DARKNESS

She was in water. That much she knew immediately. Though she could not move her body, she knew she was floating. There was no light, but her ears were filled with the distant sound of heavy machines thumping and chugging, and the deafening rush of water. At least she wasn't cold. She had been cold. Very cold.

Though it was a detached, disassociated memory, she could vaguely recall laying naked in a bathtub, the dull throb of pain in a long line down her forearm, staring dumbly at the water as red flowers bloomed out and stained the white porcelain finish of the tub.

Beyond that, everything was a muddled mess. She had a husband. It was her husband's old-fashioned razor that had done the cutting. The razor she bought for him years before. She searched for his face in her memory but could not find it. All that remained were notions of ideas. Concepts of a partner, a mother, a son, but no image or memory that might solidify into a cohesive history. Only these loose feelings.

Somewhere, far away, a man was screaming. Not fear or pain, but excitement. White, blinding light and a taste like pennies on her tongue exploded inside her and she was gone again.

FALLING

Somehow, she was falling and floating at once. The sound of machines and water roared in her ears. It occurred to her that even though she could feel water in her nose and mouth, she was not drowning. In fact, as near as she could tell, she was not breathing at all.

This did not panic her. What she found troubling was the feeling of being sucked downward. Her legs and arms were bound, and she could feel herself being pulled by the flow of liquid.

A surface, hard and dense, pressed against her back and she was suddenly certain that she was in some sort of tube, and that she had recently been delivered into a horizontal position. She felt gravity pulling her body down toward the bottom of this tube, against her back rather than toward her feet.

Those feet bumped a flat surface and the feeling of being sucked stopped abruptly. She was floating again, suspended in the warm, flavorless fluid. She tried to open her eyes but they refused. The lids felt taped or glued shut. At best, she could see a slight pinkish hue to the darkness.

Then, again, there was nothing.

PAIN

The bleating sound of an alarm somewhere close by was louder than anything she had ever heard in her life, such as it was. The sound was causing her excruciating pain. For the first time, she felt distress build inside her chest as she tried to raise her hands to cover her ears and was unable to. The sound was torture and she could do nothing to stave it off.

The noise wavered and was replaced by the sudden shift in pressure. The water was draining quickly. She could feel herself becoming denser and sinking. Her face breached the surface and the cold bite of air caused her skin to tighten and break out in gooseflesh.

Instinct told her that she should begin breathing when her face broke the surface of the water. Yet her lungs refused to work.

More panic swelled inside of her. She could feel her legs trying to kick, but they would not obey her command. Her arms wanted to raise and pull at whatever was covering her face, but they remained dead at her side.

With horror, she realized that she was not bound, but simply unable to command her body.

She was paralyzed.

Darkness took her again.

TUGGING.

Something was pulling at her face. It didn't hurt, but it felt strange. Not just at her face, but at her lips. It would have tickled if it hadn’t felt so strange, as though someone was removing dead skin from her lips in long strips. It didn’t hurt, it was just odd and seemed to scratch an itch she didn’t realize she had. With each tug, cool, delicious air briefly darted into her mouth.

When the tugging stopped momentarily, she became aware of the fact that her mouth was open, and she was breathing. Barely. It was hardly more than a mild breeze, but air was indeed passing in and out of her mouth. She felt it cooling her lips with each slow, even pull. The tugging resumed, this time at her neck.

This went on for hours.

The ticklish tugging and picking. It moved from spot to spot. Sometimes at a wrist, sometimes a thigh. Sometimes at her hairline.

Whoever was doing the tugging had gentle hands and smelled of oiled leather and shaving soap. They were also fond of humming Ave Maria.

LIGHT.

Blinding white light needled into her brain. The tugging had gone on for hours or days. It seemed to touch everywhere. Every joint and every opening had been tweaked and tickled and poked and explored until her entire body felt raw and new, as though it had been exposed to the air for the first time.

At long last came her eyelids.

With the final tug, she came to realize that what had once kept her eyes closed was now gone. She was free to open them if she wished. The will to do so did not come easy. The compounding sense of dread and simple exhaustion kept her in darkness. She was afraid of the light, afraid of seeing the shadowy person who had put her in this place and, worst of all, afraid of what she might see when she looked at her own body. After hours of denial and reflection she was eventually forced accept that the persistent tugging was a result of the somehow familiar sensation of stitches being removed from a healing wound.

That feeling had lighted onto nearly every inch of her body.

Rather than opening her eyes, she fell back into the abyss.

COLD.

Goosebumps rose along the length of her legs and arms. She could not see, but could feel the rippling sensation of her skin gathering as cold air wafted over her body. A hand gripped her ankle and her lips parted to cry out, but no voice came. She felt cold metal biting into her wrists and for the first time, she understood that her arms were restrained above her head. The hand on her ankle was binding her leg into a leather cuff.

The facts of her situation were gathering in her mind into a concept she could finally wrap her mind around. While she had no idea who or where she was, she now at least understood that she was on some sort of table and was restrained at the wrists and ankles… and she was naked. The chilly air stirred around her body. She could feel cold, smooth leather under her butt and back and thighs.

When she opened her eyes, she was disappointed to find she could see little. Something white and sheer covered her face. A veil or a gauze bandage perhaps. She could make out a halogen lamp on an adjustable arm, like one might find in a dentist's office, but otherwise the room was a blur. She suspected it was quite large though. The echoes of hard, sharp instruments clattering against a metal tabletop told her that.

When she opened her mouth to scream, again she found that she had no voice. Briefly she considered that perhaps she had gone deaf and was unable to hear her own shouts, but she realized that she could hear the unnerving sound of a man merrily humming a tune next to her.

Cold, latex clad hands gripped her jaw and tilted her head back. The murky shape of the man's face was barely visible through the fog of whatever was covering her eyes. Unable to focus, her eyeballs lolled dramatically back and forth, unseeing and unseen.

Then, a voice.

“Hand me those shears. No, the smaller ones. Thank you.”

The sensation of gentle tugging at something surrounding her midsection. Bandages. He was removing bandages. It was a familiar sensation, though only from a distance. A lost memory of some long-ago surgery or injury. That familiar but frightening feeling of gauze being cut away and unraveled.

The sucking sound of a vacuum hose startled her. She would have yelped if her voice had not abandoned her.

That cold, latex covered hand settled on her left breast. He seemed to be weighing it. He was gentle but indifferent. The feeling was uncomfortable, as though her breast was bruised. Though there was nothing particularly sexual about the maneuver, the confused sensations of fear, pain and bewildered arousal fluttered through her body. She tried to twist in her bindings, but was unable to direct the signals from her brain to the proper appendages. What was intended as a reactionary jerk away came out as little more than a twist of the hips, bringing her thighs together ever so slightly.

Inside her mind she was screaming, both in fear and frustration. She tried to clinch her fingers into fists but could only manage a slight twitch, pulling her hands into claws above her head. Something burned at her wrist, sending a river of fire up her arm and into her armpit. Just as abruptly as she had awakened, she dropped deep into sleep.

BITING.

Something was biting her. From the darkness she was swimming in, she was vaguely aware that some pesky creature was taking tiny bites from her body. Nipping in a tight, perfect line along the bottom of her breast. With each nibble, she heard the tiny plink of metal dropping onto metal. Then it stopped. Small bulbs of light drifted lazily around her like dandelion seeds in the dark. Each bulb contained a memory, like a little movie, and she casually peeked into them as they floated past. In one, she was eight years old, playing in a park with her brother. In another she was a student, passing a bottle of wine between three faceless friends. In yet another, she was in bed, a large, warm body pressed against her back, her dainty little hands clasped in thick, meaty fingers between her breasts. Male lips breathing hot promises against her neck.

The biting started up again. The other breast. Tiny little pecks along the sensitive skin between her breast and ribs. Trying to block it out, she reached for another bulb. Inside she saw herself, aged twelve, sitting in a bathroom stall crying. Blood on her fingertips, her panties in a wad on the floor. She pushed that memory aside and felt around for another. Her hands closed around larger bulb.

Inside that bulb, the lights of a movie screen flickered. She saw herself resting her head against a man's chest, burying her face in his shirt. The image on the screen showed a monster, half man, half insect, crawling across the ceiling of an industrial loft apartment. The woman who was her slid a hand down the front of the man's body, resting in his crotch. She squeezed and massaged him there. The man ran his hands through her hair, tangling it in his fingers as he pushed her head into his lap.

The biting gave way to cold momentarily, and then abruptly, agony. White hot pain exploded in the darkness and sent her falling into the depths. The last thought she had before slipping into unconsciousness was that her chest was on fire.

PRESSURE.

Hands pressing on her legs, pushing them back. Cold air against her bare skin. Frozen steel positioned under her knees, under her heels. She knew exactly what was happening. She was in stirrups. She was on a medical exam table and her legs were locked in stirrups. It was a place she had been dozens of times in her life.

Perhaps. Memories were tricky.

Whatever was wrapped around her eyes was thinner and looser than it was before. She could make out the hazy shapes around her. The walls were white and undecorated, and the fixtures were stainless steel. The humming man was back she could see the white rectangle of a lab coat and even the loosely defined features of his face. A beard perhaps. A mustache certainly. She could smell antiseptic cleaner and rubbing alcohol and latex. And something else. The peculiar, metallic taste of electricity. It weighed heavily in the air.

When she tried to move her arms, she was unsurprised to find that they were bound to the table at her sides.

“You're awake.” The humming man said, startling her. She didn't realize that he was watching her. She tried to respond, but her lips and throat refused. She pulled away as much as she could when he patted her lightly on the leg.

“You won't be able to speak. I haven't fixed that part of you yet. Soon,” The man said, his hand still on her calf. “We will have you up and about in no time. But right now, there's still plenty of work left to do. So, we're going to have to send you back to sleep again.”

As he spoke, she could feel him adjusting something that bit into her arm. An IV. The now familiar warm tingling sensation spread from her wrist, up her arm and into her chest. As she drifted off to sleep, she realized that at no point in any of this had she been particularly scared.

She'd taken it as her reality and never questioned it. Somehow, that realization is what sparked the first twinges of real fear in her.

PULLING.

Skilled hands were pulling at something attached to her arm. It felt like tape or a band-aid. The sharp pang of soft hair being yanked out at the root by medical tape. More pulling. The gentle snip-snip of stainless steel scissors.

“Are you recording this?” She recognized the humming man's voice.

“Yes sir.” Came a wet response that was more a gasp than speech. It was a voice she did not recognize. Her eyes had been re-bandaged, and she could no longer see the room around her. By shifting her weight down, she could tell that her legs were no longer in stirrups, though they were bound to the table.

“Coagulation is consistent with a normal human specimen. White blood count has leveled off at nearly acceptable numbers and her vitals are both stable and consistent. She is awake and responds to physical stimulation. Tomorrow we will begin further sensory tests, followed by a battery of cognitive function and memory retention trials later in the week.”

A series of beeps and whirs came and went. She could almost make out the sound of the two men speaking softly in another part of the room. Eventually, she heard the rattle of keys.

“Can you clean up in here?” The humming man asked, sounding more frustrated than he had thus far.

“Yes sir,” said the wet voice. It sounded like the speaker had a mouth full of broken teeth.

“And make sure she's out for the night. We don't want her tossing and turning on the table.”

“Of course, sir.”

The door closed and then there was only the quiet rustle of papers being stacked. It was a sound that was strangely familiar and comforting.

FINGERS.

A hand was on her. She had fallen back to sleep. Being blindfolded and existing in transient, disconnected windows of awareness, left her with no sense of time. She was tired and cold and didn't think she had been asleep for long, if at all. The sound of rustling paper echoed around the room as a clumsy hand slid across her belly. She now understood that she was dressed in a paper hospital gown. It was tearing as the owner of the roaming hand moved his arm up her body and found her right breast. When she attempted to scoot as far out of the way as she could, she found that she couldn't move at all. Her arms and legs were paralyzed. Her head was unable to turn. Yet she could feel his rough, calloused hand as it wrapped around her breast and squeezed hard.

It hurt, more than she expected. The breast was tender, as though bruised. She could not cry out. Her lips and voice still refused to work. A hard tug at her nipple made her suck air in sharply through her nose and tighten her jaw. It was the closest she had to a scream.

More tearing paper. Her left breast hit the frigid air of the room and instantly broke out in goosebumps, her nipple became painfully hard. Wet warmth engulfed her breast and after a moment she realized that the owner of the hand had taken it into his mouth and was sucking in broad, hungry gulps. His tongue darted frantically around her nipple. Teeth dragged along the tender flesh. Her breathing became erratic as he sucked harder, painfully, on her breast. His hand slapped her right breast as he pulled at her nipple on the left with his teeth. She desperately wanted to scream out but could only breathe faster and heavier, nearly hyperventilating.

As his right hand slid down her belly toward her sex, she realized what was so strangely different about these hands. He wasn't wearing gloves. The Doctor (she assumed he was some sort of doctor) always wore latex gloves. Smooth but not sticky or uncomfortable. These hands were warm and scuffed and knobby. Where the doctor's hands were careful and deliberate and gentle, these hands were shaking and eager and clumsy.

Instinctual terror gripped her heart as she felt him pull away. Somehow having him not touch her was worse. Again, she tried to scream and failed as something cold and wet drizzled onto the smooth skin between her legs. It wasn't until just now that she realized that she was shaved. The disconcerting image of a doctor with a disposable razor kneeling between her legs entered her mind.

