Snuggle
By Blacknight99
Chapter 2
Kendra’s Tale
There are battles to be fought … but we have come so far, with so many heroines along the way. From Sojourner Truth to Harriet Tubman to Rosa Parks. We owe them; all of us, black and white and brown and yellow. My generation owes so very much, though each of us must choose whether or not we want to repay that debt … and how. As for me, I will go as far as I can. It’s hard. There are obstacles every step of the way, but I will keep on. I owe them that.
It’s easy to take things for granted … when you have them. I’ve always had them. Daddy went into public service once he had his law degree. He met my mother overseas, brought her back to the States, and joined a fancy law firm. I’ve been in private schools my whole life. It was in college, at Cornell, that I added several new heroines to my list. Gwendolyn Brooks, Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison. And I decided I would try to honor my predecessors the way they had honored there’s … by being unique. I would write … in my own words, in my own style.
And yet, for all my talk, there are a couple obstacles that I simply can’t seem to get over. The first is the hardest to swallow. I do what I love, and I love to write. Unfortunately, I’m either not that creative, or more probably, just not that good. Not yet. Not by myself. Fortunately for me, I’m not alone. I’ll come back to that in a minute.
And secondly, it’s very, very hard to BE a strong personality, when you don’t HAVE one. It’s not that I haven’t tried. It’s just not who I am. I like to judge a person on how he or she relates to Dracula. No, not the monster … the book. It’s something most people have read, sometime in their lives; and in it are four wonderful characters. Men will imagine themselves as either Jonathan Harker or Van Helsing, depending who they most admire … the patient observer or the self-described expert who’s not afraid to take drastic action. Most women imagine themselves to be Mina: strong, gentle, reverent and chaste. But me … I lie in bed and imagine myself as Lucy; the girl who, when confronted by evil desire, eventually surrendered her body and her soul.
The first time I had sex, I was drunk. It was all a cliché, really. It happened after the senior prom. He had brought a bottle along, and he had “car problems” after parking in a lovers’ lane; then he goaded me with the booze and coaxed me into the back seat. I didn’t like it. It hurt like the dickens, and eventually, I think I just wound up noticing things that annoyed me: his clumsiness, his breath, the mess … that sort of thing. I swore off sex. Never again. That little resolution lasted about ten months. Our sorority (my freshman year) was invited to a frat party. It was almost the same scenario … drunk, enticed, disappointed. And … never again, I told myself. I held out for almost a year that time. It was another party. But this guy (a football player) got rough. There were bruises. And … there were pictures. An assistant coach took them when I started squawking. I’ll give you gals out there a little tip: you can’t fight a college athletic organization, so don’t even GO there. Before I had a chance to make a case, they were already lining up a case against ME, threatening to expel me for prostitution. The very erotic pictures all seemed to prove them right. I quickly saw the writing on the wall and the whole thing was dropped. Never again, I said. And this time, I made it stick. Of course, I had a little help.
The help was Janie. I don’t know how we hooked up … or really, at first, why. We met in a Foreign Authors class the second semester of our sophomore year. I’d seen her around campus, but of course, she’s just the type of person you notice. Guys would follow her around like a line of ducklings, and she’d toss them little smiles instead of bread crumbs. The thing that caught my attention was the fourth straight A+ paper that was handed back to her. The first words I ever spoke to her were after class while she was holding that paper. “Are you sleeping with the prof?” I asked. (Have I mentioned my uncanny predilection for tact?) Instead of getting angry, she threw back her head and laughed out loud. Then, amazingly, she folded her arm in mine and turned me toward the door. “Let’s get some coffee,” she suggested.
And we’ve been together ever since. She is, without any mental reservation or purpose for evasion, the most intelligent woman I have ever met. But, oh my, she hides it well. The first thing we did was start studying together, and my grades all improved … even in the classes she wasn’t taking. We moved in together that summer, and I found that I was no longer simply running MY life … WE were running OURS. I had never even considered sticking around for grad school, but for her, it was a given … not just for her, but for US.
As different as we were physically, we were alike inside. Janie’s problem was sex. With me, she was like a female Einstein: logical, calculating, witty and sharp. With men, she was the typical dumb blonde. She literally never said “no” to a guy. Like me, she never seemed to be satisfied by the sex; I think she just got off on the submission … and maybe on the humiliation. She was constantly being left emotionally drained and physically abused. Midway through our junior year, I’d had enough, and I told her so. The solution was simple, actually; like everything, it became a problem to figure out for “us,” and not just her. We formed a mutual protection society. When we wanted to go out, we went out together, either on a double date, or more and more frequently, the two of us alone; and eventually, men ceased to be a part of our lives altogether.
