21 NOVEMBER 1988
"Look, man. She'd be useful — for a while — some kinda nurse — I know — fucker, put down the knife and listen to me —" The throaty voice faded in and out as Margaret tried to wake up. She didn't know where she was or what was happening, her head was swimming and she was so nauseous and there was something wrong with her face. She had a few seconds of blissful numbness before the pain slammed into her like a truck, wrenching an inhuman noise out of her as she instinctively curled up like a shrimp, hands coming up to her face.
There was a large swath of numbness surrounded by razor-sharp pain to the right side. She let out a shuddering moan as her fingers brushed over exposed muscle and sinew, then screamed when the touch sent a new wave of fire through her skull and spine as her fingers brushed the raw nerves in the flap of skin hanging loose from the wound.
A heavy boot connecting with the small of her back knocked the air out of her in a pained grunt. "Would you quit with the fuckin' noise?" That was another, higher, meaner voice. Kenny? She whimpered and curled up tighter, pressing her fists against her mouth and sucking in wheezing gasps of air through her nose, shuddering at another nudge from the boot. She forced herself to be as quiet as she could, breathing rattling around the phlegm and blood in her throat. She couldn't remember what she did to make him so angry. He'd hurt her plenty of times before — the kicking was nothing new — but her face? He'd never done anything that drastic. She knew a concussion when she felt one, this was hardly the first, but the cut? Why? And who was his friend? Why was he doing this in front of someone? Just how badly had she fucked up to earn this much wrath?
The two of them were talking while her mind was racing, she caught their voices but not their words, the noises distant and muffled. She was so close to passing back out again, and she was trying so hard not to. It would just make Kenny angrier. Margaret yelped when she was suddenly and unceremoniously hauled upright and dumped on the mattress. The room tilted and she gagged, clamping a hand over her mouth. Another hand landed between her shoulder blades, keeping her upright. "Don't you puke on me, sugar." That was the throaty voice. The friend. He was on the bed too. Margaret couldn't make sense of anything. She swallowed hard and took a slow breath through her nose, finally looking up at — someone who was distinctly not her husband.
The events of the past couple days slammed back into her conscious memory and she immediately tried to scrabble back from Otis, who was looming over her with an expression between boredom and disgust. However, this just sent her toppling over the brother, who stopped her attempt at escape by simply reaching up and clapping a hand over the wounded side of her face, causing blackness and stars to explode across her field of view as pain ripped through her like a chainsaw, turning her bones to water. She collapsed and the brother wrapped an arm around her, holding her in place as Otis crawled up her legs and sat down, straddling her thighs.
"Hey, mama," he drawled, grabbing her by the chin and tilting her head towards him, pulling another whimper out of her. "Hey, sh, sh, sh, look at me," He tapped at the uninjured side of her face, then sat back on his haunches, holding up her billfold in his other hand. "Margaret Elizabeth Hawkins, born in 1954 — thirteen dollars…" A nasty grin, "And…" He held up her badge for the hospital. "This right here just might keep you alive."
Margaret looked between Otis and the badge, trying to process his meaning. "W-what?" She managed to croak.
"Little brother here's managed to go and get a bullet stuck in 'im. You the kinda nurse that can get it out?" Otis spoke slowly, his drawl taking on a mocking tone that said he thought she might be a little bit dense.
Margaret opened her mouth, regretted moving any part of her face, and closed it again with a whimper before nodding. If there was something she could do to keep herself alive, she'd do it. She gritted her teeth, then made a gesture towards the door. "The — yellow Pontiac — trunk. Black bag." She had no idea what kind of bullet wound she was dealing with, or if she could even do anything about it, or if she'd even be able to hold her hands steady enough to attempt to do so much as put on a band-aid, let alone pry a bullet out of someone.
Otis gave her a grim little twist of his mouth and clambered off the bed, swiping her keys as he went.
The second the door closed behind him, Margaret shoved at the brother with as much strength as she could, launching herself off the bed and toppling gracelessly to the floor, scrabbling for the door, only to be brought up short by the distinct click of a gun's hammer being pulled back. "I wouldn't, sweetheart. Wouldn't wanna leave them brains all over the wall for housekeepin', now would we?" The other one — Winston? Wilford? Winslow? — gave her a nasty grin from his spot on the bed, pushing himself upright with a grunt. He was wearing some sort of colorful vest open over a bare chest, and that's when Margaret saw the mess that was his right shoulder. But despite the streaks of red infection radiating out from behind the haphazard bandage, the gun in his left hand was rock-steady and pointed dead at her.