The hands were back, pushing the wet substance around on her skin and down between her legs and into the tender crevice there. Once the aroma of petroleum jelly wafted up, she realized that it was medical-grade lubrication. The two middle fingers of his hand slid easily into her, hooking upward and pulling her down the table slightly with each heavy thrust of his hand. The knuckles of his index and pinky fingers bit painfully into her as he shoved his digits deeper.

A rhythmic shaking sound crept into her awareness. It was hard for her to focus on any one sensation, as both her physical and emotional states were conflicted. Panicked, deep horror, and a strange feeling of resigned acceptance. Her awareness had been so confused and disassociated that this feeling, as awful as it was, was at least familiar. She'd felt this before. Perhaps not the fear, but the physicality of what was being done to her. She desperately wanted him to stop what he was doing, to go away and never come back. To let her drift away into the warm, dark sleep. But her body was responding. As much as it hurt and scared her, what he was doing also felt good in some dark, buried place inside her.

She was also aware that her body was responding to this invasion physically. She felt the moisture collecting on her thighs, spattering out onto the paper as his fingers worked in and out of her with increasing vigor.

The shaking was picking up. She understood what it was. Though she had no specific memory, she knew that she'd experienced it before. The rhythm of the movement and the steady clanking of his belt buckle against the metal bars of her bed frame. The padded table dipped beside her as she felt him climb up, the fingers of one hand still slipping in and out of her. He was on his knees beside her. Her body was convulsing. He was rubbing too hard and too fast. She desperately needed him to stop. To give her a moment to breathe. It was too much. Even if she had wanted him to do what he was doing, any pleasure she might have taken from it was buried under the pain of over-stimulation and plain old friction.

The shaking was coming faster, and she knew what it was. Thankfully, the hand that was attacking her slowed as the other picked up speed. She hoped it wouldn't be long now. The hand between her legs fell away as he finished the work he was doing on himself, the soft clinking of his belt buckle gathering speed.

Then with an unceremonious spatter of warmth, it was over. She felt his seed spurt across her belly and settle in her navel. She could hear him breathing in shallow, wet jags. He sounded like a big, slobbery dog. The weight of his knees next to her shifted as he climbed off the table. He was gone for a moment and for the first time since this had started, she felt embarrassed. Until that night, she hadn't felt violated or abused, she was only confused and knew that she didn't want it. But now she very badly wanted to be clean and covered. With her arms and legs bound, she had no way to cover herself, and she hoped that this person who had done what he'd done would at least have the decency to put her back the way he'd found her.

She was relieved to feel a warm, wet cloth scrub across her stomach and between her legs. It was heavenly warm in the cool air of the room. She heard scissors cutting paper and realized that he was removing the rest of her paper gown. He slipped a new one around her and snapped it into place. Then a blanket was pulled, gently, almost lovingly, under her chin. Thin, but warm enough to keep the chill of the room off her. Then he spoke.

“Thank you.” Was all he said in his sloshy, strange voice. It was the voice of someone with a cleft palate or perhaps a mouth full of unfortunate braces. Either way, it was both creepy and pathetic sounding. She heard him jostle her IV bag and she was suddenly, momentarily furious that he had the power to knock her out after doing what he’d done. That he could touch her and cum on her and do whatever he wanted to her, and she couldn’t even speak to say no.

She shuddered, ever so slightly, as the warm sensation spread up her arm again and washed her out to sea. As she floated off into the darkness, she thought of the beach. The smell of the ocean and coconut-scented suntan lotion and the feeling of warm sand between her toes. The sound of waves rolling in carried her away.

PINGING.

The distant sound of pinging was in her left ear. Her eyes were still covered, though in that loose gauze that allowed her to see vague shapes and lights. She tapped her left finger on the mechanism on the table in front of her. The pinging came again, and again she tapped her left finger. Then the right ear. Ping. Ping. Ping. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Though it hadn’t been explained to her, she understood perfectly what was happening. They were testing her hearing. She still didn’t know who they were. In fact, she didn’t know who she herself was, but she did know how a hearing test worked. A softer, more distant ping in her right ear. She tapped. A ping in both ears. She tapped both fingers.

This was the third day that she was fully aware of being awake. She had no real clear sense of time beyond those three days, but she knew that she had woken up and fallen asleep (or been put to sleep chemically) on three consecutive days. The only reason she knew they were consecutive is that the man she came to think of as The Doctor had begun telling her what the plan for the next day was. That day they were testing her hearing. Judging from the reaction from The Doctor, it seemed to be going well.

One thing she’d learned since The Doctor started speaking to her (in that empty way a lonely man might have a conversation with a dog) is that he was very excited about the work they were doing. Whatever work that it was. Even though her emotions seemed limited to vague curiosity and primal, reactionary fear, it was a little hard not to get a little excited along with him.

It’s a strange feeling to be alive, and to be aware that you exist, but also completely disinterested in who you are and where you came from. Though that’s exactly where she was on that third day. There was some loose idea that perhaps she’d had a life before all of this. Memories flitted about from time to time, fragile and fleeting, but nothing that gave her any sense of loss or displacement. She was exactly where she was supposed to be. How did she know that? Because that’s where she was. She was literally born again. Her previous life (whatever that was) was washed away forever, and she was a blank slate. A blank slate with decent hearing apparently. The Doctor was enthusiastically reading test results to The Other Man.

The Other Man she didn’t feel nearly as positive about. Though her memory was fuzzy, she knew enough that the man with the mushy mouth, who sounded like he drooled when he talked, was trouble. The sound of his voice made her skin crawl and unconsciously press her thighs together defensively. She knew there was something he had done that made her feel that way, but she couldn’t exactly pin down what that thing was.

The Doctor removed the earphones from her head and placed them on the table. Through the gauze, she could see The Doctor and The Other Man standing in front of her on the opposite side of the table. She was seated. Her wrists were strapped to the arms of her chair. She didn’t try to move them, but she was sure her ankles were also strapped down. It was a wheelchair, she knew, because they had pushed her out of her room, her IV trailing behind her on a rolling stand, down a corridor, and into the room where they were now. The index fingers of each of her hands were connected to an electrical device that responded when she tapped them down. It seemed like a bit of an overkill, but she didn’t (couldn’t) ask questions.

One thing she could do was nod and shake her head. The discovery of this had been quite an exciting event for The Doctor. He had asked, rhetorically, if she was ready for her hearing test. She had nodded “yes” in one small, even motion. He dropped his clipboard and grabbed The Other Man by the jacket, asking if the camera was recording yet. The Other Man said that it was not, and they had a heated discussion about whose responsibility it was to tend to the camera that ended with a series of slobbery, pitiful apologies from The Other Man.

Once that was through, The Doctor sat down at the table across from her and just stared for a long moment before speaking.

“We’d really like to get those bandages off your eyes. I know you can see, but I need to have a look at them before we can do that. That will be tomorrow. We needed to wait until you were fully awake before we could properly examine them. Would you like to have your eyes unwrapped soon?” She nodded in her short, definitive way. The Doctor clapped his hands together. She could see his grin through the gauze.

“Let’s get her back to bed and down for the night. She’s had enough activity for today.”

“Yes.” The Other Man said in his slobbery voice.

As her chair was pulled away from the table and rolled out of the room, she could hear The Doctor speaking either to the camera or into a recorder.

“Audiogram results indicate mostly normal hearing in all ranges, with mild flat-range hearing loss. Should not require stapedectomy. All things considered, this is far better results than we could have ever hoped for.”

RAISING.

She was being lifted out of the wheelchair. Strong arms carried her from the chair to her bed. It occurred to her that if she’d wanted to, she could have kicked and flopped and possibly even overpowered The Other Man as he gathered her out of the chair. The thought was there, but the impulse was not, nor the drive. She simply didn’t have any concept of where she could go. Everything she knew existed in two rooms, and she’d been in both of them within the hour.

So, there was no fighting. No kicking or lurching. She allowed her wrists to be bound and her ankles to be strapped at the foot of the bed. He carefully moved the IV line around the cuff and out of the way. She was in an actual bed now. She’d gone from the padded exam table she’d been on initially to a full-fledged hospital bed with blankets and a pillow. She counted this as a major victory in her strange, insulated little life. Still, she wouldn’t have minded if her legs could have been free. She didn’t even need her arms. Just her legs. She felt a natural impulse to draw them up beneath her. Muscle memory from an otherwise forgotten life pulled at her legs and wanted them folded up against her torso. But they were fixed to the bottom of the bed with padded, leather straps.

Another upgrade she’d received was a real hospital gown rather than the paper one she'd been wearing before. She didn’t know when it had been put on her, but the previous morning she’d woken up feeling moist all over and the clean-smelling linen clinging to her body.

The Other Man breathed his wet breaths as he finished tightening the strap around her leg. His hand lingered on her calf and sent uncomfortable shivers up her body. Foul-tasting little wisps of memory danced through her mind as he casually ran his hand up her leg and under the cloth of her hospital gown.

Again, she found herself wishing for her voice, though she had no idea what she would say. She had nothing to threaten him with. She couldn’t fight him, and she doubted she could talk him out of whatever he was planning to do to her.

“I’m sorry for the things I’ve done to you,” he said in his slobbery voice. “I wish I could explain how guilty I feel for putting you in the position I put you in.” He sounded close to tears. “But I think I’m in love with you, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”.

He sniffed long and hard and wet, his fingertips still lazily tracing invisible lines along the inside of her leg.

“I know it’s stupid. I know you’re going to be able to talk soon, and you’ll tell him what I done, and I’ll get in trouble and fired or worse. But you have to know that I only did what I did because I can’t help myself when I’m around you. You’re so beautiful and you’re right there. And he’s getting you all made up for HIM,” ‘HIM’ was spat out with such a venomous, hateful slant that it startled her. “And he isn’t going to appreciate you like I do. Nope. He’s a big, dumb animal.”

She sighed silently, resigned to what was happening, as he carefully pushed the hem of her gown up over her hips. The chill in the air felt oppressive and deep. The bed shifted slightly as he climbed onto it, kneeling in the open area between her legs. She closed her eyes, prepared to let whatever was going to happen, happen.

“He’s a big dummy. He doesn’t love you. He can’t love you like I love you.” The Other Man was muttering, more to himself than to her, as he leaned forward and brushed his lips against the sensitive skin at the side of her knee. She had no idea who or what he was babbling about.

“You’re so cold. Always so cold,” he muttered, chuckling a little bit. That chuckle was a terrible sound. He dropped a series of short, wet kisses in a line up the inside of her thigh, stopping halfway up. He turned and did the same along the inside of her other leg. His hands pushed against the bottom of her butt, and when she realized what he was trying to do, she shifted her weight to allow him to slip his hands under her and scoot her down the bed.

She didn’t know why she was helping him. Perhaps she simply found it easier to give him as much as she could, within her limited abilities. Not because she wanted to, but only because she wanted him gone. He lifted her waist up, forcing her to arch her back to accommodate him, and placed a soft, gentle kiss against the lips between her legs. Her teeth ground together in her mouth, making her jaw shudder. He kissed her there again, this time longer, pressing his lips against her.

Her back was getting sore and, thankfully, he lowered her back to the bed. Then he did something unexpected. He reached back and undid the binding on her left foot. The one closest to the wall. Taking her leg in his hand, he leaned forward, letting her calf rest comfortably on his shoulder. The relief of having her leg free was exhilarating. She extended it and pointed her toes in the air and was surprised to find that her leg felt strong and coordinated. She had expected it to be shaky and weak, even limp and useless, but it felt sturdy. She extended her leg again. The Other Man’s hand was still holding her just above the knee, and he pushed her leg back against her body, opening her up, and buried his mouth between her legs. Licking and sucking and slurping.

She had the sudden impulse to bring her leg down, hard, against the small of his back. But like before, it was an empty thought. She had no concept of what she could possibly do once she’d done that. Even if she could knock him out or hurt him bad enough that he left her alone, she would still be strapped to this bed. She would still be unable to speak and possibly unable to see.

So, she didn’t kick him. What she did was allow her leg to rest across his shoulder. It was a thick shoulder. Muscled and hard. Not athletic, but the muscles of someone who has spent a lifetime carrying heavy, uncomfortable loads, probably for other people and cheap pay. His fingers stroked up and down the outside of her opening as he probed her with his tongue. Though she couldn’t exactly remember the previous experience (or the time before that, or the time before that) she was aware that this was much gentler and considerate. She wouldn’t call it pleasurable, because the feeling of being violated was so strong and even worse, the feeling of helplessness. She didn’t even know what this man looked like. All she knew about him was that his shoulders were broad and thick, that he worked beneath The Doctor, and that there was apparently something wrong with his mouth that made him speak in that sloshing wet way.

Though, honestly, the way he was working between her thighs, she had to reconsider whether there really was something wrong with his mouth. It’s a precarious thing, trying to balance disgust and fear with physical stimulation and pleasure. Because whatever he was doing down there was working. Her leg squeezed harder against his shoulder as he pushed his face deeper into her. His nose pushed firmly against her clit as he slid his tongue and out of her and then up, looping around the top and back in again. His rough fingers gripped at her ass cheeks lifting her up against his face.