Now, we were two healthy young women. We had certain needs … and no, we didn’t turn to each other for sex. We each had BOB (Battery Operated Boyfriend) for that. We were very pragmatic about it … very realistic. If I heard a buzzing sound in the night, I didn’t think anything about it … and I most certainly never mentioned it. Sometimes, that was difficult … Janie is a “moaner,” and is often quite … well … vociferous. But overall, it was just a necessity, like hygiene. A fact of life. Another aspect of our day-to-day existence. It was basic knowledge between us that someday … well … someday Mr. Right would come along for each of us, and we could dream about him when we were in bed alone with BOB. When that day finally did come, we’d face it. We’d be alright. But for now, we needed to get on with life.
After graduation, we joined the staff of the school paper together doing editorials. Then we published an article in a magazine together … and then another, and another. At Janie’s insistence, we started taking screenwriting classes, beginning with an undergrad course and then moving to some advanced classes. Finally, we started sending “spec scripts” to various TV shows, producers and studios. After a year of this, we attracted the attention of an agent; and finally, finally, we sold a feature script to the Sci Fi Channel. Then, of course, came the first re-write, and then the second re-write: delete this character, add that scene, change the location, turn the leading lady into a young girl … and on and on. By the fifth re-write (the final, by contract), the thing bore little resemblance to the masterpiece it had once been … but they shot it! They actually shot it! We were in IMDb! We had done it!
“Writing teams” are becoming more and more popular. As far as publishers are concerned (and producers, studios … everybody), a team is treated like a single person. If a team is hired for a TV staff writer’s position (for example), they get one individual salary that they have to split … the same salary that is paid to each of the other “individuals.” In other words, a “team” might be in it for the money, but they’re not in it to get rich. Still, there is no source of satisfaction quite like the rush you get when you see your stuff in print or on the screen.
We had never really considered video games before we got the call from our agent telling us that Rankin Toddworth himself had requested to see us. We were absolutely stunned, but we shifted immediately into high gear and tried to figure the thing out. First, we researched Toddworth, who, most people seemed to agree, could be classified somewhere between wildly eccentric and downright cruel. We had told our agent (who was in Los Angeles) that we’d meet with the old man right away, but after another hour, we were both balking at the whole idea. And then, a lawyer showed up and asked us to sign for a thick envelope. It contained instructions for travel, a cell phone, and fifteen thousand dollars in cash (for “expense money,” the letter said—whether we decided to sign a contract or not). See you tomorrow, the letter said. Pack for a few days, because if we did sign, we’d go right to work.
Janie still didn’t want to do it. I did. We flipped a coin. Isn’t it amazing how dramatically your life can change just because a coin comes up tails?
After the “decision” had been made, Janie jumped in with both feet. She visited the campus library and the bookstores in search of information about writing video game content. Then we went out together and bought new suitcases, new clothes and travel necessities. The limo would pick us up at ten o’clock the next morning, since it was a four or five hour drive from Ithaca to Danbury. All the way there, we studied … and we got more and more uneasy. Just about everything nowadays was a “shooter” game, and apart from the background “universe,” which was mostly a graphics function, there wasn’t anything even resembling the type of writing we had been doing. I announced that if it was a “D&D” themed game, we were sunk, since our required reading list would number in the dozens … if not hundreds of gaming books, and neither of us would even know where to start.
The house, of course, was awe-inspiring, inside and out, and the grounds were not only immaculate, they went on for as far as the eye could see. Mr. Toddworth answered the door himself, and though he was certainly cordial, we both got the impression that he was studying us intently. This went well beyond the “undressing us with his eyes” routine, though I think there was some of that involved, too. He complimented Janie’s “grace and poise,” and he told me I had a nice figure. I pretty much decided that “dirty old man” was the thing nestled between “eccentric” and “cruel,” at least in his case. He told us that the butler would show us to our room (we both noticed that the word was singular), that dinner would be served early this evening, and could we be ready by five? We gaped at him nervously, but said we could. Were we supposed to bring fancy dresses?
I had packed a light cotton summer dress, and even though the temperature had turned cool, it would just have to do. Janie didn’t even bring a dress, but with her shape, she could make a pair of Dockers adequate for the Met. The fact that we were both in the same room (with only one double bed) really had us stumped. Did he think we were lovers or something? Whatever. What’s just one more little hardship? We were in the business of persevering. We spent our remaining time helping with each other’s hair and makeup. I thought we looked pretty damned good, myself.
We were aghast, however, when we found our way to the drawing room and saw Toddworth and another man wearing tuxedos. The new guy was younger than our host … probably around fifty, I guess, and he looked like a young Sigmund Freud, replete with full, short, gray-shot beard. Toddworth introduced him simply as “Dr. Arnold,” and we both just assumed that he was a full-time private physician. We were served Champagne punch cocktails, but disappointingly, no appetizers. Because of the time the limo picked us up, we had eaten nothing since breakfast, and very quickly, the drink started going to my head. The butler arrived to tell us that dinner would be delayed fifteen minutes due to a failure of one of the burners on the kitchen stove; and after taking the man aside and whispering some pointed instructions in private, Toddworth apologized and told us there was simply nothing else to do but have another drink.
