Dr. Oliver Thredson hesitated at the top of the lobby's staircase. Exactly six months ago, the state of Massachusetts executed Kit Walker for the Bloodyface murders. When the announcement came over a staff radio, the word spread quickly amongst the patients. Lana Winters, distraught by the news, more distraught by the murder of her lesbian lover, and most distraught by her rapist's child growing inside her, flung herself from the balcony. The suicide attempt was botched. She'd managed to finally force a miscarriage, but not to end her own life. Dr. Thredson was the only one who knew this, however. When he learned there was no hope for the pregnancy, he'd slit her throat himself, just as promised.
The trauma redirected his obsession. He'd had sex with Lana. He had been a father, briefly. There was no way for him to return to the roll of a child in need of a mother now. Instead, he would have to find another outlet for his obsession with mothers, perhaps one living vicariously through a child with a living mother: as a father. He spent months designing the perfect woman in his mind. For so long, he'd been focused on women in their early thirties, but now he understood that that was too old. Those women were tainted by the world and bitter. The so-called modern woman of the 60's served TV dinners instead of cooking. She wanted to work and throw her children to nannies. He hated them, all of them. They remained his target, but without a scapegoat, he had to be smarter about his killings. He picked victims carefully, spread out his timing, and sometimes traveled across state lines.
His ideal woman, one worthy of living and bearing his child should be young, free from the bitterness of heartbreak and modern ideals. She needed to be healthy and bear the physical characteristics of fertility. He liked a natural look, no crazy hair or blue eyeshadow. She had to have nice skin. The ideal would have a naturally nurturing personality, a warmth about her.
Thredson began to guest lecture at local colleges, always scanning the students for his ideal. He spent more time in public, sitting at diners, looking. Months of searching were fruitless, and then his ideal was rolled into his workplace. He'd received a call from a farmer who lived a few hours outside of town who had found a naked young woman talking to herself and wandering around his field.
By the time the farmer arrived, it was late afternoon- the sun just beginning to lower through the trees. Staff brought a stretcher to the old truck out front and unloaded a young woman wrapped in a flannel blanket.
"Hello, my name is Dr. Oliver Thredson. I assume you're Paul. We spoke on the phone." He extended a hand to the old man in overalls.
"Nice to meet you sir...Thanks for taking her." His face was locked in a sort of grimace that suggested disturbance.
"No, thank you for helping. You said she was in your field?"
"Yep, just strolling around, naked as a jay bird. She keeps mumbling about some baby getting taken away."
Thredson's face changed to intrigue. "Really? Has she said anything else?"
"I tried to get some information, see if I could call somebody for her. She can't be more than twenty. She says her name's Rosemary and she's from Alabama, but being real honest sir, I don't know how a naked lady gets from Alabama to Massachusetts all by her lonesome." He watched the stretcher roll inside and swallowed hard. "Do I need to stay or can I get on back home now? I left my wife a note but-"
"Thank you again, Paul. You're free to go. I may call back when we get more information." Before Thredson crossed the threshold, he could hear the screaming of a woman. He ordered a nurse to bring him a sedative.
"They took my baby!" The girl bawled, fighting against her restraints.
Finally, Dr. Thredson got a good look at her. She was pale, with long, copper colored hair and big brown eyes. Her lips were puffy, her eyelashes wet, and her cheeks pink from her tears. Her hair was a mess, full of grass and sticks. Her body was covered in dirt and hay.
"Who took your baby?"
"The grey men!" She thrashed about the blanket coming off of parts of her.
He sighed, all to familiar with the tales of aliens psychotic patients often told. "My name's Dr. Thredson. What's your name?" He leaned over her as he moved her hair away from her neck.
"Rosemary- my name is Rosemary. Please help me!"
The nurse brought the syringe.
"I will," He put it into her neck, causing her to cry out again. "Shhhh, relax."
Her sobs slowed until they quieted. Her head lolled to one side, again moving the blanket. An engorged breast slipped out, bringing it to his attention that there may be some truth to her story about a baby.
"Nurse, please clean up our new patient, give her a clean gown, and then bring her downstairs to my office." He gently re-covered her.