Both of her legs extended completely, and her toes curled. The free leg pointed up and pressed against the wall, the one in the strap dug hard into the metal plate of the footboard. Behind her eyes, white flowers bloomed and exploded as she let out heavy, shuddering breaths. She desperately wanted her hands free to grip his head and push his face deeper into her. She wanted to grind against his mouth and pull on his hair. Most of all she wanted to scream and scream. Not in terror or anger, but in pure animalistic pleasure. All thoughts of who she was and who he was and what was happening washed away as she came, hard and wet. Her free leg suddenly pulled up, against the back of his head as he lifted away from her. It was all she could do to shake her head no no no please no as her hips bucked up, involuntarily trying to get more of whatever had just happened.

He sat up and looked down at her. She was a sweaty, quivering mess. Her gown was bunched up around her stomach. A large wet spot had spread out under her ass. Her legs were shaking, and her head was rocking slowly back and forth.

When she got her senses about her (limited as they were) she could see him still kneeling there in front of her, between her legs. He gripped her ankle and pulled it down and strapped it into place. Carefully, he tugged her gown down and smoothed it out over her knees. Then he picked up her blanket and shook it out over her, letting it fall slowly and evenly across her body. Finally, standing over her bed, he leaned forward and gently placed a kiss on her lips and told her again that he loved her. She closed her eyes as the warmth spilled up her arm and into her body, her lips wet with a taste that was both bitter and comforting. It was a familiar taste.

LIGHT.

Shards of bright light pierced into her brain as The Doctor slowly unwound the gauze that was bound around her head. The only source of illumination in the room was from a lamp in the corner, but that alone was enough to send icy agony through her head when she tried to look at it. So instead she closed her eyes and let The Doctor finish stripping away the bandages.

When he stopped, she opened her eyes slowly.

“Not yet.” The Doctor said, stopping her. She closed her eyes again as he set something on her face. “Now. Open your eyes”

She did as she was told, tentatively. The light in the room was muted and glowed in a dark green hue. Everything was blurry and ill-defined. She could see the shape of The Doctor crouched in front of her.

“Focus on me,” he said with a gentle authority. As her eyes tried to adjust, she could make out the features of his face. Dark hair, tousled and chaotic, rioted above his face. He wore nearly invisible spectacles, the frames thin and expensive. His eyes were a wild blue under his furrowed brow. His lips were full and pursed as he watched her intently. His mustache and chin whiskers were groomed and neat.

“Do you see me?” He asked, his fingers absently rubbing at his chin. She nodded, and a smile lit his entire face. He stood up and turned to shake the hand of The Other Man, who was standing behind him, holding something to his face.

“She can see! She can see!” He shouted, seemingly to no one.

The Other Man stepped back and leaned against the wall, still holding whatever was over his face. The Doctor stepped forward and leaned down again. He held a pen out in front of her and moved it slowly to the left and then to the right. She followed the pen with her gaze and he nodded approvingly, still grinning. He stepped back, still holding the pen, and moved it. Stepped back again and disappeared into a blur. When he stepped forward again she could focus on the pen and found it held in his other hand. He nodded and dropped the pen into the pocket of his white lab coat.

“Hand me that stack of cards.” The Doctor said over his shoulder to The Other Man. He did as he was told. The Doctor held a card up in front of her face. On it was a series of characters in a language she didn’t understand or recognize.

“Can you read this?” The Doctor asked, peering over the card. She looked at it for another moment. A slight flicker of recognition danced across her mind but didn’t stick. She shook her head slowly. “This?” He asked holding up another card. She shook her head. Another card. Another shake. After five cards, The Doctor nodded and stood, pacing back and forth across the room briefly. Finally, he spoke, sounding frustrated.

“Take her back to her room. Re-bandage her eyes. We’ll try again in a few hours.”

The Other Man walked across the room, setting the object he was carrying on the table as he passed her. The Doctor picked the object up and repositioned it. The dots connected in her head and she realized that it was the camera. The Doctor now stood in front of it, watching as The Other Man wheeled her out of the room and into the hallway.

She closed her eyes as they passed through the door. The light of the hallway was bright and harsh and even with her eyes closed and the dark glasses on her face, still uncomfortable.

They entered her room and he turned off the light. The soft, yellow glow of a shaded bedside lamp was the only source of illumination. The Other Man rummaged in a drawer and came out with a couple of items. She tried to see him, but it became clear that her field of vision only extended about four feet in front of her face. Beyond that, things were blurred. The Other Man stepped behind her chair and removed the glasses from her face. Even the muted light of the bedside lamp was too much, and she closed her eyes as he wrapped the gauze around her head.

When that was finished, he knelt in front of her and unbuckled the straps at her ankles and wrists. “Take my hand,” he said in his sloppy voice. She slowly raised her right arm. It felt strange to be permitted to move her limbs around freely. She felt no impulse to run or fight. He slipped his hand around hers. It was large and hard. Touching it brought back a strange mixture of discomfort and confused arousal in the pit of her stomach. The feeling of his rough hand was familiar.

“Can you stand?” He asked. Slowly, she moved her feet from the metal plates at the bottom of her chair and allowed them to rest on the floor. The tile was cold and smooth. She raised her other hand for him to take and he did. With a focused push, she hoisted herself to her feet, unsure if her legs would even hold her.

For a brief, shaky moment, they did. But then her knees buckled, and he moved quickly to catch her. She didn’t fall. He hefted her up and she wrapped her arms around his neck. His shoulders were thick and awkwardly sloped, bulging in the wrong places. With his left arm, he scooped her off her feet and she was floating, her arms around his neck, his arms under her knees and back. He placed her gently in the bed. Part of her wanted to stay in his arms. She didn’t know how badly she needed a kind human touch until just then. The memory of what happened over the last few nights was foggy at best. She knew that something sexual had happened between the two of them, but it was hard to decipher what was memory and what was a confused dream. So much of her sleep was plagued with scattered random images and feelings.

When he pulled her wrists to the side of the bed to be strapped into the cuffs there, she shook her head “no”.

“I’m sorry. I have to.” He said softly. He gripped her wrist firmly but not unkindly and strapped her in. He did the same for her ankles. She didn’t understand why they felt the need to restrain her. It’s not like she could go anywhere.

The Other Man straightened her covers and then stood there for a long moment, silent. She waited, unsure of what to expect. Part of her wanted him to leave. Another part, a deeper, more desperate part of her, wanted him to touch her. To kiss her all over and probe her body with his fingers and tongue. “Goodnight.” He said, almost whispering. Then he turned the light off and left, the door clicking shut and rattling as he locked it.

Something was wrong. She didn’t quite know what it was, but something important was missing. They didn’t sedate her. This was the first time she’d been left awake in the room. That’s when it occurred to her that she no longer had the IV line branching up from her arm. She hadn’t had it all day. How had she not noticed that?

For the first time, she was alone with her thoughts. Though she couldn’t see, she rolled her head around in the darkness. Testing her bindings, she pulled up with her wrists and ankles. She wasn’t going anywhere.

Loneliness sank in. She felt scared and vulnerable. The easy escape of the sedative had provided her with a life where she rarely had to consider her predicament. The idea of being left to contemplate seemed dangerous and frightening to her. She didn’t want to think about who she was and what was happening to her. It was far easier to just drift in and out of consciousness when they needed her.

It occurred to her that it was strange that she didn’t know who she was. How old she was, even what she looked like. What her name was. Nothing. All she knew is what had happened since she woke up in this strange place with these two odd men. She had no idea how long she’d been there. It had to have been a few weeks, if not months.

Something bad had happened to her. She knew that. Something terrible. Her dreams were plagued with images of a bathtub full of blood and a razor. She understood that she was in some sort of hospital or doctor’s office and that The Doctor had saved her from an awful accident. But a hospital with a staff of only two people? The facts simply didn’t add up to anything she could make sense of. The tests he’d been running were rehabilitative tests. Her eyesight and hearing. Muscle responses and reflexes. Little pokes and shocks, some painful, some not. She knew he was planning a series of cognitive tests and memory tests. Whatever happened to her must have really messed her up. Perhaps she’d been in some sort of coma? She didn’t know what could have affected so many of her basic functions. Her body didn’t feel broken exactly. Simply confused and weak. Fragile.

Where was her family? Did she not have a family? Why was she here all alone? And why did she need to be restrained? So many questions and she couldn’t even speak to ask them.

Then there was The Other Man and his occasional nocturnal visits. Now that she’d been awake for a while and had a chance to really think about her situation, she was pretty sure that The Doctor’s assistant (she assumed that’s what he was. He sure didn’t seem like another doctor) who she’d come to think of as The Other Man, had been touching her at night. Perhaps more. She couldn’t remember exactly. Just flashes and tastes of memories. She remembered the feeling of his teeth digging into her breast. She remembered wrapping her leg around the back of his neck, pushing his face between her legs. That’s what was confusing about these memories. She felt that these experiences had been troubling and wrong, yet these little flashes of memory stirred up feelings of arousal and desire. Her hips rocked slowly inward, without her asking them to. She found herself pushing her ass against the bed, squeezing her thighs together, trying to create some sort of friction between her legs. She didn’t even notice she was doing it until her frustration with being unable to touch herself rose to the surface. She pulled hard at her wrist cuffs, desperately needing something between her legs. She sighed. It was going to be a long night.

WATER.

A moment of panic gripped her heart as she was lowered into the bathtub. Without fully understanding why, the feeling of being submerged in the water was terrifying. When she began thrashing about, the doctor gripped her legs around the knees. The Other Man had her under his arms and was straddling the tub as he lowered her down. Once she was settled at the bottom of the tub, her upper body still safely above water, she calmed slightly, though her heart still thudded in her chest.

It had been a long couple of days. Test after test. Pegs in boards, colored squares in need of organizing. Simple math and sorting from largest to smallest and from lightest to darkest. Hours and hours of these tests. The Doctor seemed pleased with the results. The only results he was unhappy with were the language flash cards. They all looked like gibberish to her. She understood now that the cards were written in English. She just couldn’t make sense of them. For whatever reason, her ability to read had been damaged somehow. It made communicating that much more difficult. At one point, The Doctor put a pen and paper in front of her and asked her to write something. She tried and managed only a series of meaningless scribbles.

That was a major blow. She’d been eager to get a pen and paper. She wanted answers and without a voice, she saw writing as the only avenue of communication for her. With that prospect gone, she felt depressed and even more alone.

Sitting in the lukewarm tub, naked in front of these two men in this dimly lit hospital room, the strangeness of her situation was loud and clear. Now that she was a few days out of her twilight sedation, her newly lucid brain began stacking up questions about what was going on here. Who was she? Who was she before this and who was she now? Why hasn’t someone, anyone, come to visit her? Family or a spouse or friends? Why are these two men the only people she’d seen in the time since she’d gone through whatever she’d gone through? What exactly HAD she gone through? Most importantly, she wanted to know when she could leave and where she would go once she could.

Her recovery had been intense and bizarre, but as far as she could tell she had no broken bones or particularly distressing aches or pains. Her eyes hurt when the light was too bright. Sometimes her arms and legs cramped in the straps they kept her in, and she occasionally got headaches. Ever since they’d taken her off the IV, she had eaten one small meal a day. Predictable hospital food. A tasteless slab of what she first thought was nondescript white meat with a side of warmed-up frozen vegetables, Jello for dessert, and vitamin-enriched slurry that tasted like imitation chocolate mixed with chalk in the evening. She later learned that the “meat” she was eating was tofu based. She ate eagerly and with each meal she felt herself growing stronger.

But for what? She didn’t know. So far, she’d been given no indication of what exactly she was healing for. She had no concept of a life outside of these walls. A life that didn’t include this doctor and his strange little sidekick.

That was another thing that had changed somewhat over the last few days. The role of the person she’d come to think of as “The Other Man” was becoming clearer. He was a lackey. While she didn’t think he was intellectually disabled, there was something wrong with him. He was short, for one thing. Not quite a little person, but he couldn’t have been taller than five feet two or three. He looked even shorter because his back was curved and in a bulky metal brace that pushed him forward awkwardly. He was strong, she knew from the nights he’d lifted her into bed, but it was hard to see that from the awkward way he held himself. He wore an orthopedic shoe on one foot that had a lift that was at least four inches tall and he walked in an unfortunate lunging wobble.

Sufficed to say, it didn’t make for an attractive package, and it left her scattered memories of their sexual encounters that much more conflicted and uncomfortable.

This was the second trip she’d taken to the bathtub that she was awake for. The first was a far more traumatic experience. It was before they removed the bandages from her eyes and she had no clue what was happening to her. When she hit the water, she immediately flashed back to being in the tube before she’d awakened and that feeling of drowning rose up inside her. There was a lot of thrashing and kicking until one of the two men popped a needle into her thigh and she fell into a deep sleep. She woke to find herself in bed, damp and clothed in a fresh hospital gown.

This second trip was decidedly smoother. The doctor asked her if she needed to be sedated and she shook her head no. Still, the impulse to panic and climb out was strong. She allowed them to bathe her. The Other Man scrubbed her down with a soapy sponge without interest. The Doctor asked her to extend her right leg. She did so and was surprised to find that he brought out shaving cream and a disposable plastic safety razor. The sight of the razor sent a momentary chill up her spine, but she had no idea why. The Doctor placed her foot on the edge of the tub and took off his lab coat. He wore a short-sleeved dress shirt with a simple black tie. Lathering up her leg with the foam, he began the process of shaving her with little passion.

“How are your eyes? Any better?” he asked, looking genuinely interested. She held her thumb and forefinger up a short distance apart to show “just a little”, tilting her head back and forth slightly. He nodded.

“Any progress is good progress. Is the light in here okay for you?”