Janie was visibly wobbly on her feet, and I wasn’t much better, so I maneuvered her to the couch by the bay window and carefully sat us down. This seemed to dismay the two menfolk, however, and they worked together to drag a chair over and position it facing us. The doctor sat in it and contemplated us carefully. “Do you know what type of degree I have?” he asked us.
“A Doctor’s Degree?” Janie guessed, and she giggled. I looked at her wide-eyed. She couldn’t be that far gone after only two drinks! “A Doctorate in Doctoring,” she announced, and guffawed.
“Janie!” I admonished … but then a laugh bubbled up out of my mouth. I bit it off with an effort. “I’m really sorry, Doctor. We haven’t had much to eat today, and the drinks were … um … very good. What type of doctor are you?”
“I’m a clinical psychologist, my dear. I specialize in hypnosis.”
Janie very suddenly stopped her laughter, and she regarded the man with seeming wonder. “Really?” she said, swaying slightly, bumping her shoulder against mine. “I’ve never been hypnotized. I’ve always wondered what it would be like.”
“It’s the most wonderful feeling in the world, my dear. You’ll be completely relaxed … completely open and honest. You’ll feel euphoric and happy.”
She swayed back and forth. “I don’t know. You’ll make me bark like a dog. You’ll control me.”
He chuckled. I got the feeling that he didn’t WANT to appear condescending; he just couldn’t help it. “You might be open to suggestion … intelligent people usually are …but a person can only be ‘controlled’ if she really wants that.”
I wrinkled my brow in thought. There was something about that statement that didn’t meet the criteria of “Philosophy 201: Introduction to Logic.” For a moment, I thought I had it. All people want to appear intelligent. Intelligent people are open to suggestion. Therefore, all people want to be open to suggestion. However, after I decided to go over that in my head one more time, I found I’d lost my train of thought.
“Okay,” Janie declared. “Do me.”
“Janie!” I whispered harshly. “I’m not sure this is the time or situation to go around giving up emotional control.”
To my surprise, she bristled. “I think I’ve been holding down my share of the ‘situation,’ Ken!” she barked. “You don’t think I deserve a wee bit of euphoria?” I must have looked as shocked as I felt, because she was immediately conciliatory. She blinked those big green eyes at me and said: “Sorry, babe. I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just that I’ve always been really curious about this. You don’t mind, do you?”
I tried to take in my surroundings, which was difficult, because the room was spinning. Toddworth, who was inclined against the wall off to our left, was leaning forward expectantly. The good doctor of psychology was also leaning toward us, his elbows on his knees, his eyes glittering. Something was rotten in the state of Denmark. Little Miss Hamlet, however, didn’t seem capable of figuring it out. “Okay, Janie. I’ll stay awake and make sure … um … he doesn’t turn you into a chicken.”
“Oh, that’s alright. I AM intelligent, after all, so I must be suggestible, right Doc?”
The good doctor looked startled, and I couldn’t help but feel a little vindicated for my previous thought … whatever that had been. I shook my head to try and clear it. He took out a small penlight, pushed a button, and it started blinking slowly, a soft, pulsing red. “Just watch the light, my dear,” he intoned softly. “Relax and watch the light, and soon, you’ll be in a deep, deep trance. It’s going to be the best feeling you’ve ever had … the best feeling in the world. Relax for me, and just let go. Follow my voice, and let go. You deserve this. You’ve always wanted it, and now you can have it.”
I watched her intently. Already, her mouth was hanging slightly open and her eyes had glazed over. “It’s time to get sleepy now. The more relaxed you are, the sleepier you become. It’s only natural to want this. You’re going to sleep SO deeply. You can just let your eyes close, whenever you want to. Just let it happen.” Her eyes slid shut, but he continued. “And you see the light, blink … blink … blinking, causing you to relax even more.” Okay, that didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Why would he be going on and on about seeing the blinking light, if her eyes were closed? “And now, as you watch the light blink, blink, blink, you are so relaxed, and so sleepy. Do you see how the color of the light is changing?” That made me turn and look at it myself. It was still red, though. “The light is changing to a wonderful, multi-colored sparkle. Can you see it?”
“Yes,” Janie said, her voice low.
I wrinkled my brow and studied the light harder. “So relaxed, now. So relaxed and sleepy. The more relaxed you are, the better you can see the pretty, sparkling colors. Do you see them?”
Again, she answered yes, but her voice had a strange echo.
“You deserve a little nap,” he continued. “You deserve to feel this relaxed … to feel the wonderful sleep that is coming for you. So relaxed. So sleepy. Do you see the pretty colors?”
