The Dark Forest: A Collection Of Erotic Fairytales(141)
PATIENT: Jane Doe
ARRIVAL: 4/2/1990 at 0248.
CHIEF COMPLAINT: Patient arrived unaccompanied, on foot. Alert but verbally non-responsive. Appears able to hear and respond to verbal commands.
HISTORY: unavailable
CURRENT MEDICATIONS: unknown
ALLERGIES: unknown
PHYSICAL EXAMINATION:
General: Contusions to face. Bruising on left arm. Wrists, ankles scabbed and bloody. Refusing to remove clothing for exam.
Vital Signs: Blood pressure 125/84, pulse 81, respirations 18, temperature 98.5 and O2 saturation 99% on room air.
Physical examination halted by patient.
IMPRESSION: S/s possible sexual assault. Possible dehydration.
PLAN: Admit for observation. Sexual assault exam. Start IV for hydration.
0330 - Left AMA.
Rebecca flipped the paper up, but there was nothing on the back. No more information, but the words that she understood on that sheet sent a chill down her spine. How was this related to her father?
For a moment she contemplated shouting, banging on the door until the man returned, but he hadn’t seemed up to talking, and she was either going to throw up or sleep the rum off soon—and she was very much hoping it was the second. There was an ocean of accusations around her, words that seemed so impossible to connect to the smiling, dimpled CEO of Monarch Systems. The man who had installed an elaborate playhouse in their living room when she was a child. The computer nerd who had built a small software developer job into a company that was a goliath in the industry. There wasn’t a computer across the country that didn’t have a piece of Monarch’s software on it, and it was that legacy she was trying to be worthy of. That man who she had killed herself in business classes to follow.
This? This mess was insanity.
Closing the file with the photos, she set it beside the mattress, on top of the scattered piles of inconclusive, poorly documented police reports, and she turned away. Turned away from all of it to face the wall, resting her cheek against her arm. Her bloodstream was alight with the fire of the rum, brimming with the buzzing after-effects of adrenaline, and a portion of her was wondering if the man would return if she called. If he was listening, just outside the door, even without the cameras to aid him. Waiting to see what she made of his strange offering.
But that was too much to think about, and she had no energy for another confrontation. No energy to fight him or argue. So she closed her eyes tight against the dim light, and pleaded with her mind to let go of the things she’d read, the photographs of young women captured decades before.
No matter how hard she tried, they wouldn’t fade, and the single image that appeared again and again was the handprint. As if pressed into plaster on pale skin, leaving behind a dark purple shadow to be caught on camera. The kind of mark that would never be forgotten even as it healed.
Had the woman had the chance to see it healed?
Who was she?
And what on earth was Rebecca supposed to learn from all of it?
There was someone crying. A heart wrenching sound, deep and full of despair. The tile was cold under her feet as she walked towards the door, nervous energy tickling its way up her spine.
She wasn’t supposed to be here.
She was supposed to be sleeping.
The doorknob was practically eye-level, and she wrapped her hand around it to twist, but it barely budged. From the other side of the wood the crying stuttered and slowed.
“Rebecca?” It was a woman’s voice, still on the verge of tears. But she couldn’t speak, couldn’t respond. Thin, pale fingers reached under the door, stretching until they brushed against her small toes. “Rebecca.” The voice came again, another sob, but she stepped back. Scared.
This was bad.
She was going to get in trouble.
The fingers disappeared and a soft tap on the door was almost completely muffled by the sniffled sigh inside the room. “You have to go back, darling. Go to bed.”
“I can’t open the door,” she whispered.
“It’s okay. You need to sleep. I’ll be quiet, go back to bed. Hurry. Run.” There was a pause where Rebecca was frozen to the spot, trying her hardest to think of how to make the knob turn. “Go! Now!” The urgent whisper felt like a push, and she obeyed. She turned, ran back towards her room—and woke up.
Rebecca flinched, rolling to her back as a latent nausea quickly reminded her of all of the stupid choices she’d made.
“You’re awake,” the man’s low voice made her lift her head, and she groaned and fell back against the mattress.
Ah, yes, there was one of her stupid choices in the flesh.
“I brought you water. Toast. Something for the headache.”
Turning to the side, she saw that he had, in fact, filled her water cup and provided toast and two pills on a paper plate. A bitter laugh slipped past her lips. “You think I need pain relievers now?”
Groaning, he pushed a hand through his dark hair and clenched his fist at the root. He was half-dressed again. Dark colored jeans, but no shirt, no shoes—and he’d left the mask off. A quick glance at the ceiling verified the cameras were still off. It was just the two of them. “I brought them for the hangover. I’m sure you have one.”
“So, these pills are not supposed to help the bruises or the other marks? Just the headache?” She sat up, and realized her temples were pounding, but the broken skin and patchy bruises around her wrists were impossible to ignore.