She nodded yes. He smiled and nodded along with her as he gently pulled the razor down the length of her leg. She turned her leg slightly to give him room to carve another line in the white foam. It was odd that they felt the need to do this, considering that she had full use of her arms and legs. She may not be strong enough to walk on her own, but she could certainly manage to shave her legs. She suspected that they didn’t trust her with the razor, as tiny and useless as it would be as a weapon. The dimness of the room didn’t help either. She knew that they could see her better than she could see them. Perhaps that was it, she told herself. They were looking out for her safety. That seemed like a stretch, though for some reason she trusted The Doctor. He had an enthusiasm about her progress that was hard not to get caught up in. He was clearly very invested in her recovery from whatever had happened to her. It made her feel good to be able to report that her eyes were a little better and that her legs were a little stronger. That had to count for something.

He lowered her leg back into the tub and reached for the other leg. She propped it up on the edge of the tub. He went to work shaving. After a moment, she pointed at her leg and held her hands up, again indicating a question.

“Why are we shaving you?” He asked. She nodded. “I find there’s value in maintaining certain patterns and social habits. While you’re not interacting with many people or going out in public, I believe there’s benefit in feeling pampered and tidy. Keeping up with basic hygiene routines. Brushing your teeth, combing your hair, and so on. Don’t you think?”

She cautiously nodded in agreement, though she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was lying to her. It was true that they did all those things for her. Every morning The Other Man would come in with a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a glass of water and she would brush her teeth. Once a day he would turn her around and run a brush through her hair.

She didn’t think there was anything sexual about the bathing and shaving, though she couldn’t think of any other reason it could be that they would need to lie to her about it either. Especially since, as she expected he would, he asked her to spread her legs and raise her hips, so he could shave her pubic area as well. That had to go beyond just satisfying social grooming habits. But to what end? The doctor didn’t seem to be particularly interested in what he was doing beyond that it was a chore that needed doing. It didn't appear that they were videotaping her. The Other Man wasn’t off in the corner watching her or touching himself or anything like that. As far as she could tell, neither one of these guys seemed to be sexually interested in her at all at the moment. And that was fine with her. The bathing felt nice and she simply didn’t have the energy to process anything more complicated.

After shaving under her arms, he turned on the detachable shower head and rinsed her body, pulling the plug on the tub. The Other Man handed him a bottle and he squirted a small amount of fluid in his hand. She was slightly nervous about what that was for until he told her to lean forward and he turned the water to soak her hair and started scrubbing. The warmth running down her back and over her face was a strange moment of peace and privacy.

With her hair washed and rinsed, she wrung it out and wrapped it in the towel The Doctor handed her. Part of her wished that they would just shave her head along with the rest of her body. Shave her head and take away as much of her personality as they could. She didn't want it. The idea of trying to wrap her mind around the person she used to be and how she fits into this insane situation was daunting. It would be easier to just be a cog in the machine until they decided what they were going to do with her. She'd just about given up on understanding what was happening. She just wanted it over with, so she could move on to whatever the next stage of her existence was. It didn't feel as though she was in any danger, because they were working so hard to rehabilitate her. But it wasn’t comfortable either.

With her wet hair turbaned, she lifted her arms and allowed The Doctor to dry her body and wrap her in a large, fluffy white towel. The Other Man approached her, pushing the wheelchair. She turned to sit in it, but paused. The Doctor looked at her, interested.

“Yes?”

Placing her hand flat, at a right angle to her mouth, she moved her fingers away from her face and then shrugged.

“When will you be able to talk?”

She nodded. The Doctor looked at The Other Man and then back at her, smiling somewhat awkwardly. “We're not sure. It's going to require a complicated operation that could either fix you or permanently damage your vocal cords beyond repair. So, we've been waiting for you to regain your full health before we start exploring that. It will be a little while still. I'm sorry.” He put his hand on her shoulder. She nodded slowly, disappointed.

Plopping down into the chair, they didn't bother strapping her in. There wasn't any point anymore. She knew there was nowhere for her to go. They knew that she knew. She couldn't even roll through the hall with her eyes open. Her pupils refused to constrict. She could see short distances in dim light, but anything brighter than that sent blinding pain into her head that left her with a debilitating migraine for hours. When they rolled into her room she opened her eyes again. The bedside lamp was on its lowest setting and that was just enough light to see by, but not enough to hurt her eyes provided she didn’t stare directly at it. She hopped out of her wheelchair and sat on the bed. The Other Man stood there for a moment, looking at her.

“Did you need anything else before I go?” He asked, his voice, particularly moist sounding tonight. She thought about it momentarily and then held a finger up. She mimed brushing her hair. It took him a few minutes to work out what she wanted but he eventually got it. He nodded and went to a drawer and unlocked it with the keyring on his belt. After digging through it for a moment, he produced the round hairbrush with its polished wooden handle. The one he used on her in the mornings. He held it up for her to see and she nodded enthusiastically. He locked the drawer and brought her the brush. She immediately started the task of brushing her hair. It was comforting and being able to do it for herself gave her a sense of normalcy. The more she could do for herself, the closer she felt to being able to leave this strange place.

She also desperately wanted a mirror but didn't have a clue how to go about miming that out for The Other Man, who was quick to get flustered and frustrated when he couldn't work out what she was trying to say. So, she didn't bother. She casually put her fingertips to her lips and moved her hand forward and down in a straight arc away from her face. The Other Man looked at her for a second, stunned, and nodded.

“You're welcome.” He said, slowly. “Do I need to strap you in tonight?” he asked. Her heart jumped into her throat. She tried not to show it and did her best to casually shake her head. He nodded again and opened the door to the hallway.

Turning back to her, he did something with his hands. Brought one to his mouth and held the other across his chest in a series of motions. But he was beyond her field of vision and was barely more than a blur.

“Goodnight then.” He said, closing the door. As with every night, she heard him locking at least two different locks with his key-ring full of keys.

That whole last exchange was confusing to her. Why had he seemed so startled when she thanked him? And what was he doing standing there, waving his hands around? Then it occurred to her. She had signed “thank you.” Not just in a makeshift, impromptu sign, but in actual American Sign Language. She did the sign again, to herself. Fingertips to her lips, down in an arc. She then immediately rubbed her left shoulder with her right hand in a circle. “Please”. Then another thought occurred to her. He had signed back, before he left. He was so blurry, but now she understood. He had told her goodnight in sign language.

She could speak.

ALONE.

This was the first time she'd ever been left non-sedated and unshackled in her room. Even though she had no plan to try to escape, she fully intended on exploring every inch of that room.

It didn't take long to discover that there wasn't much to explore. Every drawer and every cabinet were locked. The room had a dresser (no mirror) with three large drawers, all locked. A bed and a bedside table (no drawer) which held her lamp and nothing else. The lamp was wired into the wall and bolted to the table She couldn't unplug it or move it, only switch it on and off. There was a toilet in the corner with a privacy curtain on one side. The toilet had no tank (or none that she could see) and was simply a bowl that extended from the wall with a foot pedal flushing mechanism. A roll of paper was recessed in the wall. Next to the toilet was a sink. It was small with water that came out in little more than a trickle. The water was clean and tasted good though, and she spent a long moment drinking from the shiny chrome tap.

What she had access to was the hospital gown she was wearing (they had yet to graduate her to pajamas. She hoped that was coming soon) and her one blanket and top sheet. She had two pillows in zippered pillowcases. The fitted sheet under the top sheet. The mattress was snapped to the frame of the bed. When she unsnapped it and lifted it up, she was disappointed to find absolutely nothing under the bed. There was an air vent above the door, and another on the opposite wall, but there was nothing to stand on, so she couldn't look into it. They were both too small for her to climb into, but she would've liked to have had a look anyway.

Once she'd looked at everything there was to look at in the room, she put her bed back together and sat down, not feeling particularly sleepy. She did have the hairbrush. That was something. She leaned back against the wall and absentmindedly brushed her hair. It was shoulder length and dark auburn, thick and easily knotted. It took her nearly twenty minutes (she guessed. She had no clock) to smooth her hair out completely. The Other Man did what he could in the mornings, but it felt good to really brush it thoroughly.

Curious, she stripped out of her hospital gown and stood next to her bed. The light was so dim. She knew she had scars, but she couldn't see well enough to get an idea of how bad they were. Climbing back onto the bed, she leaned over and closed her eyes. With a blind hand, she slowly turned the dimmer knob on the wall that adjusted the lamp. The light increased slightly, and she opened her eyes, cautious not to overextend herself. She couldn't look anywhere near the direction of the lamp, but she could see the room better. She looked down at her legs and arms.

Along both legs, she noticed that she had long, smooth lines running from the inside of her knees and her inner thighs. She had similar scars on the outside of her legs. They were so smooth and even, symmetrical with each other. She thought they must have been surgical rather than some sort of injury. She ran her fingertips along the scars and could barely feel where they were. Whoever had stitched her up did a damned fine job of it. She ran her fingers along her torso and hips. She found thin, fine scars running under her breasts, in the place where they connected to the tight skin above her ribs. She ran her fingers along these scars and noticed that they were still sensitive. She held her breasts in her hands and squeezed. They were somewhat sore.

Perhaps it had been cancer. Maybe she'd had a double mastectomy. She didn’t believe it would explain all the other problems she'd had, but she wasn't a doctor. Maybe it did. She gave herself another long, probing squeeze. It didn’t feel like there were implants in there. While, as far as she knew, she wasn’t experienced in squeezing breast implants, she was relatively certain the breasts she was feeling were natural. She ran a line around the outside of her areolas with her finger, feeling for more scars. There were none that she could find, though she noticed her nipples tighten and raise as her fingers brushed across them.

Laying back on the bed, she ran her fingers along her arms. For some reason, she expected to find long scars along the inside of her forearms, but they were smooth and unmarred. She found more thin, delicate scars near her armpits and on the back of her wrists, but that was all.

Tracing her fingertips around her neck, she discovered another series of fine scars, running across the front of her throat and two at the back of her neck, near the base of her skull. What could those have possibly been? She wondered if the two at her throat weren't the cause of her inability to speak. The one at the back of her neck though... she had no clue what that one was.

She settled down deeper into the bed, her head resting on her pillow as she ran her fingers over her stomach. She was skinny, but the slight looseness of the skin around her belly suggested that she hadn't always been as thin as she was then. It wasn't something she would have noticed if she weren't feeling around, but it was a clue. She ran her hands down the sides of her belly and discovered another scar, perhaps three inches long, running diagonal above her hip-bone. Following that down, she found a scar, this one not nearly as neat and tidy as the others, running across her lower belly. Perhaps five or six inches long. That was a scar that brought an old word to mind. Cesarean. She had no recollection of being pregnant, but then again, she had little recollection of any personal history at all.

But those were thoughts for another time. She wasn't prepared to start pondering the bigger questions just yet. Soon perhaps, but not that night. She followed her stomach down to the soft, smooth mound between her legs. She wasn’t surprised to find it warm and moist. The room was chilly most of the time, and her skin was always cold to the touch. Feeling this warmth radiating from her was comforting. It reminded her that she was alive in this cold place. She allowed her hand to slide across the folds of delicate skin, her middle finger dipping in slightly. Yes, definitely wet.

Breath shuddered out of her nose as she let a second finger slide between her lips. After having been restrained for so long, being able to do something so pleasurable and intensely personal felt unbelievably exciting. It wasn't just that she was horny (she had been, off and on over the last couple of days, but hadn't acted on it. Couldn't act on it) but that for the first time since this whole ordeal started, she felt a little bit of freedom, and it was amazing.

Pain radiated from her mouth as she bit her lower lip. Scooting up the bed, she made up her mind that this was happening, and it was happening right then. She propped her pillows up under her back and bent her knees, letting her legs fall apart. Leaning back against the pillows, she began rubbing her outer lips in broad, loose circles with her right hand. With her left hand, she put her thumb in her mouth and sucked, getting it wet, and then began stroking the nipple on her right breast.

Urgency built up in her and she realized that she was desperate to orgasm. Starving for it. She wanted that explosion. She needed to feel like she'd DONE something. Something real and something decisive. Something that served only her. Her hand picked up speed, the tips of her two middle fingers running circles around her clit as she tugged and twisted at her nipple with the other hand.

Growing frustrated, she reached out blindly to the bedside table and found the hairbrush. Without much thought, she pushed the handle of the brush into herself and began working it in and out with her right hand, her left hand taking over on her clit.

Her breaths came out in harsh jags, through gritted teeth as she pushed the brush deeper. Her eyes closed, tears brimming at the corners, because she so desperately wanted it done. Finally, she came in a hard, spasmodic jerk, her legs quivering and weak, her hands clenched into cramped fists, pressed between her legs.

It wasn't enough. She needed more. Immediately she began pumping the brush handle in and out again, as quickly and deep as she could manage, and came again, even harder. Fluid ran out over the brush and her hands, her face buried in the pillow. She rolled over onto her stomach and just lay there, breathing heavily into the cold air of the pillow, the brush prickly and awkward between her thighs.

After a long, breathy moment, she rolled onto her side. Slowly, carefully, she plucked the brush out from between her legs and rested it on the bedside table. Without looking, she reached up and twisted the knob for the lamp, turning the light all the way off. Then she pulled at her blanket and wrapped herself up as tightly as she could, and she cried, silently, into her pillow. She cried because she was confused and because she feared she was in danger. She cried because she knew there was a life out there, somewhere, that she was meant to be in, and because she didn't understand what was being done to her, or why. She cried because she wanted her voice. She cried because she wanted to see her own face, to know who she was. Most of all, she cried because she was utterly and completely alone, and it felt like she would be alone forever. And after crying for a long time, she fell asleep, on her hospital bed, in her locked room.