“Yes.” There was an echo, no doubt about it. Some indeterminable time later, I thought I had the answer. “Yes, I see them,” I said aloud. And I could, too. I thought I’d take a little nap. I deserved this. I deserved to feel relaxed like this.
“Close your eyes and sleep,” he said. I felt wonderful. I don’t remember anything else, but I remember that I felt wonderful.
I struggled up and up and up from the deepest sleep imaginable, even though I still felt exhausted and a part of me didn’t want to wake up. Beside me, Janie was doing the same. We were in some strange bedroom without windows. There were three doors on separate walls, one of which was partly open, revealing a bathroom. The walls themselves were bare, and the whole thing looked … plain. We were alone, but the door facing us was opening, and the doctor was coming in carrying a tray with two plates and two big glasses of water. “I’m afraid you slept through dinner,” he told us. “I had the butler prepare your meals.”
He put the tray down on a low coffee table, and we sat on the edge of the bed to eat. The plates, when uncovered, had a very sparse amount of food. “Is this all?” Janie asked groggily.
“We’re very hungry,” I explained. “May we have more?”
“I’m very sorry, but that’s all there is. Perhaps you can drink plenty of water.”
I sighed. There were only a few mouthfuls, but he was right, there was lots of water. We each drank a full glass. “What is this place?” I asked, looking around.
“Just one of the estate bedrooms,” he answered. “I asked for privacy, because you were both such extraordinary subjects. He said he’d let us use this room.” He paused, as if he’d had a sudden thought. “Here, let me show you.” He pulled out the little penlight and set it to blinking again. “Look at the light and relax. Relax. That’s it. Sleep, now. Sleep.”
Janie gave a soft sigh and tumbled back onto the mattress. I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off the blinking light, but I definitely knew something was wrong. Dr. Arnold continued to intone “Sleep. Sleep,” on and on, and finally I just gave up. He was right about one thing: it DID feel good to be hypnotized … and this time, it felt even better. This time, I had an orgasm.
Again, we awoke at the same time, and again the doctor was coming in, bearing a tray. We sat, groggy and disoriented, and viewed another very meager meal, which consisted of about half a scrambled egg, half a piece of toast, and a single strip of bacon on each plate. Janie groaned that she was SO hungry, and wolfed it down while I tried desperately to figure out what was wrong with this picture. While she wasn’t looking, I put some of my food on her plate, then drank some of the orange juice that accompanied the meal. I felt really … fuzzy.
“Are … are you holding us here against our will?” I asked the doctor.
He expressed surprise. “I’m shocked that you’d even consider such an accusation,” he answered. He pulled out that damn penlight again. “I’m only trying to help each of you find your true potential.” It started blinking again. “And you DO like it, don’t you? You like the way you watch the light and relax. Relax. Now, Sleep. Sleep.”
Janie was out again, but I tried hard to reason this through. The more he intoned “Sleep,” however, the more difficult it was to concentrate. Finally, after losing my train of thought entirely, I succumbed and lay down beside her. I had another orgasm … but that’s all I remember. When we next awoke, however, we were both completely naked.
“Oh, HELL no!” Janie yelled, covering her breasts with her hands as the door opened. But the doc hardly seemed to take notice, and he set the tray with the two plates and two glasses down in front of us exactly like he’d done before. The incentive of food outweighed the need for modesty, and she used her hands to force the morsels into her mouth, actually whining when it was gone. This time, she looked at me suspiciously when she found another few bites on her previously empty plate, but said nothing and guiltily ate it.
“You can’t keep us here,” I told him savagely. “We have friends and family. They’ll be looking for us.”
He smiled pleasantly. “As I said before, I’m only attempting to help you reach your full potential. And … as a matter of fact, you’ve each called your families and told them that you’re working for Mr. Toddworth on a project, and that you won’t be able to call again for some time.”
The shock or such a statement suddenly became obscured in my mind. He was pulling out the penlight again. Suddenly, I thought I knew what was happening to me … but before I could voice my thoughts, Janie asked: “Why are we nude? Why did you do this?”
“It helps create the mood for submissive reception of my suggestions of self-acceptance and mental actualization,” he said. Ah, so it wasn’t just my muddled brain. He was talking in double-speak. By this time, the light was blinking, and he began chanting his stupid “Relax,” and “Sleep” mantra. What had that thought been? It had been so important. I slept. I came.
I awoke. It was the same scenario exactly, but this time, when I had the idea, I kept a firm grasp on it. Unfortunately, I’d already eaten the food. “You son of a bitch,” I hissed at him. “You’re drugging us. THAT’s how you’re doing this.” He grimaced slightly and regarded me seriously before pulling out the penlight. I was especially dismayed when I felt Janie, beside me, topple over, asleep … but I swore I was not going to be such easy prey. I kept my eyes locked on his, rather than on the light, and I tried my damnedest not to listen to him, but he just kept on and on while lifting the blinking light to his eye level and I again lost my train of thought and surrendered.
