laughing. He continued.

  “Shut the hell up!” Hillary demanded. He wasn’t supposed to be enjoying himself.

  “You...you....” He was laughing so hard, he couldn’t speak.

  “Shut up!” she shouted.

  She had never before had a victim laugh at her. She detested his insolence.

  “You...you...you whore!” he cackled. “You...can’t hurt...me...any...any…more.”

  “Oh yes I can,” Hillary retorted angrily.

  She was ready for the challenge. She would prove that he was wrong, that she could indeed hurt him still, and hurt him terribly.

  Dr. Morrison continued laughing like a lunatic. He could hear Hillary’s footsteps trudging across the room. He rightfully assumed that she was going to get more tools to torture him with. His heart raced as his anxiety level grew to a staggering high. Yet, he continued laughing, uncontrollably, despite the vice-like grip of fear that consumed him. His mind wandered to the long-gone days of his childhood, where as a terrified five-year-old boy he cowered in the darkness of the night awaiting the boogeyman. His father would not allow him to have a night light. “You need to confront your irrational fears,” he would advise coldly. Dr. Morrison shuddered at the memory of those long, fearful, sleepless nights. Now, here he was, once again thrust into the pitch-black darkness awaiting the boogeyman. This time, the boogeyman—guised as Hillary—was coming.

  Dr. Morrison’s irrational laughter was interrupted by a high-pitched shrieking—his own. Hillary was stabbing him repeatedly. The long, sharp blade first entered his shoulder with such force it disjointed his humerus bone fr
om his scapula. Next, the blade, dripping with blood, entered his thigh with a sickening slurping sound. As quickly as Hillary buried the blade within Dr. Morrison’s flesh, it was withdrawn so that she could inflict more pain elsewhere. She had stabbed him nineteen times all over his body and he was bleeding profusely.

  Dr. Morrison was no longer laughing, nor did feel any fear or pain. He had become cold, numb. He knew that he was dying and he was entirely grateful. He managed a thin smile upon his bloodied face.

  Hillary also realized that she had done irreversible damage, far more than she had intended. She had gotten carried away and now Dr. Morrison would die. He had tricked her by infuriating her and now her fun was about to end prematurely.

  “You’re the whore!” she screamed, dropping the knife to the bed.

  Blood was everywhere. More seeped out of his multiple gashes.

  “You tricked me, you whore,” she yelled, slapping his face.

  His final grin taunted her, mocked her and infuriated her all over again. She bent over and bit into his throat like a starving vampire. Her teeth sank down into his larynx and she drank his dripping blood and ate the bits of flesh that had torn off. The familiar taste pleased her and she continued to feast.

  The gurgling sound coming from the gaping, gushing hole that used to be Dr. Morrison’s throat disgusted Dr. Bentley. He felt his stomach plunge, flooding him with that sick, nauseating feeling. Dr. Morrison’s final morbid uttering amplified in Dr. Bentley’s mind. It continued on. Dr. Bentley waited anxiously for him to die, hoping that he would, and at the same time praying that he would somehow survive.

  The psychiatrist in him analyzed his conflicting thoughts about Patrick’s death. Maybe it was because he didn’t want Patrick to go on suffering (no...that wasn’t truly it) or because it terrified him to think that he would meet the same fate (yes, that was definitely it, along with the realization that his own agonizing demise was just minutes away). It became difficult for him to breathe.

  Hillary had her tongue in Dr. Morrison’s eye socket and was lapping up blood and the vitreous gel that had oozed out of his damaged eye. The gurgling sound had stopped. The only sound now was Hillary’s slurping. She picked up the knife and carved a big slab of flesh from Dr. Morrison’s side, just below his ribcage. Like an expert butcher, she trimmed her human steak then began devouring it. She licked her lips and grinned as Dr. Bentley watched her in horror.

  “Just you and me now, Jake,” she said, chewing on a mouthful of his colleague. “Your friend’s kinda tasty considering he’s a dirty old man.”

  Dr. Bentley fought hard to keep from retching and to suppress the images that encroached upon his mind.

  “Awww, Jakey,” Hillary said, as she stood inches away from him, “you don’t look so well...are you nervous? Would you like me to hold your hand?”

  Dr. Bentley closed his eyes as Hillary walked around the chair. She hovered behind him. He could feel her hot cannibal breath on the back of his neck. What was she going to do to him? Maybe it was better that he didn’t see, that he didn’t know what was coming. Still, the fear, the anxiety, the anticipation of pain grew unbearable. This was one circumstance where ignorance was not bliss. He opened his eyes and craned his neck as far as it would go to try to find her. His eyes straining as far to the side as they could reach, he still could not see her.

  Seconds later, he felt her grimy hands tracing his face. She ran her hand down to his neck, across his throat. He held his breath. Did she still have that big knife with her?

  “You need to shave,” she said playfully, as she ran her hands back along his stubbly face.

  Dr. Bentley did not reply. He had spent the last half an hour quietly rehearsing his psychiatric ploy—the things he would say to calm her down, get her to trust him and release him. He had felt a glimmer of hope, a modicum of confidence that he could be persuasive enough to tame the savage beast. Now, overwhelmed with fear and anxiety, all hope was lost. He had nothing to say.