KNOCKING.

For the first time in as long as she’d been awake and aware, someone was knocking on the door to her room. She was laying in her bed, not asleep but without anything better to do. She pulled her blanket up over her breasts. She never bothered to change back into her hospital gown. After a moment, she heard the jangling of keys and the door unlocked. The Doctor entered, pushing the wheelchair.

“Good morning!” he said, chipper and smiling. Behind him, The Other Man followed, carrying the video camera but not filming.

“Are you feeling strong today?” He asked, eyes bright. She shrugged, not feeling particularly friendly and resenting his upbeat attitude. He frowned in an exaggerated, cartoony face that she wanted to claw off his skull. What had seemed like a standard doctor/patient tone before, now came across as condescending. She climbed out of bed and stood there, naked. The Other Man held out a clean hospital gown for her and she begrudgingly wrapped it around herself and turned around, allowing him to tie it at the back. With a huff, she plopped into the wheelchair, not hiding her pissiness. The Doctor walked around and knelt in front of her.

“I know this must be frustrating. Hell, I’d be angry if I were you too. I don’t fault you for that. Just know that we’re doing our best to get you into fighting shape. Just work with us for a little while longer and we’ll have you up and about and ready to conquer the world. Okay?”

It was incredibly difficult to get on board with any of it, but what choice did she have? That was the problem. She didn’t have any choice. She had to go along with whatever they wanted to put her through.

“How do you feel about swimming?” He asked, an eyebrow raised. She looked at him, confused, and shrugged. “We need to get your arms and legs strong again. That means physiotherapy. I’d like to put you in the pool. Do you think you can swim?”

She shook her head and shrugged. She genuinely didn’t know if she could swim or not. The idea of it scared her though. Quite a lot.

WARM.

The water in the small swimming pool was surprisingly warm. The pool itself wasn’t more than thirty-five feet long, perhaps fifteen feet wide, and only five feet at its deepest. She waded slowly to the center, unsure of her footing.

They had given her a simple black one-piece bathing suit and a white bathing cap for her hair. A rubber clip was fastened to her nose and she wore tinted goggles. They thought of everything.

Walking to the pool (or rolling, in her case) had been an interesting experience. So far, she'd been in three rooms that she was aware of. Her room, where she slept, the exam room where she'd been doing her tests, and the tub room, where they bathed her. All three were a short distance from each other, and all three were accessed through the same hallway. The hallway that she had never really seen because the light was too bright.

The pool, on the other hand, was much farther away. They had gone through at least three different doors and turned several times before reaching it. Once inside, The Doctor switched off all the lights. The only illumination in the room came from the lights at the bottom of the pool, which were muted and easy enough on her eyes, and the dim light from the frosted windows in the ceiling. It occurred to her that she had no idea if those windows led outside or were purely decorative. For as much as she knew, they could be a hundred feet underground.

The Doctor helped her out of her chair and The Other Man handed her a basket with the bathing suit and accessories in it. For some reason, they both turned while she changed from her gown into the bathing suit. That was strange. They’d both seen so much of her naked body, she was sure they were well past modesty by that point. Yet they gave her privacy to change.

Taking a breath, she allowed herself to sink in the water, her eyes closed. Slowly she let the air out of her lungs in a long, even series of bubbles. As she sank to the bottom, she listened to the soft hum and chug of the filter. It was peaceful down there and for a moment, she was able to forget where she was and what was expected of her. The routine of her baths had cured her of her fear of water.

Pushing back up, she launched herself forward and swam to the side of the pool, turned and kicked off the wall, and swam to the other side. That answered that question. Yes, she could swim. She swam the length of the pool four or five times before exhaustion overcame her and she was forced to hold onto the wall, her arms and legs singing out in anger.

When she looked up, she saw The Doctor standing at the side of the pool, smiling. He clapped. “You're full of surprises!” He said, with some dark edge she didn't quite understand. “Rest for as long as you need to, and then go again.”

She did.

I HOPE HER BONES ARE FIRM

STARING.

The Doctor sat across from her at the table looking at her intently. It had been two months since that first day in the pool and she no longer needed the wheelchair to get from room to room. An hour a day in the pool had made her body strong and tight. Her eyes were still sensitive, and she still needed to cover them in the bright hall. A white silk blindfold with an elastic band that fit snugly around her head had been provided for her.

She was still unable to speak. At least with her voice. She had attempted many times to have conversations with The Doctor regarding her predicament but gave vague, nonspecific answers. Most of what he told her she knew already. She had been through a horrific ordeal (the nature of which hadn't been explained to her) and The Doctor and his sketchy assistant had brought her back from the brink of death. When she asked where her family was, The Doctor said that she had no family. She was an only child whose parents were dead. She had no husband or boyfriend. This was one of the many “facts” he had relayed to her that she was relatively sure was a blatant lie.

Most of what he told her she believed to be a lie. The problem was that she had no concept of what the truth might be. She understood that people have families and that it wasn't unreasonable to believe that she had one somewhere, but she had no memory of them. She had no memory of parents or a spouse or brothers or sisters. No aunts or uncles or cousins. All she had was this damned hospital that seemed to only be staffed by two strange men. It's hard to argue that someone is lying when you have no idea what the truth might be.

When she weighed out the facts of her situation, she understood that she was being held against her will. That much was clear. Even though she was no longer restrained physically, she had said (signed) multiple times that she wished to leave, and had been told that she wasn't healthy enough to leave. The Doctor had told her that it was impossible for her to go with her eyes the way they were and with her voice the way it was. He explained that she had nowhere to go and no one to take care of her. She had no home and no income. They couldn't allow her to wander the streets, blind and mute.

Again, that was hard to argue. Especially when she only had a basic grasp of sign language. But the fact of the matter was that it was HER choice whether she wanted to take that risk, not theirs. They had taken that choice from her, and that was holding her against her will. She resented it. If she had been given a choice, she may have well decided to stay and eat for free and have a place to sleep and safety (if you counted being occasionally molested at night by a twisted lab assistant as safe, though that had all but stopped) but she resented not being asked.

The Doctor was still awkwardly staring at her and The Other Man (whose name she had learned but didn't associate with him) was standing against the wall, filming them. She barely gave him a glance. His sad eyes and twisted body didn't move her. They only left her feeling exposed and annoyed. She was fed up. Looking at The Doctor, she held her hands up and shook her head in a “What?” motion. The Doctor leaned forward.

“I haven't been completely honest with you.” He said plainly, tenting his fingers under his chin. She nodded with as much sarcasm as she could muster without a voice. “I'm going to tell you some of what's happening and what your part in this is, and I need you to sit there and listen. I'll answer your questions if I can when I'm finished, but you need to just listen for a few minutes. Can you do that?”

She nodded slowly, eyes narrow. She very badly wanted to hear this, but she had a hard time hiding her contempt for The Doctor, and her suspicion that whatever he was going to say would just be more bullshit. He stood and began pacing next to the table as he said his piece.

“I know you think there's a family out there looking for you. I also know that you think you have a life outside of this facility. The fact of the matter is that you don't. You can believe me or not, but you are a very unique kind of person. I would say one of a kind, but there is one other very much like you. He's not quite as... sophisticated... as you, but he is cut from the same cloth. You'll meet him before too long. He is your family. And I am your family. WE are your family,” he said, indicating The Other Man.

None of this made sense. She shook her head softly and closed her eyes. He continued, ignoring her. “You see, there was no ordeal. That was, indeed, a falsehood. No accident. No recovery. No previous life.” He stopped pacing and put his hands on the table, looking at her again with those crazy blue eyes. “You need to understand. I made you. I built you. You have no previous life because there was no previous before I crafted you. Not for you. Your life started three months ago, here in my laboratory. Before that, there was no you.

I've tried to treat you with respect. To treat you as a person. Not an equal necessarily, but at least a person. But you aren't a person. You are a thing. You're an object. A wondrous, amazing feat of science, but still an object. You were built to serve a purpose, and that's it. I understand that you have something like feelings and that you have a sense of self, and please believe that I take no pleasure in making you upset. It's just that if we're going to go forward into this next phase, you really need to understand your place in the world. Do you follow me?”

She was dumbfounded, her jaw hung loosely, her eyes were blank. It was absolute insanity.

“Think back. What do you remember from before you woke up here? What memories do you have of a life outside of these walls?” He asked, smiling, not unkindly.

She tried to think and couldn't pull anything specific. She was sure that she'd had memories of events. Of people and places. But when she tried to think of something specific, she couldn't bring it up. The more she tried, the more frustrated she got. Tears of anger slipped down her face and her breathing became quick and shallow as she fought crying.

“I built you with a very basic, nonspecific knowledge. What a tree looks like, what the beach smells like, how to walk and talk and swim. The sort of knowledge the average person takes for granted. You have all of that because I gave it to you. I gave you enough to function in the limited capacity of your duty. But you have no memories of your own, outside of what you've built here.”

She ran her finger across her lips; the sign for “lie”, her jaw shaking she was so angry. The Doctor shook his head. She pointed to herself and then tapped her shoulders and hips with two fingers. “I'm human!' The Doctor smiled and sat down. He held his hand out and she refused it.

“Yes, you are. Sort of. Human beings are machines. My body,” he pointed at her “your body, is a machine. It has a central processor. It has thousands of wires that carry electrical signals to pumps and pistons and levers that make you walk and breathe and live. Most of us were born. You were built. And you were built with very specific functions and with a very unique purpose.”

She laughed silently, her hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her face. Frustrated, she threw her hands up in the air. “What is that?” she seemed to ask.

“Companionship,” The Doctor said, seriously. This struck her, and she looked up at him, her brow furrowed. She moved her index finger around her mouth in a circle. “Who?”

The Doctor smiled and looked at The Other Man, then back at her.

“You were built to be a partner for my son. You'll meet him soon enough.”

DARKNESS.

She was back in her room. The rest of that conversation was a blur. At a certain point, her brain simply refused to take anymore. It was too much. Too much madness. She tuned out and eventually, The Doctor gave up. He'd done enough damage for the day. They helped her to her feet, slipped on her blindfold, and walked her back to her room. That was eight hours ago, and she had barely moved since, except to slip out of her gown and climb under the covers.

Laying on the bed, staring at the wall, she wracked her brain for memories. Of all the absolutely insane talk about her having been built and not being a real person, the one thing that stuck out in her mind was his assertion that she had no memories of a life prior to waking up in the laboratory. That struck her as false. She'd spent the last eight hours desperately trying to come up with something, anything, she could call a specific memory.

Sure, she had tons of vague images and scents and textures. She could recall the taste of vanilla ice cream and orange soda. She could remember what it felt like to slide down a water slide and drive a car. She could remember what fresh laundry smelled like and the feeling of tying a child's shoe. But she couldn't pinpoint a specific child or a specific car. Just these loose sensations. How could he have put those in her head? WHY would he put those in her head? She could understand giving her the ability to walk and understand spoken English, but why give her the memory of what it's like to fly a kite in a park or to rub a dog's belly? What purpose could those memories possibly serve?

He had tried to explain the process of implanting these memories in her head, but she'd already checked out by that point. She didn't want to hear it. Still, of all of it, that was the thing she was most cynical about. It just didn't make sense. The rest of it, as unbelievable and ridiculous as it sounded, she could at least understand the motivation behind it. If she were to suspend disbelief and accept that she had, in fact, been “built” by this insane doctor and that she had been built for the express purpose of keeping another “built” human being company, that she could understand. It was lunacy, but she could understand the rationale behind it. These vague memories though... they came from somewhere. If he indeed installed them in her mind, what purpose could they possibly serve?

It was a question she wanted to ask at the time, but she was too overwhelmed, and she couldn't work out how to ask it with her limited ability to sign. That would have likely been one of the many questions he skirted.

Frustrated, she sighed and rolled over, staring into the darkness. The sound of keys rattling outside of the door made her sit up and pull her blanket up to her chin. The door opened slowly, and she covered her eyes to block out the light from the hallway. The Other Man pushed her wheelchair into the room and closed the door. She watched as he waddled toward her and switched on the bedside lamp, filling the room with soft, warm light.

Surprisingly, he positioned the chair next to her bed and sat in it. He looked at her for a long time, his eyes big and moist and sad.

“I know this is a lot to take. I would be pretty upset if I were you too,” he said through his twisted jaw. She didn't respond. He nodded.

“I don't know a lot about the science behind it, but I know more than you do. I thought maybe I could help you understand some of this. He can be a little over the top and intense.”

After a long moment, she put her index finger to her mouth and moved it away from her face in an arc, pointing toward him. “Truth?”

“Yes,” he said, looking sullen. She put her finger to her brow and pulled it away into a fist. “Memories.” He shook his head, not sure what she meant. It was so frustrating! She repeated the sign, adding another, putting her fingertips to her forehead and pulling them away, extending her thumb and pinky. “Why memories?” When he still didn't understand, she pointed at her head and then at his, frustrated.

“Why give you memories?” He asked. She nodded emphatically. He smiled, proud of himself for figuring it out.

“I think it was kind of a package deal. He didn't choose all the memories to put in there. They all came in the same... package.”

He stopped talking, as though he'd said too much. She narrowed her eyes and looked at him hard. Carefully, she held her fist out in front of her chest and cupped her other hand under it and moved them in a circle. “Package?”