I came again. But this time, I DO remember what happened. Because this time, I tried and I tried … and I woke up. I was lying on my back beside Janie in the bed, and I heard a voice, detached and distant, coming from somewhere beyond the room. I got up and went to the door, listened with my ear against it, then tried it, only to find it locked. I tiptoed over to the other door, gently cracked it open and peered inside. It was some sort of operating room, with medical devices and heavy machines all around. Dr. Arnold was bent over a desk, speaking into a phone. “Yes, I just spoke to Toddworth, and he concurred …. I’m sorry if you’re inconvenienced …. The blonde’s okay, it’s the other one. I don’t think I can control her any longer …. I understand that they both have to be done together, and I’m sorry the timetable is being moved up, but I need you now. Right away …. I’m sorry, I have absolutely nothing at all to do with the money. You’ll have to take that up with Toddworth …. Yes, goodbye.”
He rose, and I retreated quickly back to the bed, taking my place beside Janie; but he never came into the room (I was watching through eyes that were closed to slits). Eventually, though, I heard a door close somewhere, and rising once again, I checked the door to the other room carefully. He wasn’t there, so I crept in and looked around.
The place smelled antiseptic, and was clean and shiny new. A wheeled gurney seemed to be the central feature of the room, but one end of it was literally surrounded by bulky objects … above, below and on either side. Atop these, and on both side of them, were computer monitors, all slanted to face what must have been a control panel, which sported two keyboards and two joysticks.
Confused, I went to the desk where I had seen Dr. Arnold talking on the phone. I can’t believe I didn’t immediately pick it up and try to call for help … my mind must have still been muddled from whatever drug had been in the food. Instead, my attention was drawn to several file folders sitting on the desk’s surface, one of which bore Janie’s and my names. It wasn’t very extensive … most of it was from our “profiles” on file with our agent in Los Angeles. After our sophomore year, Janie and I had taken all the same classes, one of which was a clinical psych class where, as one of our projects, we “evaluated” ourselves using various types of standard psychological tests. How had he gotten his hands on this stuff?
All the other folders had to do with a woman in Chicago. One of the first things in the top folder was a short news article from the Chicago Tribune dated about three years before. I still remember it verbatim. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.
“WOMAN SUES CITY. CLAIMS ACCIDENT FORCED HER INTO PROSTITUTION.
“A South Chicago woman, injured in a bus accident in June, is making the strange claim that the injuries she sustained have forced her into a life of sexual dependency and prostitution.
“The woman, referred to in the formal suit as “Ms X,” insists that since the mishap, she has been unable to be physically separated from another person without experiencing severe panic attacks. Without family or friends in the area, she claims that she has been forced to move from man to man in order to maintain physical closeness; her only stipulations in the mostly one-night liaisons were that the man spend the entire night with her, and that afterwards, he remain with her, holding her hand, until a substitute could be found.
“She claims that she has lost all that she had, including her job and apartment, as a result of the accident. She is seeking $20 million in damages. The City Attorney’s Office calls the claim preposterous.”
Most of the other folders contained medical mumbo-jumbo and what I assumed to be brain scans, circled in some places, notes written in marker in others.
I smelled him first. That’s the first indication I had that I was no longer alone. A harsh, sharp, nauseating, medicine smell. I dropped the folder I was holding and started to spin around toward him, but I was too late … he’d slid an arm around my bare stomach and pulled me back against him. The smell became overpowering. Instinctively, I took a deep breath to scream, but instead of air, all my lungs inhaled was the horrid smell. I raised my hands to claw at the hand covering my mouth, feeling cloth, but I lacked the strength to do any damage. I started kicking back at him, but my feet, of course, were bare; and by now, I could barely lift them.
“You’ve been naughty, Kendra,” Doctor Arnold said in my ear. “I’ve only had your best interests at heart, but you’ve been exceedingly uncooperative.” I couldn’t keep my hands up anymore, and they fell to my sides. “I’ll make you a deal,” he continued. “If you be a good girl and go to sleep, I’ll take away the bad-smelling cloth. Do we have an agreement?” I tried to nod, but I have no idea if I did. I did sleep though. No orgasm this time. Guess I’d been a bad girl.
When I finally awoke, the room was the same, but the scene had changed dramatically. I was in a chair against one wall, and I couldn’t move. My arms were attached to the arms of the chair by some sort of tape, and apparently, so were my feet to the chair’s legs. There were two figures that slightly resembled space creatures in a “B” movie, draped in greenish cloth and bulky stuff that covered their bodies, both front and back. They wore helmets that covered the tops and back of their heads, and a faceplate that sort of resembled a welder’s mask, only the place for the eyes was transparent. Their feet were wrapped in those paper slipper things they use in hospitals. In stark contrast was the nude figure on the hospital gurney. Janie was lying face-down, her arms by her sides, Velcro straps around her back, her hips, her thighs, her ankles. As I watched, the bulky machines that surrounded her head were moving away, though cloth pads obscured the back of her head.