  “Cat got your tongue again?” she teased, as she tried to pry her fingers between his lips. He pursed them tightly, disgusted by the thought of her bloody, nasty fingers on his mouth.

  “Oooh, you’re going to be a feisty one, aren’t you?”

  Hillary removed her fingers from his mouth and walked around the chair to face him. She squatted down in front of him.

  “We’re going to have lots of fun,” she said eerily, “lots of fun....”

  Her tone made Dr. Bentley cringe. He closed his eyes again. Amber Skye, he thought, be strong for Amber Skye...you have to do this, you have to try. His confidence boosted by his mental pep talk, he found the strength and courage to speak.

  “Oh,” he said flirtatiously, “there’s no doubt it’s going to be fun.”

  Hillary smiled. Sure, she thought, fun for me, not for you, baby.

  “So what are we going to play first?” he asked boldly, his strong, steady voice surprising himself even more than it surprised Hillary.

  Hillary arched her eyebrows as her smile grew wider.

  “Ooooohhh,” she said with excitement, “I’m even more attracted to you now than I was before.”

  Her hand reached out to touch his crotch, unsuccessfully though, as he was duct-taped to the chair from his armpit down to his waist and his legs were further duct-taped together from his upper thighs to his knees. Hillary had done a good job ensuring his confinement. His hands, which were positioned over his lap, were secured down to his wrists. With his right hand, he extended his fingers to touch her blood-stained hand. In response, she placed both of hands within his. He played along, smiling back at her. She had managed to play on his sympathy and trick him into releasing her, now he fully intended to play on her lust and trick her as well.

  “I had no idea seeing you kill would be such a turn-on,” he lied.

  “Are you for real?” she replied excitedly, “did I really turn you on?”

  “Absolutely! If my legs weren’t bound together, you’d see for yourself how turned on I am.”

  Hillary squealed in delight. She could hardly believe her ears. She had acquired a major crush on the handsome doctor and now he was finally reciprocating her feelings.

  “Really?” she asked, giggling like an innocent school girl.

  “Really. What I would give to be able to touch you,” he said, staring dreamily into her bright eyes.

  Without the slightest hesitation, Hillary hiked up the dress, exposing her nakedness from the waist down. She parted her legs and sat on top of Dr. Bentley’s lap, positioning herself so that his hands were just under her moist opening.

  What have I done? Dr. Bentley wondered as he kept his facetious smile plastered upon his face. He had to go along with it. It was his only chance. God forgive me, he begged. He faked a moan as his fingers explored her. Hillary’s moans and subsequent orgasmic gasp was clearly not feigned. She leaned over and kissed his lips. He was greatly repulsed by it but had to play along. He had to earn her trust, had to try to convince her to set him free.

  He parted his lips and allowed her tainted tongue to mingle with his own. He thought about his wife, Patty. He was only kissing her; it’s just Patty, he tried desperately to convince himself. Yet, the foul metallic taste Hillary introduced to his taste buds indicated otherwise and it took every bit of willpower to keep from pulling away and gagging. When Hillary finally pulled away, she seemed quite pleased.

  “Oh, God, I needed that,” she panted.

  “There’s more where that came from,” Dr. Bentley promised, proud that he had the strength and courage to go through with it.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Didn’t you want to feel me inside of you?”

  Hillary definitely did want that, but she wasn’t a fool. She didn’t really believe he had any interest in her. She saw through his act; it was all just a scheme to escape. After all, didn’t she try the same thing when she was the one confined to the bed? She would play along a while longer. Why not? It was all part of the
fun.

  “Oh, I do, of course I do...soon enough,” she said with a wink.

  “Hey, that’s not very fair to me...to keep me waiting....”

  “I’ll make it worth your while,” she promised as she kissed him once more on his lips then slid back off of him. She pulled down her dress and walked toward the door.

  “W-where are you going?” Dr. Bentley asked nervously, scolding himself for sounding so feeble.

  “Don’t worry lover boy, I’ll be back,” she replied, without turning back to face him. She left the room.

  Where’s she going? Dr. Bentley wondered, fearing that she was on a mission to find additional items with which to satisfy her bloodthirsty appetite. She had inflicted such pain on Monica and Patrick. He didn’t even dare to imagine what she would do to him when she returned. Or, at least he didn’t want to imagine what would happen, but left alone on the verge of a panic attack, it was hard not to keep his mind from conjuring up atrocious scenarios and imagery.

  Nearly a half an hour later, Hillary entered the room carrying a new bag, which caused Dr. Bentley to grimace. She had washed up and was wearing a different dress she had borrowed from Monica’s wardrobe—a light pink dress with a floral pattern. She was eerily humming “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music. It sent a shiver up Dr. Bentley’s spine.

  He wondered just what “favorite things” she was referring to. And why bother changing? Dr. Bentley thought, irritably, it’ll be blood-stained in no time at all.

  “What do you have there?” he asked, his pretense enthusiasm sounding too forced and chipper.

  Hillary rolled her eyes. He was really overdoing it.

  “What do you think?” she said sarcastically, and added, “more tools,” before waiting for his response.

  It was just as he had feared. How many of his nightmarish visions would come to fruition before the day was through? His heart began to race as beads of sweat formed along his hairline.