When he didn't respond, she climbed off the bed and stepped toward him. He began to stand, and she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back into the chair. He was stronger than she was, but she had leverage and a straight back. She pointed her finger at his face and touched his mouth. “Talk.”

He talked.

KISSING.

The Other Man was kissing her neck. He was sitting next to her on the bed, kissing and licking her on the neck. She had been crying moments earlier and he moved to the bed to comfort her. His comfort lasted for all of two or three minutes before he was kissing her. She let him. She didn't care anymore. He told her everything. It made sense. It was insane, but it made sense. The Doctor had misled her when he said that he had built her. He had indeed built her, but not in the way he had implied. The way he explained it suggested that he'd created her from whole cloth. No. He built her like someone rebuilds a car. From pieces of other cars. He built her from dead women. At least four different women, from what The Other Man had said. Her legs and arms had come from a thirty-year-old mother of two who had been killed by a drunk driver. Her torso came from a nineteen-year-old model and occasional prostitute who died of a heroin overdose. Her head and spinal column came from a twenty-six-year-old professional cyclist who slipped in the shower and fell through the glass door.

Various organs had come from donor banks. The package, as The Other Man had so delicately called it, had come from a twenty-seven-year-old wife and mother who had attempted suicide in her bathtub. She was in a coma for weeks before being taken off life-support. Her body was harvested for organs. The Doctor got her brain. He had been the coroner and was able to take it almost immediately.

It made sense and it was true. She knew it was true. That meant that all of it was true. She was indeed built by this psychotic doctor, and she was built to serve. When that realization hit her, the fire that had been building in her for the last few weeks was extinguished. What could she do? They weren't keeping her away from her life. This WAS her life. She wasn't a prisoner, she was an appliance.

Staring off into the darkness, she closed her eyes and lay back on the bed. The Other Man stretched out beside her, his hand on her breast. Her dead breast. She didn’t cry. She only lay there, staring, as he fondled her. She heard the clatter of his belt buckle as he undid his pants and kicked them to the floor. She could feel his erection pressing against her leg.

Realization settled in her mind as she felt her body respond to this. She wasn't just built to be a companion, she was built for sex. She understood that, and somehow it made sense. The fact that she could lay there, during an emotional breakdown, while this grotesque man rubbed himself on her and become aroused said it all. She shouldn't respond this way. She shouldn't be getting wet and her nipples shouldn't be crying out to be sucked. She should be screaming and kicking and fighting. Not just because she didn't want this, but because she didn't want ANY of it. She never asked to be a companion, whatever that meant. She never asked to be locked in a room by herself for hours. She never asked to be engineered for sex like some sort of farm animal. She never asked to be molested by this twisted, sad little man.

Her breath quickened as he dropped his hand between her legs. Those long, hard fingers were clumsy, but they had a certain eagerness that sent shivers through her body. She pulled his hand up and took his fingers into her mouth. They were slick and warm and salty. She sucked her wetness from them and shoved his hand back down between her legs. As he slipped his fingers in and out of her she reached down and gripped his cock. It was firm and pulsated in her hand. He gasped as she rolled over and took him into her mouth, taking his hand from between her legs and resting it on the back of her head. He seemed to not quite know what was expected of him. She had surprised him, and he didn't know how far this was going to go.

As she ran her tongue along his shaft, she was filled with a sense of purpose. Like her understanding of how to walk and swim, she felt herself accessing some inherent knowledge of how to fuck. Somehow, she knew that not only did she have the ability to do it, but that she was good at it. If she was built for sex, she may as well be as good at it as she could be.

Pushing The Other Man back, she climbed on top of him. He gripped her ass as she slid down onto his cock. She found herself in control of muscles she didn't know she had. She squeezed him as she rose and fell. Looking down at his dopey, smiling face, she had the overwhelming urge to bring her fists down on him and pound and pound. The urge welled up inside of her, forcing her to bury her face in his chest, her hands on his shoulders. She funneled that anger into her hips as she fucked him harder. A deep, primal groan came out of him as he came inside her, his hips thrusting up to meet her, his fingers biting into her ass cheeks. She gripped him by the hair and fought the impulse to tear out his throat with her teeth. She rested her head on his chest, listening to his heavy, uneven breathing. She could feel the straps from his back brace and hear his heart thundering in his chest. She wondered if he were to listen to her chest if he'd hear a heartbeat at all.

BEAUTIFUL.

She was beautiful.

Once they'd recovered, The Other Man climbed down from the bed and pulled his pants back on. He stood there for a moment, looking at her on the bed, naked and sweaty, her hair a tangled mess, and said “Thank you.” just like he had the first night. That put a pin in her little experiment. It was an experiment she realized, though perhaps not a premeditated one. She was built for a certain kind of service, and she'd done that service well, and he'd thanked her for it. Like you might thank a waitress or a maid or a masseuse. Or a whore she thought. She was particularly interested in her own emotional state after that. Before, she'd felt used and even embarrassed for enjoying what he'd done to her. His lusty, fumbling violations. But that night she'd experienced a feeling of accomplishment. A sense of pride even. She was indeed good at it.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked as he stood behind the wheelchair. She thought about it for a moment, then held her hand up next to her face and twisted it back and forth like a royal wave. Mirror. He nodded and rubbed his chin.

“Okay. Let's get you dressed.”

She jumped down from the bed and walked across the room to where her gown was pooled on the floor. There was a certain air of confidence, even cockiness, about her. When she turned around at looked at him, there was something dark in her eyes that caught him off guard. As though she understood him far better than he understood her.

“Do you want the chair?” He asked in his sloppy voice. She shook her head No and walked to the door. He waddled past her and held out the blindfold. She took it from him and put it on herself.

He took her to the pool and led her into the change room. She hadn't been in there before (she'd always just changed beside the pool, next to the two men) and was surprised at how big it was. A row of lockers lined one wall, and three shower stalls were situated on the opposite side of the room. Beside the lockers was a long, full-length mirror mounted on the wall.

Seeing herself for the first time was startling and uncomfortable. He had turned off all but one of the banks of lights. It was dark, but she could see well enough. She stood there for a long time, staring into her own eyes. Eyes she didn't recognize. Eyes she had never seen before. They were green and large, with thick lashes below sharp, thin eyebrows. Her lips were curvy and full, her chin and jaw angular with a little dimple in the center. Her hair was a tousled auburn mess piled on top of her head.

She was beautiful. Letting her gown slip to the floor, she stepped forward and looked at her body. She could see the fine lines of scars. The scars that ran around her armpits and over her shoulders. Along the lines of her hips and abdomen. Across her throat and along her jawline. She could see the subtle way the skin tone of her legs didn't quite match the tone of her belly. How her shoulders were just slightly out of sync with her arms. She could see how her legs seemed just a little too long for her body. She saw all of this and understood that she had been told the truth.

Turning sideways, she lifted her breasts and looked closely at the faint scar running beneath one. Perhaps if you're building a body from pieces of dead women, you don't need silicone to sculpt perfect breasts. Perhaps you can pick and choose the tits you want and fine-tune them to your specifications. She let them fall and admired the way they bounced. Perky.

The Other Man was watching, his hand over his mouth. She turned and looked at him. He smiled, and she nodded. It was as much as she could give him right then. She picked up her gown from the floor and strode across the room to the exit. He followed her.

They walked back to her room. She hadn't bothered putting her gown back on. She wasn't embarrassed. With the blindfold on, she still needed him to guide her, but only barely. She walked tall and with a confidence she'd never felt before.

Once they were in her room again, her blindfold off, she turned to The Other Man and signed a question. When can I have my voice?

He looked sad.

“I don't know. That's up to him.”

She pointed to her eyes and shrugged. He shook his head.

“I'm sorry, I don't know.” She nodded and climbed into bed, facing the wall. After a long moment, The Other Man turned and pushed the wheelchair out of the room and locked the door.

TIGHT.

The skirt was tight and a little uncomfortable after spending so much time in the loose hospital gown. It was leather and black and stopped midway up her thighs. She sat on the bed and pulled a stocking up her leg and attached it to the garter belt that hung beneath the hem. Once the second stocking was on she stood and examined herself in the mirror The Other Man had installed in her room. She laughed and shook her head.

The pile of clothes on her bed was daunting. This was one of many outfits she'd experimented with. So far, she had tried on a dozen or so looks and nothing seemed to satisfy her. This atrocious outfit she was wearing was one of the worst. She looked like a cartoon prostitute in the short skirt and red tube top. But it was something she'd asked for and they'd brought it, along with what had to be thousands of dollars worth of clothes. All were chosen by her out of a series of catalogs.

She stripped out of the absurd hooker outfit and carefully folded the items in a second pile. The first pile of unworn clothes was still larger than the second pile of discards. She picked up the next item up and examined it. A pale-yellow sundress with thin, spaghetti straps. Pulling the dress over her head she walked over to the mirror and looked at herself.

This one was nice. She twisted her hips, letting the dress bounce around her legs in a airy way that was pleasant and whimsical. She liked the dress and felt a moment of sadness as she realized that she wouldn't get to wear it outside.

The last few weeks had been a mixture of sorrowful acceptance and enthusiastic anticipation. Her moods swung drastically, seemingly at random. Without warning she could jump from a deep, crippling depression to an insatiable lust that typically ended in a frantic, often intensely emotional masturbation session, which would often lead her back into depression. Sometimes she felt eager, even proud, of her upcoming meeting with this mysterious man she was meant to partner with. Sometimes she just resented it and fantasized about ways she could kill herself. Not out of depression or self-loathing, but out of spite.

That evening, with her pile of new clothes, she was back to wanting to succeed in her role. She wanted to be sexy for this guy, whoever he was. Which was a difficult desire to maintain, considering that she knew almost nothing about him. The facts she had about him could be counted on one hand. She knew that he was “built” the same way she was “built”. She knew that The Doctor thought of him as a son. She knew that he was kept somewhere in this facility, the same way she was. That was about it. That was a scary proposition. She hoped he wasn't grotesque or difficult to look at. The Doctor said that he wasn't “as sophisticated” as she was, and that concerned her. What could he have meant? Was he mentally disabled? Was he deformed? Even though she herself was built in the same way, she worried that the cobbled-together nature of his body wasn't too obvious. She found the idea of that disturbing.

She forced herself not to think about these questions. She would, hopefully, have the answers soon enough. The Doctor kept insisting that they would meet soon, but she'd learned to take most of what he said with a fist full of salt. She did hope it would be soon, for quite a few reasons. The anticipation was torture. She was eager to move on to the next phase of her life. The monotony of her room and routine was dreary and she longed for change. Then there was the meeting itself. Not only would she be expected to meet this strange, mysterious oddity, but she was also expected to have sex with him. She was nervous about that and scared of disappointing him. When you have one explicit purpose in life, the idea of failing at that is debilitating.

Most of all, she was just desperate for another person in her life. It is a desperately lonely life. Neither The Doctor nor The Other Man was good company, and the idea that there was another person in this building going through much the same struggles as herself was exhilarating. She was built to be a companion, but at the same time, she herself was in need of companionship. She longed to have a partner in this strange life and often fantasized about the two of them breaking out of their hospital world and running away together. She had no idea where they would go, but her fantasies didn't need to extend that far.

Another reason she was eager to meet this man was that she was in a near-constant state of arousal. She understood it was part of her engineering, but her libido seemed to be increasing as time went on, to the point that it was becoming uncomfortable. Three, four, even five times a day she would have to stop what she was doing (which was rarely anything interesting) and finger herself into oblivion while The Doctor and The Other Man waited in the next room. It would have been embarrassing if it wasn't understood between the three of them that this was one of her primary functions.

The Doctor had explained a few things to her. He told her that he specifically adjusted her chemistry and hormones for optimal sexual function. He also explained that she was unable to get pregnant. She also no longer menstruated, though this led to a few minor problems. In crafting the chemistry of her brain, there was a certain level of maintenance and monitoring that needed to be done to keep her balanced. Over the weeks she'd been through a barrage of medications designed to boost and decrease various chemicals in her brain. Serotonin and melatonin and dopamine and norepinephrine and god knows what else. This was at least partially responsible for her drastic mood swings over the last month or so. It was also, according to The Doctor, one of the reasons she had yet to meet her mysterious betrothed. He claimed that he wanted to get her moods stabilized, as he (The Doctor's manufactured son) was prone to heavy mood swings himself. The Doctor also claimed that he was incredibly eager to meet her. “I should hope so,” she croaked in her damaged voice.

That was another thing that had changed over the last month. The Doctor had finally agreed to fix her voice. Or, at least, try to. It had been a week since she'd come out of surgery and it still hurt to speak. She could dribble out raspy, barely audible whispers and croaks. The Doctor said that her voice would heal over time and would, hopefully, eventually, sound somewhat normal. He couldn't promise that her voice wasn't permanently damaged to some degree, but at the very least she'd be able to speak, which was better than she had before.

So, while she kept it to a minimum, being able to speak greatly improved her quality of life. Most of the things she requested were granted. Specific foods, a television (with a DVD player and movies, but no cable), clothes, access to gym equipment, an iPod full of music, and sunglasses that she could wear when traveling between rooms instead of the blindfold.

Her vision, unfortunately, was still compromised. The Doctor told her, one sad afternoon, that he didn't think it was fixable. After a series of exams and tests, he'd decided that the risk wasn't worth the reward. So that meant that she would be essentially blind to anything beyond five or six feet and that she would never be able to tolerate normal lighting without some sort of eye protection. The sunglasses helped but weren't a very practical solution. The result is that the lights in all of the rooms she occupied were set on dimmers, and she could easily adjust to her comfort level.