The standing figure spoke with Dr. Arnold’s voice. “You’re not going to monitor extraction?”
“It’s all computerized,” was the gruff answer. “It’s going to come out exactly the same way it went in. As long as she’s perfectly still, everything will be fine.” He sounded condescending … maybe a little pissed off.
There was a humming noise, and a machine just above her head began extracting a long, thin needle out of the back of her head through a hole in the cloth. I gaped as needle kept coming … and coming. There seemed to be no end to it; and to me, it was an absolute impossibility. It must have easily been twelve or fourteen inches long. From its angle, it should have stuck several inches through the front of her face. I made a noise. It was the first I’d noticed that there was tape over my mouth.
“Ah. Little Miss Nosey is awake,” the gruff voice proclaimed.
He wasn’t looking at me, though. Now that the needle was all the way out I saw that it wasn’t really a needle at all, but something flexible and wiggly. He man moved his chair up to Janie’s head, where he began working with various tools and devices. For awhile, it appeared that he was using a screwdriver. And then he was working with a needle and thread. The whole process took maybe ten minutes. Finally, he pushed his wheeled chair back away from her.
“She’s all yours, Doctor.” I could hear a sneer as he emphasized that last word. Then he seemed to reconsider. “That’s the first time I’ve ever operated on a patient who was under hypnosis. I have to admit, I’m impressed. Perhaps you should consider a second career in anesthesia.”
“It’s not going to work on her, though,” Dr. Arnold said, nodding in my direction.
“That’s alright. I’ll take care of this one.” The surgeon stood, walked over to a cabinet and started fiddling with something while the shorter figure pulled all the Velcro straps off of Janie’s limp body, then he wheeled the gurney out of the room. When the space monster by the cabinet turned to face me again, it was holding a hypodermic needle. He walked up to me, bent down and looked me in the eyes.
“I had Broadway show tickets for tonight. I was going to take a lovely lady I met at a party. I was thinking, maybe, I’d get lucky, you know? But then … YOU happened.” He straightened up and took a step back. I couldn’t take my eyes off the needle. “You obviously read my folders,” he resumed. “You know what’s going to happen to your girlfriend now. And so … I’m going to give you a choice. Number one, you can voluntarily hold out your arm for me while I inject you with this; in which case, you and your blonde friend will remain together … possibly forever. Or … you can refuse, in which case, I’ll inject it into your neck, and do the procedure, anyway.” He stepped closer again, put his face mask beside my ear, and spoke in a voice only I could hear. “But, Toddworth knows the odds. Some failure is inevitable in science. With a slight error, I could turn you a walking turnip. And as for your friend? Toddworth will do whatever he has planned with her alone, and I can promise you … as God is my witness … you will never see her again.” He let that sink in for a second. “You probably read that news article. Do you think she can survive without you?” And without further comment, he reached down and savagely pulled the tape from my mouth.
“You son of a bitch!” I screamed, only to be struck dumb by the sight of a scalpel, held inches from my face. Sure, I tried to sound brave, but my wide eyes and tear-drenched cheeks might have been giving away my true feelings just a little. Nervously, I watched the scalpel descend to my right wrist, where, with a single swipe, it cut through the tape. Slowly, I twisted it until it was free, then I raised my hand, flexed my fingers several times, and tried to wipe away some of the tears, which were coming too hard now to staunch. I looked up at the mad doctor again, who was still standing above me holding the hypo. “You son of a bitch,” I whispered again, and I held out my arm toward him, wrist upward. Without further preamble, he plunged the needle into my arm. “Ow ow ow!” I exclaimed through gritted teeth as he pushed the plunger home.
Once that was done, he suddenly seemed to be in a huge hurry. Using the scalpel, he sliced through the tape restraining my other wrist and my ankles, pulling the tape clear almost brutally, then he turned away and started fiddling with something near all the machines. I simply couldn’t believe that he’d free me and then just leave me sitting there! I decided … to hell with it. I was going to run. Naked or not, I was going to escape and find some help. All I had to … do … was … move. I wanted to cry out, but I couldn’t open my mouth. Somehow, I realized that I couldn’t even blink my eyes. And then slowly, slowly, the REAL problem hit home: I couldn’t breathe.