She looked between the gun and the door with a despairing little noise and his smile got that much wider. "That's right, darlin'. Door's right there. You touch that handle and I drop you, and even if I don't, you think you're gonna get by my brother out there?"
As if on cue, Otis came back through the door, stopping in his tracks as he took in the scene playing out, and the open door behind him was too much of a temptation for the level of desperation Margaret had hit and she bolted, ignoring the dizziness, ignoring the fact that there was a serial killer between her and freedom, ignoring that that serial killer had the keys to her car and all of her medical supplies, she just ran.
She made it two steps out into the night before Otis' arms hooked around her middle and yanked her back into the room, hurriedly clamping a hand over her mouth to prevent her from screaming as he kicked the door shut behind them. Margaret sobbed in frustration, then sank her teeth into the meat at the base of his thumb. Otis swore and flung her away, sending her shoulder-first into the dresser. "Fucking bitch." He snarled, aiming a half-hearted kick at her.
Margaret grunted at the impact and slurred out a weak "Fuck you," in response, curling around her now-numb shoulder protectively.
Otis snorted and shook his head, "See, Foxy? What I tell ya? S'what they all say, fuck you. Can't come up with an original thought between any of 'em."
Foxy laughed and tossed his gun onto the beside table, rearranging himself a little more comfortably. "You're gonna wanna put the little lady back together before she's gonna be any use — face is still leakin' and if you don't plug that up she's gonna be passing out again."
Otis cast a sideways look at her, then rolled his eyes. "Fine. Fuck. Come here, girl." He bent and hauled Margaret off the floor, ignoring her squawk of protest and flailing arms. He twisted her around, then shoved her so she landed on her back on the bed, Foxy's foot digging into her spine.
Foxy grabbed her by the hair to drag her up between his legs, using his knees to hold her in place and the grip on her hair to keep her head in his lap as Otis started digging through her bag. Margaret yelped and bucked, then grunted when Foxy crossed his ankles over her midsection and wrenched his grip tighter in her hair.
"Calm down, sugar." He patted at the top of her head. "Wanna keep bleeding all over the both of us? You probably ain't got much juice left and you're gonna lose it that much faster if you keep fightin' me."
She didn't have time to do much more than whine in protest before Otis was on top of her again, adding his weight to the pressure of Foxy's legs and further immobilizing her.
"Hold her head, Fox." He snapped, then gave her a nasty little smile. "This is gonna sting."
She'd read that Otis was the one responsible for the macabre taxidermy and 'art' found throughout that cursed farmhouse, the skinning and the skin-suits. She'd heard one of the cops on the news, years ago, comment incredulously on the skill with which these gruesome things were pieced together, and now she found herself on the receiving end of it. She was blind with pain from the antiseptic that he'd unceremoniously dumped in the wound — after Foxy had snapped at him — when he started sewing, but her universe quickly narrowed down to the feel of the needle and thread piercing and tugging over and over, the fingers with their vice grip in her hair, and Otis and Foxy looking down at her — Otis with the single-minded focus of an artist at his canvas, and Foxy with a sort of lazy interest in the proceedings.
When it was finally over and the two men had let her go, Margaret curled on to her side on the bed and just focused on breathing as hot and cold alternatively washed over her in nauseating waves. She'd never been in this much pain in her life, and as the adrenaline began to wear off she started shaking violently, curling her fists to her chest in an attempt to stop the tremors from being so noticeable.
Her entire body felt like a giant bruise, her face and head were pounding, her shoulder where she'd collided with the dresser had that sort of numb soreness that said it was going to hurt like hell in the next few hours. Her elbows, her knees, parts she didn't even remember hitting. Everything, everything hurt. And she'd gotten off light so far, according to the news reports.
Suddenly, she was all too aware of the blood that coated the side of her face and neck, soaked into her hair and making her shirt stick to her skin, along with the reek of fear-sweat and the drying tears and snot on her face. There was a dull roaring in her ears and the world seemed like it was on some sort of delay as she pushed herself upright to sit at the edge of the bed, just barely noticing as Foxy discovered her weed — she might have mumbled at him to help himself, she didn't know if that bit of sarcasm made it out of her mouth or if she just thought it — she was too concerned with getting clean.
The shock had started to set in, and all she could think about was getting the blood off of her. What the two men were saying didn't register to her at all over the rushing in her head and it didn't seem important as she pushed herself upright and took a few halting steps towards the bathroom.
"Shit. Otis, she's going over—"
All she thought before blackness swallowed her again was that at least falling face-first on the floor didn't hurt this time.