Another thing she'd been able to request was a modest collection of sex toys. It was a subject that was broached in a very matter-of-fact way. On one of the afternoons when she needed to excuse herself from an eye exam, The Doctor asked her if she'd like a catalog from an adult gift shop. When she understood his meaning, she said that she would very much like that. When it arrived the next day, she picked out a couple of vibrators, a few various-sized silicone dildos, and a few odds and ends that she was curious about trying out.

The extra equipment made her masturbatory sessions quite a bit quicker when they were inconveniently timed, and they made the more relaxed experiences that much more interesting. She enjoyed being able to experiment with what she did and didn't like. As it turns out, she liked pretty much everything she tried.

Later that week, she went through the catalog and requested a dozen or so more toys. Different sizes and shapes, clamps and clips, plugs and beads, lubrication, and sensitizers. Altogether, she spent at least a couple hours a day taking care of herself in that way. The fervor of her appetite was near constant. It seemed like the more she masturbated, the more she needed it.

She wondered if whatever The Doctor had done to her worked too well. There were times when she found herself going at it with such intensity that she hurt herself in the process and had to make the uncomfortable choice of either stopping or hurting herself more. Usually, she stopped, but not always. The bulk of her fantasies centered around this mysterious partner she was meant to be with. She had no idea what he looked like and hadn't been given a straight answer from The Doctor or The Other Man, so she had to make it up. She assumed he was built in much the same way she had been. Picking and choosing the best parts to make the most physically appealing package. She imagined him tall, but not too tall. Striking eyes (like hers) and soft, kissable lips. Firm hands and a lean body. She imagined that he went through the same sort of diet and exercise routine that she did. Perhaps more weight training than cardio and swimming.

Sometimes she thought about herself. Imagined watching herself on video, how she would look to someone else, her legs spread and pulled back, her feet against the wall, her head tilted back and to the side as she frantically worked whatever toy she had grabbed in and out of herself. Her eyes squeezed tightly, shut. She usually put the clamps on her nipples as well. There was something about the little hint of pain mixed in with the pleasure that made it that much more intense. Often, she didn't think about anything at all. She just let the physical stimulation carry her along. That was usually when she used the big massager-style vibrator. That one pushed her to climax so quickly that she didn't need to fantasize. She liked the big vibrator but only used it when she was really eager. It could be a little too much at once.

She slipped out of the yellow dress and put it on a hanger in the closet. That one was a keeper. The Other Man had unlocked the closet door and she was pleased to find that on one side there was a shelf full of clean bed linen, extra pillows, and blankets, and on the other side was a rod with twenty or so wooden hangers. She admired the dress as it hung in the closet. There was something heartwarming about having a place for her stuff. It was nice to have stuff at all. She felt like she finally had some definition and an identity. That dress was hers because she had chosen it for herself, based on her taste and preference. It was her dress. She put it in her closet in her room. Looking around the space, she thought that next, she might ask for some artwork for the walls.

Moving on to the next outfit, she picked up a silvery silk nightie and pulled it over her head. It was semi-transparent and felt cool against her skin. Looking in the mirror, she could just make out her nipples through the material, and the line where her legs came together and formed the Y shape at her crotch. She tugged gently at the straps, hiking the nightie up another two inches, so that it fell just below her pussy. When she did, the silk dragged across her nipples, which sent shivers through her body. That felt nice. She jiggled the material again, letting it rub against her breasts, and again it sent shivers. Turning around, she looked over her shoulder at the back of the outfit, admiring how the hem let the bottom of her ass peek out. Again, she dragged the material across her nipples and shuddered. Letting out a sigh, she crawled up onto the bed, next to the two piles of clothes, and went to work. Reaching blindly into the drawer in the nightstand, she pulled a cute little baby blue vibrator out and tucked it between her legs. With her left hand, she squeezed her breast through the silk. It felt soft and slick and amazing. The little vibrator buzzed discretely as she ran it in tight circles around her clit. This was one of those times she just wanted to get it over with, so she could get back to what she was doing. One of the interesting aspects of getting her voice back was that she found that she had to restrain herself from making too much noise when she was taking care of her needs in this way. Not because she was self-conscious about anyone hearing (there were only two other people that could hear her, and she didn't think they hung around that part of the facility when they weren't dealing with her) but because her voice was still recovering, the noises she did make were strange and guttural. They came out less like passionate moans and more like the grunts of an animal. It took her out of the moment, so she tried to keep her noise level to as low as possible. Also, it hurt her to speak, so she did it as seldom as possible. This was not one of those times. Her orgasm was approaching with an astonishing speed and she didn't care about how she sounded. As the bubble of pleasure built inside her, she let out a long, low groan that made her throat burn. The groan built to almost a yell as she came, her legs clamping together on her hand. She let go of her breast and wasn't surprised to find that it ached from how hard she was squeezing it.

She lay there breathing in deep, shaky gulps and almost didn't hear the rattle of keys in the door. The Other Man always knocked first, but The Doctor had an annoying habit of knocking as he opened the door, assuming she'd welcomed him in. As the door swung open, she quickly pulled her blanket up over her body. Not because she was embarrassed of being seen in her nightie, but because it was painfully obvious what she'd been doing. She was sure he would have heard the noise she was making, and that bothered her because he came in anyway. He could have given her a minute to finish.

“Hello there,” he said, smiling, as he entered. She nodded at him, moving aside a clump of sweaty hair that was stuck to her face.

“I just wanted to let you know that the big day is soon. Tomorrow in fact. So, we'll need to get you prepared for it, as much as we can prepare for that sort of thing anyway,” he said, looking around the room. Her clothes were still piled up at the foot of the bed. She was glad to see that her blanket covered the blue vibrator. She allowed herself just a little bit of modesty.

A wave of dizziness overcame her. With all her anticipation and longing, she never expected to feel so anxious about it when the time actually came. Tomorrow? That was too soon. She needed to finish picking her outfits. She needed make-up and perfume. She needed to shave and have a bath. She had a million questions and found herself getting angry at The Doctor for being so vague about him. She fantasized about him as this perfect specimen of masculinity, but she was also afraid of what else he could be. She worried that he was going to be grotesque and twisted. She imagined a sloppily clumped-together mess of dead body parts. Even though she knew that The Doctor was capable of amazing things, just based on herself as an example. Still, her mind conjured up images of rotting corpses and drooling brain-dead monstrosities fumbling around and bearing down on her.

It was perhaps silly, and certainly unproductive to picture all of these horrific scenarios, but she had an active imagination and a lot of free time on her hands. Or, she did. Now she had very little free time. She had a lot to do before her meeting the following day.

HOT.

The water was nearly unbearable as she lowered herself slowly into the tub. The Doctor sat in his chair (he'd long since stopped bathing her, once she became mobile enough to do it herself) reading from a tablet computer. Once she was all the way in the tub, she leaned back and closed her eyes, a washcloth in her hand. Slowly, she twisted the cloth and squeezed the water out, and folded it over her eyes. The bath was doing wonders for her tension. Since The Doctor dropped the bomb that she was meeting her new partner the next day, she was a ball of nerves and tension.

Stretched out in the tub, she could almost fall asleep. She allowed herself five long, quiet minutes to soak in the heat and let her muscles and bones loosen. Her hands floated at her sides and the occasional flash of memory would skitter across her mind. Laying in the tube, paralyzed and confused, unable to move or even breathe. She took in a deep breath and reminded herself of the relative safety of her surroundings. Taking the cloth from her eyes, she sat up and soaped her body. She never really got dirty, but it felt good to wash off the sweat and stress. The shaving cream and a fresh safety razor sat in the little caddy by the tub and she started the task of shaving. Usually, she found it tedious, but now she was consciously trying to do as good a job as possible. She wanted to be perfect for her introduction. She stood and put her foot on the edge of the tub to run the razor between her legs, carefully navigating the delicate terrain.

Once she was satisfied with the shaving, she pulled the curtain into the tub and turned on the shower to wash her hair. In a moment of brief madness, she twisted the dial all the way to cold and sucked in air as the frigid water poured over her. It made her a little dizzy, but also shocked her back to alertness. She was going to meet her partner in less than two hours and the hot bath had made her feel sleepy and stupid. The cold water shoved her back into reality and was refreshing.

With her hair washed and her body rinsed, she turned off the water and dried herself. The air in the room was cold and she immediately regretted the frigid shower. When she was dry, she walked over to the sink and mirror. One of the many provisions she had requested was a hair dryer. She blow-dried her hair and ran her brush through it. Holding the brush, she remembered that first night out of the leather bindings and felt a twinge between her legs. She tried to suppress the urge. She just got out of the bath and her masturbation sessions usually left her sweaty and sticky. She breathed through it and managed to get her hair styled how she wanted it. Brushed and tucked to one side with a cute little white and yellow flower-shaped hair-clip. Over the few months she'd been alive, her hair had grown quite a bit and hung between her shoulder blades. It took a while to dry and brush out, but The Doctor didn't seem to mind waiting. He sat there, disinterested and reading his tablet.

The yellow sundress was hanging from a hook in the wall. She took it down and slipped it on, adjusting the straps and settling her boobs into place. Glancing in the mirror, she was quite pleased with how it came together. She looked cute. Approachable and naive, in a precious sort of way. Leaning forward to examine her face in the mirror, what she wanted to do for her makeup. She smiled at herself and turned to The Doctor.

He looked up at her and smiled.

“You look very nice,” he said, and it made her feel good. Even though she distrusted The Doctor and, at times, downright hated him, there was also a part of her that wanted to please him. Some inherent need for approval. She supposed it came from the knowledge that she had basically one job in her life, and she needed to know that she was doing it well. Being told that she looked nice, when she had picked her own clothes, and styled her own hair, was rewarding.

“Thank you,” she said, turning back to the mirror. Pulling from the modest make-up kit she selected from one of the many catalogs, she put on a simple but delicate face. Turning around, she noticed that The Other Man was in the room now and videotaping her again. She smiled and tilted her head to the camera in a friendly nod, then spun around once, letting the dress twirl along with her. The Doctor let out a genuine laugh and, for perhaps the first time, she recognized that he was proud of her.

NERVOUS.

The three of them walked down the long hallway that led to the pool and beyond. The Doctor was in front and The Other Man hobbled along behind her. Her nerves were shaky all day, but as they approached the big green double doors at the end of the hall that took them beyond the pool and out of range of anywhere she'd ever been, she was downright wrecked. Her breathing came in short, deliberately paced bursts through her nose.

The Doctor did what he could to prepare her for the meeting, but it only served to make her more nervous. Earlier, They’d gone to her room and he sat down on the bed. He patted the mattress next to him and she sat down. After a long, awkward moment, he spoke.

“I fear that I haven't properly prepared you for what might happen. Unfortunately, I don't entirely know what to expect myself. I know him, and I feel as though I have a pretty good handle on his personality, but he can be unpredictable. One thing I'm relatively certain about is that he won't hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” She asked, surprised. That idea hadn't even occurred to her. She never considered that what she was about to do could be dangerous.

“He was my first successful attempt at... well, you know. By the time I made you, I had worked out most of the kinks,” he said gently.

“What kinks?” She asked, her face now tense. The Doctor waggled his head slightly, and smiled a crooked, unattractive smile.

“He can be very... moody, at times. Intimidating in the wrong context. I'm not telling you any of this to scare you. Please don't take it that way. I'm just trying to put your expectations in the right place.” “He knows I'm coming, right?” She asked.

“Yes, I believe so. He's stopped talking to me. He's stopped talking period. It's been months,” he stopped for a long moment, staring off into space. She almost spoke, but he started talking again before she could say anything.

“My concern is that you may be too good for him. The technology we developed to bring the two of you to life advanced considerably between when I built him and when I built you. I learned a lot from my mistakes and, frankly, you are far beyond what I ever thought was possible.”

For a moment she forgot her nerves and simply enjoyed the new feeling of pride in herself. It was unexpected and felt nice.

“It's a concern, but I don't believe it's very likely. He's lonely. Desperately lonely. I think when he meets you, whatever resentment or rebellion he may be feeling will be outweighed by the prospect of having a friend.” he patted her on the leg in what was meant to be a reassuring gesture, but it did little to calm her building fear. “I’m sure you can relate to that.”

“I don't want to disappoint him.” She said, nearly crying. She hadn't realized until then just how much she was invested in the need to please this manufactured man she had never met.

“There's no way you can disappoint him. If he's disappointed at all, it will be in me, not you. You are nearly perfect. If only for those eyes,” he said, giving her a sympathetic look.

In the hallway, The Doctor stopped at the double green doors and took his keychain out of his lab coat pocket, and unlocked the door. Her heart was thumping in her throat. The doors parted, and they walked into another long hallway, and then a turn and another corridor. At the end of that hall was a heavy metal door like a bank vault, a wheel situated in the center instead of a doorknob. The Doctor unlocked this door and pulled it open. Beyond this door was another short hallway. Rather than the tile and white walls that made the rest of the facility look like a hospital, this hall was polished steel with a metal grate floor. Bright fluorescent lights were embedded in the ceiling. She put her hand against her forehead, trying to block some of the light from her eyes. At the end of the hall, they reached another door. The Doctor turned and took her hand.

“I have to go into the next room to unlock this door.”