“I need a little help in here, doctor!” the goon in green hollered. This brought some sort of immediate action, but I couldn’t see it. I mean, I could still see … but I could move neither my head nor my eyes in their sockets. I felt myself being hoisted up and plopped onto my side on the padded gurney. Fingers were suddenly in my mouth, prying it open. Oooh, I wanted SO much to bite him! But that, of course, wasn’t happening. Something else was in my mouth now, pressing against my tongue, holding it down. He put strips of tape over my mouth then; four of them, at least … maybe more. Something was pinching my nose. And all of a sudden, my lungs were flooded with air. If I could, I would have sighed in relief … but it took another half minute to realize that I was virtually in the same situation; for not only could I not inhale, I couldn’t exhale, either.
I felt hands playing with my breasts … and then just below them. Something started beeping rhythmically, and I realized that he’d hooked up a heart monitor. Then, I was turned over onto my stomach, and he began securing my head to some sort of cushioned indentation at the end of table. I’m not sure how the thing in my mouth worked. My eyes were open, but they were less than an inch from the surface of the table, and I could see nothing at all. I felt a hand on my bare back push down hard, and the air in my lungs was finally expelled. When the hand left, pressurized air filled them again. Hands continued fiddling with straps and things around my head, as, once again, I found that I could not exhale. I began to see stars. I was about to die of asphyxiation, even though my lungs were full of air.
Dr. Arnold’s voice: “What did you give her? My God, is she conscious? Is she cognizant?” I heard someone’s frustrated pacing while other straps were applied. “What kind of fiend ARE you?”
“At the moment, I am one pissed-off fiend,” was the reply. “Now, if you’d like to help out a little, you could press the lady’s back … like this … once every six or seven seconds. You’ll know if you aren’t doing it right, because the heart monitor will flat line when she dies.”
The straps were being put around my lower back now, my thighs, my ankles. “This is INSANE!” Dr. Arnold’s voice half-screamed. “Do you have any idea what kind of psychological impact this might have on her?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is nothing, compared to the psychological results of operation itself. Anyway, serves her right, as far as I’m concerned.” There was a long pause. “And … we’re ready to start. You’ll feel a little sting, my dear.” Holy shit! A little sting? It felt like he’d jammed a hot poker into the back of head! “And … here comes another one.” Okay, that one … whatever it was … wasn’t nearly as bad as the first one, but it still hurt. There was another pause. “And one more.” It took me awhile to realize he was through with whatever it was he was doing. I hadn’t even felt the “one more.” I heard metal scraping against metal somewhere, and I realized he’d picked up something from a steel tray. “And now … a little pressure.” Something was definitely happening back there, but I couldn’t tell what. And then, I heard it … like somebody knocking gently on a piece of very hard wood. He was tapping on my skull.
“And now, my dear, we fire up the machines.” I heard several switches clicked, and electronics could be heard, the sound rising in frequency before leveling off in a constant, high-pitched hum. “You’ve no doubt noticed the sheik style of clothing the two of us are wearing. These devices put out quite a bit of radiation. You should feel no ill effects from the amount you’re about to absorb, but I wouldn’t recommend getting a chest X-ray, MRI or CAT scan in the next year, if you can avoid it. And now, if you’ll excuse me, this thing is a little loud.”
I would have jumped if that were at all possible. It sounded like a dentist’s drill. Then it smelled like being in a dentist’s chair while he was drilling … the smell of burning bone. Finally, it stopped. “Could you hand me that number eleven, please, doctor?” There was a pause. “The scalpel.” Another pause. “No, the pointy one. Thank you.” Water was coursing down my neck, then I heard air hissing. “I can’t go all the way through with the drill, you see. Bone chips don’t mix well with God’s greatest creation.” There was a long period where the only sound was scraping. “Done,” he announced. “Clean as a whistle. Nice color, by the way … sign of a very healthy brain. Oh … and nice boobs, too. I forgot to compliment you on those. Now to position the probe.” Small electric motors were being activated to my left and right.
“Aaannd … we’re off!” he said triumphantly. “Our destination, my dear, is the left lateral amygdala. Ever heard of it? .… What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? …. Well, no consequence. Now, if it were up to ME, I’d have gone through the roof of your mouth, but our employer wanted something a little more … cosmetically acceptable. As a result, I go in just about anywhere else I want, and travel along the outside of the brain itself through the layer of fluid that protects said organ. I plan to make a right turn about half-past your left ear. Don’t be shocked if you hear it. Now, nestled somewhere just below the level of your eyes, we find two of those grey squiggly things that make up your brain … but these are oriented as almost-circles, standing upright. Those make up the hippocampus. At the forward end of each of those almost-circles, there’s a little node. That’s the amygdala. It reminds me, a little, of the head on a penis … but perhaps I just have a dirty mind.”
