Hillary_Tail of the Dog Read Online Free Page B

darkness.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    ~3~
     
    Hillary gasped as she woke up and opened her eyes. She was sweating and breathing so rapidly, she could hardly catch her breath. She was alone on a bed in an empty room. Her head hurt terribly. She could not remember anything. Each of her limbs was bound to a corner of the bed by thick ropes which felt dry and scratchy against her wrists and ankles. She looked over at herself to find that she was naked. There was no sheet on the bed to cover her—not that she would be able to cover up.
    Where am I, she thought, as she looked around the room.
    There was a woman sitting on a stool to the right of the bed, reading a book. She turned to face Hillary.
    “Oh, look who’s up,” she said, as she stood up, placed her book on the stool and walked over to Hillary.
    “Where am I?” Hillary asked.
    “Safe,” the woman replied without elaborating.
    “Why are my arms and legs tied? Why am I naked? Why am I here?” Hillary asked nervously, growing increasingly hysterical as she fought against the ropes.
    “Don’t struggle, you’ll only hurt yourself,” the woman said coldly.
    Hillary looked at her with contempt. She was a tall, slender woman with her amber-colored hair up in a bun, except for a few loose strands that hung down to outline the sides of her face. She had dark eyes, a narrow nose and plump lips that were drawn together tightly in a smug manner. She was wearing jeans and a plain white tee shirt. She crossed her arms in front of her as she scowled at Hillary.
    “Who are you?” Hillary asked softly, trying to relax. Surely there had to be a rational explanation for this.
    “You can call me Monica,” she replied as she pulled a cell phone from her pocket, pushed a few buttons and held the phone to her ear.
    “She’s awake,” Monica said, and after a brief pause, “okay, see you soon.”
    “Please, I just want to go home,” Hillary whimpered.
    “This is your home now,” Monica answered as she slipped the phone back into her pocket.
    Monica looked at her with obvious disgust. It was clear to Hillary that this woman was no friend of hers and had no interest in helping her.
    “Where are my parents?” Hillary asked, tears streaking down her cheeks.
    “You really don’t remember anything, do you?” Monica asked as if up until now she believed Hillary had been feigning ignorance.
    “No! I have no idea what’s going on. I don’t ...I don’t even remember who I am.”
    Hillary cried as she tried to search her mind for memories—any memory at all. She couldn’t remember a thing about her identity or how she had gotten to this place.
    The door to the room opened and a man walked in.
    Hillary suddenly remembered her nakedness and tried her best to bring her knees together, to no avail. Overcome with shame and embarrassment, her face turned bright red as she looked away.
    “Can you please cover me up,” she asked quietly.
    “There’s no need for that,” the man said. “You’ve been here a long time. I’ve seen every inch of you already, there’s no reason to be modest.”
    “Who are you?” she asked, turning her head to face him.
    He was an average-looking man, except for the eye patch he wore.
    “Dr. Morrison,” he replied. “Hillary, do you remember anything today?”
    “Hillary? Is that my name?” she answered, which also answered his question.
    Dr. Morrison was holding a notebook. He opened it and wrote something in it.
    “What’s the last thing you remember?” he asked Hillary.
    “I don’t remember any—well, I think I had a bad dream,” she said.
    Hillary was not afraid of Dr. Morrison. He was soft-spoken and didn’t look like he despised her, unlike Monica. She felt like she could trust him. After all, he was a doctor and he was there to help her…right?
    “What do you remember about the