The last thing she could remember, remember clearly, was how everyone had looked at her when she'd arrived on site. She hadn't been able to place it at first, but as she read case files and realized just what she'd signed up for, she'd come to a grim and terrible understanding: she was a dead woman walking, in their eyes. Some weren't all right with it. Some were. Jennifer just focused on the task at hand. She remembered being very focused. Terrified, but confident she could solve the problem, the phantom pregnancies that ended in fatal miscarriages.
Things became murky, after that. She had been drugged, and men had talked over her like her situation was a bland one. Routine. Just like all the others, someone had sighed. At least this one will be easy to cover up, another added. Jen remembered some excitement, at some point, some kind of uproar. Someone was haemorrhaging. Someone's blood pressure was falling dangerously low.
It's me, she had thought. Or she had some echo of a memory of thinking that, It's me. I'm dying.
Then nothing. Until now, or whatever counted for immediacy in her groggy state. Someone was talking to her. A radio? A television? Had she survived? She'd be the first one to do so, but someone else would be running tests.
"...darling? Oh, my darling, have my prayers been answered!?"
God, what was on the TV? Some kind of terrible soap. What clever misogynist had decided to put that on TV in the female ward? Her thoughts were becoming more ordered, and her brain started to spider out, letting in more stimuli. There was pressure on her hand, warmth. Someone was holding it. Squeezing it. Jen tried to pull her hand away – what sort of creepy shit was holding her hand? – but found she couldn't move it. Panic seized her. Had she lost control of her limbs? Oh, God, what was wrong?
Her eyes fluttered open, squinting slightly as she expected bright lights, but it was very dim in the ward. Gloomy, even. The only light was filtering in through a heavily curtained window. Dust motes danced overhead. She made to look down at her arms, but she was interrupted by a diseased face. It was grinning at her, and bloody tears had streaked it's cheeks. Jen tried to scream, but nothing but a hoarse squeak came out.
"Shh, there, there, my sweet," the sick man sighed, stroking her hair away from her forehead. His skin was hot, feverish, and the texture of it suggested whatever was wrong with his face had spread all over, "You've been through so much. But I'm here now! We're together. Oh, I was soworried for you, Jenny!"
He knew her name. Jesus fuck this thing knew her name. How!? Her chart. Her chart would have her name on it. What the fuck was wrong with him? Was it contagious? She strained weakly at what she had to assume were restraints. Jennifer would've looked but her eyes were riveted to the man acting like they were lovers. He had an overpowering smell, like he'd dumped a bottle of Old Spice on himself, and there was a wilted flower jammed into his front pocket. What the fuck? What the fuck? What was this? Was his hair slicked back, too? Was he wearing a suit?
Jennifer tried to vocalize something, anything, but only a strained croak came out. The man chuckled indulgently and sighed.
"You poor thing," he said, "You must be so thirsty – so hungry! Don't worry, my darling. I'll take care of you."
He gave her hand a too-familiar squeeze and got up, presumably to get her water, and she looked down at herself. The sheets covering her were grimy, but not bloody, and the leather straps restraining her were only on her ankles and her wrists. She was too weak to do what her brain was demanding she do, but it looked like they would've been too tight for her to pull free of even if she'd been at full strength. How long had she been out? What the fuck was going on? Why were the curtains all pulled around where she remembered other patients being? It was too dark to make out much, and the angle she was forced into made it impossible for her to sit up and try to get a better look. Jenny wasn't even sure she had it in her to sit up. Maybe a few days? A week at the absolute most. The IVs had been removed from her arms, she realized, the machines no longer humming and beeping and keeping an eye on her. An awful chill seized her. Had this man done that? The bandage over where her IVs had been was amateur at best. The word infection lay over her mind like a suffocating blanket. Would angry red patches be crawling out from under the bandage soon? Was it on her face already?
That seemed like the least of her worries. What was wrong with that man? Aside from being out of his fucking mind, some kind of aggressive disease was working him over.
What the fuck had happened while she had been unconscious?
He returned and she went very still, forcing herself to look at him even though it was very, very hard to look at his face and his hideous, toothy smile. The worst part was that his teeth were white and even and clean. He was insane, clearly, but not enough to let his hygiene suffer, which spoke to a terrifying higher functioning, a terrible lucidity. Gently, he helped her sit up (as much as the restraints would allow) and held water to her lips. It was cold and despite herself, she took a greedy gulp. He chuckled and pulled it away, tsk-tsking her.