I don’t know what I was expecting when he gave me that shot … but it sure hadn’t been this. I have never felt so utterly, absolutely, thoroughly helpless. I wished he would shut up, but he was obviously getting off on instilling as much terror in me as he could. I tried to reason calmly. There was nothing I COULD do … not even breathe on my own, and so I should resolve myself to just hang on. If only he would shut up! His words were being obscured, now, by some piece of equipment, way off to my left, that … for some reason … was increasing dramatically in pitch and amplitude. Soon, perhaps, I wouldn’t be able to hear him at all if that thing (whatever it was), kept getting louder. But then the sound crested and began tapering off, and it modulated in pitch, slightly, like the Doppler shift of a passing train. Oh, God! It was the probe! It wasn’t some piece of equipment, far to my left; the sound was coming from inside me! Inside my head!
“I like to think of those little jewels the way you might view postal workers, only they deal with emotions instead of letters,” the doctor continued gaily. “A message comes into the brain, and little Mr. Amygdala puts it in the proper out box. He says: ‘Oh, I remember this feeling, this is happiness. I’ll just route it to the happiness department.’ Or the sad department. Or pleasure. Or pain or fear or joy or terror or bliss. You name it. How, exactly, does it do that? How does it work? Physically, we don’t have a clue. I only know that after I’d finally, finally tracked down that woman in Chicago, and after I’d finally given her the most extensive series of CAT scans I could legally give her, the only abnormality I could find was a small lesion on her left amygdala. How she had actually gotten it without sustaining catastrophic brain damage, I have no idea. Nor do I have any idea how that particular injury resulted in severe monophobia and panic. But it did. And, when I duplicated that injury in a test subject, it did again. And again.” He paused. “Ah … there you are, you little beauty.” He was quiet for almost a full minute. Not having to hear that bastard speak was definitely being filed under “bliss” in my brain.
“Done!” he announced triumphantly. Things started happening all around me after that, with sounds occurring to my right and left, as well as directly over and behind my head. Mentally, I tried to take stock. I hadn’t felt anything throughout the whole affair, with the exception of what must have been a shot of something to deaden the nerves in my scalp. For the time being, I did NOT feel panicked … with the exception of the unspeakable dread that something foreign quite literally had been running around in my brain … but, of course, there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. On the other hand, Dr. Arnold still had his hand on my bare back, forcing me to exhale every six seconds. When he stopped, would I start freaking out?
I felt my face being pushed downward pretty hard. He was doing something awfully harsh back there, and I remembered the screw driver-looking thing he’d used on Janie. Then, he was quiet for a long, long time, before uttering: “Damned kinky hair! The blonde’s super-fine hair was bad enough. Fuckin’ stitches are below my pay grade!” But Dr. Arnold didn’t comment. It’s the first time I realized that he hadn’t spoken during the entire process.
Finally, it seemed to be over. Hands were pulling the Velcro straps from my body, then I was being brusquely rolled over onto my back. Finally, Dr. Arnold spoke: “Won’t that hurt her wound?”
“Naw, the stitches are close, and it’s covered. And it won’t hurt the entry point … that screw’s titanium. Keep up the compressions, though, doc … we don’t want to lose her after all that! I just made it a whole lot more fun for you, that’s all.”
I felt a hand between my breasts, and was forced to exhale, and then, six seconds later, again. In another minute, I felt a prick in almost the same spot on my right arm as the needle that had started this whole nightmare. Almost immediately, I blinked. I had never even considered that blinking would be such an enjoyable pastime. I looked from one of them to the other, and saw that they were both still dressed in their monster costumes. Dr. Asshole was pulling the tape from around the tube in my mouth, and finally, I was breathing on my own again.
“Pleasure meeting you both, I’m sure,” he said, as he turned toward the hall door. He was unceremoniously taking off the various articles of protective clothing and throwing them on the floor. When he removed the helmet, he didn’t look back at us, and to this day, I have no idea what he looks like. He had brown hair … and I remember from the hypodermic ultimatum that he had brown eyes, but that’s about it. “The girl I cancelled the date with said I should call her when I got out of surgery. I think I’ll take her up on it. Bye now.”
“Oh, Kendra, I’m SO sorry you went through that,” Dr. Arnold said, stripping off his mask and setting it on one of the benches.
I tried to make sure my lips and tongue were working properly before I attempted an answer. “That’s not true, Doctor. You were the one that needed this … to help control us. You don’t seem to have any trouble dishing out terror, you just don’t want to get up close and personal.” He didn’t respond, and I sighed. “Thank you for helping me breathe,” I whispered, as I tried to struggle into a sitting position.
He put a hand on my shoulder to keep me prone, then wheeled the gurney into the bedroom and helped me into bed with Janie. I snuggled against her as he pulled a sheet over us. “Would you let me help you sleep?” he asked, pulling out the penlight.
I considered it. “Yes, please. But Doctor … don’t make me forget. I don’t want to forget. Okay?”
He nodded, and started the light blinking. Almost immediately, I was asleep. I had an orgasm. I guess I was back on the good-girl list.