He pointed at a metal door, flush with the wall that she hadn't even noticed. “I'm not going to go in with you, but I will be watching from the next room. There are cameras and microphones in there. If by some strange chance, things get out of hand, we'll come in at once.”

He made an attempt at a reassuring smile that was neither reassuring or even a smile. Not for the first time, the idea that he was completely mad crossed her mind. His hand was cold and slimy with sweat when he patted her on the shoulder. She fought the urge to recoil in disgust. Staring at the polished metal door, her stomach flip-flopped, and she had the sudden feeling that she might throw up or faint. When she turned to tell The Doctor that she wanted to give it another couple of days or weeks, she saw that he was already standing inside the doorway. He nodded to her and the door slid shut, leaving her alone in the metal hallway.

RED.

The fluorescent lights went out, startling her. They were replaced by an ominous pulsating red glow. After a moment of silence, she removed her sunglasses and could see relatively easily. The massive steel door loomed over her, round and daunting. She waited for something to happen, staring at the wheel in the center of the door. She screamed when jets of warm air blasted at her from every direction, blowing her dress and hair around her in a chaotic tornado. The jets stopped as abruptly as they started, and claustrophobia welled up inside her. The red lights made the metal corridor feel like a submarine or a bomb shelter. She stomped up to the door the Doctor had disappeared into and banged on it with her fist.

“I've changed my mind! I'm not ready!” She yelled up at the little port window in the door, just high enough that she couldn't see through it, even standing on her tip-toes.

“Can you hear me? Let me out! I want out now!” She screamed, banging on the door. It hurt her hand, but adrenaline had taken over as panic swirled inside her. From all around her the mechanically filtered voice of The Doctor boomed. He was speaking to her through an intercom.

“Calm down dear. It's going to be fine. Just hang tight a moment longer.”

“No! Please! No! I don't want to!”

She was crying now. Only recently, she was confident and even excited for this, but the memory of being paralyzed in the tube reared up in her head and made being in the hallway the closest thing she had to a waking nightmare.

The sound of massive cogs and gears spinning and clanking echoed through the walls. She turned around to look at the door and was blinded. The door rolled into the wall on a track and the light from inside the room was far too bright for her sensitive eyes. Nearly hyperventilating she fumbled the sunglasses onto her face. She walked backward down the hallway until her sweaty back pressed against the door they'd entered from. Turning around, she found that it, of course, was locked. The metal was cold against her forehead. The hair she'd spent hours brushing was a mess, hanging down over her face, sweaty and clumped.

The clicking sound of fluorescent lights switching off prompted her to turn around. The white, painful light from the other side of the door was gone, replaced by the soft glow of what appeared to be incandescent bulbs. She couldn't see far enough into the room to distinguish shapes, but she could tell that the tone of the light matched the low-wattage bulb of her bedside lamp rather than the harsh greenish burn of the fluorescent lights that seemed to be everywhere else in the building.

“Go to him,” The Doctor said over the intercom, almost whispering. She stepped forward, her feet unsteady, as though she were walking up a steep, uneven hill. A sense of vertigo forced her to slide her hand along the wall for support as she made her way down the hall.

CONCRETE.

She was terrified, unable to look up. She only stood, staring at the floor, trying to force her eyes to adjust to the light. After a long, painfully quiet moment, she took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. The floor was poured concrete, like the swimming pool. Somehow this comforted her and seemed like a more stable option than the metal grating of the hallway.

“Take your shoes off.”

The voice was deep and even and resonated in the room, even though he had barely spoken. She gasped and fell against the wall, looking around, startled into searching for the source of the sound. With the ceiling lights off, the sunglasses worked against her and she pulled them off. As she caught her balance against the wall, the heavy door rolled shut behind her and clanked into place. She was locked in. “Where are you? I can't see,” she managed to sputter out. Her mouth was dry, and she found it hard to gather her words. Looking around the room she could only make out vague shapes. The room itself was round, perhaps thirty feet across. On one side was a desk or table of some sort. The soft yellow glow of a lamp came from this area. Following along the wall she could see lumps that could have been furniture on the far side of the room, but from the doorway, it was too far away to tell. To her right, she could make out a plastic curtain hanging from a U-shaped rail protruding from the wall. She assumed this was some sort of shower or bathing area. It reminded her of the tub she bathed in and the familiarity gave her a moment of comfort.

A light popped on directly across the room from her. It was still too far to see details, but she could just make out the shape of a full-sized bed and end tables. There was a lamp on one of the tables. He was sitting on the bed. Her heart sped, and she stopped breathing when she saw him. In the dim light and through the fog of her over-dilated eyes she could just make out the shape of a man perched on the bed. She stood there for a long moment, trying to force her eyes to do the job they were built to do. Reluctantly, she stepped forward, fear gripping her heart but curiosity and an overwhelming sense of purpose pushing her toward him.

“Take your shoes off,” the voice said again, in the same even and measured tone. The shape of the room bounced the sound of his voice, making it seem to come from everywhere at once. Shaking, she reached down and slipped the sandals she had so carefully selected off her feet and stepped barefoot onto the floor. The hard concrete seemed to suck all the warmth from her body. She took another step toward him and he became a little clearer.

He was sitting against the headboard. She couldn't see his eyes, but she could feel him watching her. “Stop,” he said. This confused her. She did as she was told and waited for a terrified minute. That's when he stepped to the floor and faced her. He was a giant. At least seven feet tall. His arms hung like telephone poles at his side. They seemed to be out of proportion to the rest of his body. As he walked toward her, striding casually but covering so much ground with his tree-trunk legs that she nearly fell over, startled, at how quickly he crossed the room.

Her eyes fought valiantly to process the abruptly changing imagery. She watched him appear in the brief seconds it took him to traverse the room. He was pale, nearly white, and shirtless. He wore tattered hospital pants that were far too short for him. It would have been comical if it didn't look so primitive. The threadbare fabric stopped halfway down his calves, bouncing above his bare feet. A head of shaggy blond hair fell over his face. She tried to focus and take in what she was seeing but by the time she got a handle on it, he was too close. She backed up instinctively and stumbled over her sandals and nearly fell. An arm shot out, faster than it should have been to look at its size, and took hold of the front of her dress, holding her up. She kicked briefly and retained her footing, but he held onto her dress, staring down at her. She forced her gaze up to meet his and when she saw his eyes her mouth dropped open and began to shake, her breath coming out in quick, uneven jags. His eyes were two different colors, one pale blue and one brown. The blue eye seemed to look past her, unseeing. The other eye, brown with flecks of green and gold, appeared to burn with life. Awful, angry life. Not hateful, but devastated. This eye met hers and she had to look away. She couldn't take it. It hurt too much.

He leaned forward, pulling her closer to him by the front of her dress. She felt it rip at one shoulder and the threshold of her panic stressed under the weight a little more, but didn't quite break. She felt his breath in her hair and was suddenly sure he was smelling her. He pressed his nose against her forehead and she felt his breath huff out of his nostrils and down her face in thick, quick bursts. She closed her eyes as a flash of memory flitted through her mind. A farm and a horse and the grunting, sloppy sounds it made as it nuzzled her face.

When she opened her eyes, she realized she had absentmindedly leaned toward his chest, which was inches from her face. He had the narrow, lanky body of a swimmer. Muscled, but not sculpted. He pulled back and looked down at her. She could feel his gaze and felt obligated to meet it, but couldn't bring herself to do it. The thought of feeling that one eye looking into her was more than she could handle. Instead, she stared at the odd shape of lumpy scar tissue that ran up the center of his torso and split at his sternum toward his shoulders. Unlike the meticulous, nearly invisible scars on her own body, what she was seeing sprawled across his body was a ragged mess.

He released her, and she stood in front of him. She was scared, but the overwhelming amount of information she was processing gave her a moment to get a hold of herself. He didn't seem to want to hurt her, even though he had ripped her dress when he caught her. He sniffed her, like some kind of animal, but then he released her and appeared to be waiting for her to come around to him rather than pushing her. He had only spoken enough to ask her to take off her shoes, which seemed like a docile request.

She was still trying to put together all the information when he reached up with a gentle, oversized hand and tilted her face to look at him, his finger under her chin. Those eyes. As soon their eyes met again something clicked in her head. The scar on his torso. The Doctor, crazy as a loon but a skilled surgeon, hadn't made that horrible scar. That wasn't his handy work. That was an autopsy scar. That was a scar made by a coroner with large stainless-steel sheers and a bone saw, right before he removed and weighed this man's organs. This dead man's organs. Looking into his eyes, one blue, dead and sightless, the other wild and inhuman, the dam inside her broke and she began to scream.

As soon as she started, she knew she would never stop. She screamed in his face. It was in that moment that she realized he was smiling under that mop of blond hair. She seemed to watch everything happen from outside of her body, now a slave to panic and sheer terror. His smile faded as she screamed and fell away from him to the floor. He stepped back and stood taller, staring down at her with his one good eye wide, his mouth hanging open. She scrambled away from him across the cold concrete floor. All she could see was that jagged Y-shaped scar. She forgot everything she knew about herself, about why she was there and how she had come to be. She forgot everything other than the fact that there was a seven-foot-tall dead man looming over her, looking down at her with an expression of confused anger.

“NO!” He bellowed. He looked from her to the wall behind her, and she knew there was a window there where The Doctor was watching all this.

“NO! STOP IT!” He yelled again, gritting his teeth and balling his fist at his forehead. She wanted desperately to stop screaming but couldn't find the right switches to flip inside her head. She bumped against the wall and realized that she'd scooted herself all the way across the room and had nowhere else to go. Her voice shook and broke as her screaming collapsed into sobbing. She couldn't make it stop. It was flowing out of her like an electrical current. Everything was coming out. Everything locked away inside her. The sweep of headlights and the sudden impact of the car. The shattered shower door. The sad feeling of realizing that she'd shot too much junk into her thigh and knowing it was too late to do anything about it. The bathtub and the razor. Every death she'd experienced and forgotten came crashing through her and she couldn't make it stop. Every life wasted and regretted. She sobbed and shook on the floor, her hands gripped tight in her hair, pulling. Her forehead pressed against the concrete, and she screamed and cried into the floor.

Suddenly she was in the air. For a moment she thought she had fainted, but then she was looking at him again. He had lifted her from the ground and was holding her against the wall. Unlike the first time, this was not gentle or kind. He pressed his face against hers and yelled, loud enough to hurt her ears.

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” His hands were around her throat, shaking violently, and he squeezed. Immediately her throat constricted, and she was forced silent. Her eyes bulged, wide and terrified. Blood vessels in her cheeks burst. She could feel her tongue being pushed up in her mouth as he squeezed tighter and she suddenly understood that she was about to die. Again.

As black flowers bloomed in her vision, she remembered the bathtub and watching the water turn red around her naked body, and she was okay. She didn't mind so much. It wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to be there in that strange laboratory. She wasn't meant to be a thing. A living thing. She was dead, and she should be dead. This... monster... that was strangling her would be dead soon as well, she was confident in that. That was for the best. The Doctor was crazy and had done something really wrong and at least part of it was being corrected as she fell deeper into blackness.

WHITE LIGHT.

The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. She couldn't see but she was used to that. She could hear though, and smell and taste. She heard The Monster roaring in his deep timber. She could hear the sound of The Other Man yelling indecipherable, angry taunts and a sound like particularly noisy hair clippers being switched on and off. With each sound, The Monster yelled again. The smell of ozone told her that they were shocking him. A taser or a cattle prod of some sort. She was on the ground, propped against the wall. Her mouth felt like it was full of blood and when she opened it to speak she found her tongue was too big and flopped around uselessly. When she tried to command her arms and legs to move, they refused, and she decided that she wasn't quite conscious yet. The overhead lights in the room were on now, which was why she couldn't see. It was too bright. Occasionally someone would step in front of her field of vision and she would get a momentary sense of what was happening, but it did her little good. What little will she had mustered drained away, and her head lolled to the side and she slumped over again, pitching forward into the black.

ROLLING.

She was on a gurney. She recognized the strangely familiar warble of its uneven wheels as she rolled through the hallway, a cloth lay draped unceremoniously across her eyes, her sunglasses apparently gone. The light fell across her face and bled under the bottom edge of the cloth flickered on and off, filling her with waves of nausea.

Fragments of seemingly random memories flooded her mind, disconnected and dizzying. Pieces of lives she didn't remember living machine gun fired through her consciousness. She felt all of it and could hold onto nothing. Memories bounced in and out of her like a deck of cards, shuffled and shuffled again, faster and faster until nothing made any sense at all.

The gurney slammed through a pair of swinging double doors and into a darker room. The cloth was removed and for a moment she saw the Doctor, his hair sweaty and hanging in his face, stuck to his glasses. He took a small flashlight from his shirt pocket and flicked it across her vision. She tried to cry out but only managed a hoarse, gurgling cough. The Other Man appeared before her and pushed something hard and cold into her mouth. She tried to spit it out, but it was too big and seemed to be wedged into her jaw. The taste of hard rubber brought a memory that wasn't her own, yet she experienced it just the same. A baby toy, covered in spit. A teething ring perhaps.

Just as she began to consider why they might have stuffed a rubber baby toy in her mouth, she felt the unusual sensation of fingers rubbing something wet and cold on her temples. As she tried to tilt her head back to see The Doctor and what he was doing, she felt him press two spongy pieces of latex foam against her temples and then every muscle in her body spasmed and seized at once. Then nothing.