"Little sips," he said, "We don't want you getting sick."
Jennifer took little sips, and once he'd eased her head back down she cleared her throat a few times while he clasped one of her hands in his own. God, he was burning up. It made her skin crawl.
"Who...?" she managed, figuring she'd start small. Something unspeakably ugly passed behind his eyes, something angry.
"Oh, you poor girl," he said, sounding morose, maybe even a little watery. He had wiped away the bloody tears when he'd gone to get her water, and his hands were clean. How... considerate? "Don't you remember your own fiancé? It's me, darling. It's Eddie."
Oh, what the fuck was this now? Fiancé? Something about his expression kept her from scoffing. His expression, and the way his hands started to crush hers a little. He was a large man, and his hands dwarfed hers. He could probably break all the bones in her hand if he wanted.
"Eddie," she repeated, her voice still hoarse, but more from lack of use, "Eddie how... what's... happening?"
Was that even his real fucking name? His grip on her hand relaxed, but Jenny didn't relax. What the fuck was he going to do to her?
"Don't you worry your pretty head about all of that, darling," he crooned, stroking her hair again, "Everything's going to be all right. Better than all right. Now that you're awake, we can finally get married and start our family."
His eyes had a shiny, dreamy quality, and he was gazing at her like she was the only thing that had ever mattered. In another circumstance, Jenny might be flattered or charmed, but given her current situation? Jenny felt dread lurch in her belly and tears started to roll down her cheeks. Oh, Jesus, oh God, he was going to rape her and he'd invented some sick fantasy to justify it.
"Oh, I'm happy as you are, darling!" Eddie laughed, wiping the tears away, "I'm so glad you are, too! No more tears, now. Rest, and I'll try to find you something to eat."
He stood, but paused to bend over and kiss her forehead. His breath had an awful metallic smell, and it lingered even after he left, singing to himself. Jennifer tried not to panic. He'd obviously constructed some kind of insane fantasy about the two of them, some means of making sense of whatever had happened. Playing into it could either be her way out, or it could make things much, much worse. Her first step was getting out her restraints, and Jenny couldn't help but assume on some level, he knew she would run if given a chance. When she'd threatened his fantasy by not knowing his name, he'd tipped his hand. He was more aware of what he was doing than he let on, but it was possible his connection with reality would be gone soon. She needed to get away before that happened. Before he did... god, before he did what he was clearly planning to do.
She tried not to panic, but panic gripped her and she struggled wildly, screaming and howling. She'd just come in to consult! To help people! To help women who'd suffered from some terrible epidemic of phantom pregnancy. This wasn't fucking fair. She shouldn't be dealing with this. She was respected in her field. She was going to take an amazing, year long vacation with the salary she was going to earn from this job. A salary, she had to assume, they'd never intended on having to pay her. Sick fucks.
"There, there, dear," she hadn't heard him come back, but his feverish hands were on her shoulders, his brow knit with concern, "I know you're feeling a little disoriented—"
"Let me go!" she shouted at him. An allergic reaction. That was what it looked like. He'd had some kind of allergic reaction, and the hives had started to take on a life of their own, "This is insane! This is fucking nuts!"
The ugly look slipped behind his eyes, and his hands moved from her shoulders to her throat. Not firm enough to exert strangling pressure, yet, but the threat was clear.
"You're hysterical, my love," he said, "I hate hearing such vulgar things coming out of your mouth. I won't have the mother of my children talking that way. Everything is exactly as it should be, Jenny, my darling. I know it's the burden of the fairer sex, to be so emotional, but you really must make an effort to contain your outbursts."
His hands around her throat had served to calm her, but her breath was short and panicked, her eyes so wide she imagined he could see more white than anything else.
"You should apologise," he said. Jennifer stared blankly at him until she felt his hands tighten. Just slightly. Just enough.
"I'm sorry, Eddie," Jenny said, "I'm sorry I... I'm just so confused. And scared."
He studied her face, studied it for too long, but he did finally release her throat. Eddie patted her on the head, the action so incredibly condescending Jennifer wasn't even sure how to process it.
"You just let me take care of things," he said, "I'm going to take such good care of you, Jenny. You and our beautiful children."