It was a little over an hour before Thredson heard the squeaking of wheels coming down the hall. He met them in the hall and took over, wheeling the patient into the operating theater. He put the breaks on the stretcher before returning to the doors to lock them.
Thredson put out his cigarette, then removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. "Rosemary, can you hear me?" His voice echoed across the green tiles as he scrubbed his hands and grabbed a pair of gloves. His patient didn't answer, but he administered another syringe of sedative just to be sure. The patient admittance form required a complete physical exam, which was impossible to perform on a hysterical patient.
"Rosemary?" Leaning over her, he watched her face for movement, but found none. Her eyelashes were long and her skin was nearly flawless. He was surprised that she cleaned up so well. Sleeping, she looked peaceful, and innocent. He checked her pulse and found it to be steady and within a normal range. Her limbs had some scratches, likely from her time in the field. When he pulled the overhead lamp towards her, her skin seemed to glow.
He untied the surgical gown she wore and moved the fabric away from her abdomen. Even lying down, he could tell she had a traditional hourglass shape. Her hips and thighs were round, with a smaller waist. Nothing on her was particularly toned or thin. Her breasts were also quite round, her nipples large and a dark pink color. He could see the suggestion of purple veins underneath her alabaster skin. Surmising that these were easily the breasts of a pregnant woman or new mother, he moved to press on her abdomen below her navel. Surprisingly, he felt nothing. She wasn't pregnant, at least not at present. Further down, there was only a little hair, which seemed maintained.
"When did you have your baby?" He had a habit of talking to unconscious or dead women as if they could respond. Kicking a stool in his direction, he lowered the light again. With one hand he moved her legs apart. With the other hand, he reached for a tube of medical lubricant on the surgical tray table. Instead of finding the battered genitalia of a woman who'd just given birth, he found her to be healthy and normal. Strangely, her hymen was still in-tact. Although he didn't do many pelvic exams, he knew enough to be confused. He grabbed the smallest speculum possible and was even more to find her cervix to be unchanged. This was not a woman who had recently given birth. He withdrew his supplies and removed his gloves to finish the physical portion of her intake form.
Shaking his head, he returned to the patient. He considered, briefly, that perhaps her alien story could be true. "Riddle me this...You say you had a baby...but it would appear as though you haven't given birth..." His eyes washed over her again, "You appear to be a virgin...and yet..." His gaze landed on her breasts, "You're lactating...I think..."
His fingers grazed the soft skin of her breast before he cupped it in his hand. It was warm, and heavy, and seemed to slosh back and forth with his grip. He'd touched countless breasts in medical school, in patient exams, and even in his hobby...but never had he touched full breasts-breasts serving their true purpose. His head swam and he swallowed hard. Gently, he pinched her nipple and noticed a bead of moisture appear. He shuddered and groaned, salivating. Before he could contain himself, he removed his glasses, his tie, and his shirt.
"Mmmm, Rosemary..." He groaned and wet his lips. She was pretty. Her name was even pretty. He leaned over her, allowing his torso to graze hers. His chest and arms were strong, and his whole body sported thick, dark hair. The contrast was aesthetically pleasing to him, the masculine and feminine archetypes colliding. He too, was dark, and perhaps, she was a lighter soul. Perhaps, she was the warm, nurturing figure he'd hoped for. Maybe his mistake with Lana was choosing someone dark like him and he needed balance. His mind wandered to the Greek myth of Hades and Persephone. Perhaps she could bring a spring, a new life even.
Shifting down, he brought his mouth to her breast. His lips moved over her before coming to her nipple. He took a shaky, excited breath before locking his lips around her. His mouth flooded with warm, sweet liquid. Eagerly he swallowed and held onto her, careful with his hands and teeth. When no more came, he moved to the other side and started again. He was trembling. His eyes were wet. When the other side ran out too, he wiped his mouth. Again, he leaned on her, letting their chests press together. He watched her sweet face, and reached to gently stroke her hair.
"Thank you..." He was shaken, moved, changed even. He'd waited his whole life for this experience. His mind leapt at the thought of feeding again, soon. Carefully, he stood and tied her gown. She would need a psychological evaluation when she came to and he was unsure of what it would reveal. Regardless, he knew that he would be prescribing a long stay at Briarcliff.