Her eyes began to flutter open. It was a slow, deliberate struggle – Marilyn felt as though there were weights attached to her lids – but eventually she managed.
She gazed dopily around the room, scanning the area for familiar landmarks, something, anything that would give her a solid foothold of recognition. Anything that would tell her where she was, and why.
The room was mostly white, stark clean tiles of porcelain running along the floor and walls. She was surrounded by a clear plastic curtain but somehow in a bed as well…? Her own mind doubted this conclusion yet her fingers began to move deliberately against the cool sheets, feeling them carefully, studying their obvious existence and what it meant.
There were steps echoing upstairs. They crossed from one end of the ceiling to the other, pacing.
Breathing heavily through her nose, Marilyn urged her body into motion. She willed herself to get to her feet, to stand and leave this horribly stark white room, but to her horror she found that she could wiggle her fingertips and little else. She flexed her fingers once, desperately, then her hands fell back against the bed exhausted.
All at once there were footsteps at the top of the stairs leading to her room; they moved briskly, making a sharp poignant sound above her until they descended into the vast white area where she lay. The doctor hurried into her field of vision, and the very sight of him caused Marilyn's head to spin. She recalled his body – hard, lithe, pumping against her own – then her thoughts blurred into unrecognizable shapes, colors, feelings.
"Oh," he said pleasantly, noticing her open blue eyes as they scanned his entrance, "you're awake." Quick as a cat he unbuttoned the crisp cuffs of his clean white shirt, deft and all-business, ready to examine Marilyn's prone form. She tried to cry out or move away but the only thing that escaped her was a quiet whimper that went unnoticed.
The doctor gripped her limp wrist with two fingers and held, feeling for her pulse, his brow furrowed with thought as he compared the beat of her terrified heart to the hands on his watch. After a moment, he released her and smiled. Everything seemed to be as it should; the doctor began stroking her hair carefully, his eyes finally fixed on hers.
"I know you're afraid," he said evenly, as if this was the most natural conversation, "and I know you're confused. The drugs will wear off eventually, but you have to listen."
Marilyn tried to struggle and found that her greatest effort produced only a single tear from her left eye. The young doctor extended his hand towards her cheek and wiped away the drop tenderly with his thumb.
"Please," he begged softly, "don't fight me. Not this time. It'll be different this time."
She stared at him, stricken, afraid to do much else. He had done… something to her and now he planned to do much worse. She had to escape.
He worked the pad of his thumb slowly over her cheek, caressing her skin, applying just enough pressure to make Marilyn aware of the power he held in his hands.
"This time," he repeated, voice quiet but firm, "will be different."
The doctor turned to the IV stand near her bed and checked its levels, making sure his patient was being kept at the right dosage. He tapped the needle at the fold of her arm then looked back to her face, satisfied.
"I needed to be sure there was something to keep you calm. They're always so hysterical, no matter how tight I've strapped them down. I can never get them to behave." Marilyn could barely follow his words as the mystery drug flowed through her system. It left her weak as a moth covered in rainwater, sluggish and suggestible.
"But look at how well you're doing so far!" He was genuinely pleased with her; a beaming smile shone down from his handsome face, shadowed only by the harsh white lights of the basement. The doctor ran his palm over the blonde hair spread across her pillow, capturing strands of it in his fingers to smooth over with his thumb. "You're being so good. Not like the others. I'm proud of you."
He caught her eyes and bared his teeth in a grin that made Marilyn both weak with terror and warm between the legs.
"I've chosen right this time," the doctor assured himself.
He slipped away from her with fluid grace, running a sink nearby. The sound made her wildly nervous and she tried to trash off the bed; all she managed was a weak flip of her wrists. The doctor washed his hands and hummed a quiet tune to himself. Another tear slipped down Marilyn's cheek.
"Doctor," she finally managed through numb lips. Her voice was weak and haggard, but it caught his attention.
He moved back towards her, quick, catlike. He settled on the edge of the plush bed and took her face in his hands.
"Oliver," he corrected gently. "You can just call me Oliver."
All at once the memories came back to her – the sweetly quiet neighbor, his position of prestige at various institutions, the name her mother had forced in her ear on many occasions: Oliver, Oliver, Oliver.
Oliver Thredson. The man who lived next door.
"Oliver," she croaked, and the sound made his lips spread into a wide white-toothed smile. The florescent lights above them glinted off the lenses of his glasses as he kept her face cradled in his palms like something precious.
"Yes, Marilyn?"
"It's… it's not too late," she finally managed, the words rolling slow off her tongue like heavy pebbles. Whatever hung in the IV bag near the bed was keeping her sedated and made speech nearly impossible, but she was forcing herself to break through the fog. "You can… just let me go, I won't tell anyone–"
Dr. Thredson made a quiet hushing noise and placed his thumb over her lips. He shook his head back and forth, slowly, no.
"Please," Marilyn begged, the word deadened by his touch.
He repeated the motion. No.
She tried to cry, a weak whimpery sound, but found herself unable to produce tears. In her terror Marilyn began scanning the white-tiled room for details to remember, things she could tell the police when she had escaped. There was a small window where daylight filtered through at the far corner, a long workbench to her left, a wall above this covered in shiny metal tools with sharp points…
Marilyn felt her chest begin to hitch with the sudden and complete onset of animal panic. All at once it seemed as if there was no air in this room, perhaps she would just asphyxiate and die right now and that would be the end of her.
Dr. Thredson released his hold on her face to adjust something on the IV near her bed. A blessed wave of relief flowed through her body, slowing her ragged breath and relaxing her stiffened muscles. The attack subsided and Marilyn lay still on the bed, her limbs loose and watery.
"You shouldn't upset yourself like that," he murmured, looking somewhat disappointed in her. "You're going to need your energy."
This statement was ominous but she couldn't quite grasp it; her lids felt heavy again. The doctor took hold of the bedsheets and drew them away from her body, exposing a white cotton nightdress she'd never seen before. There were little pink rosebuds embroidered along the collar. It was not something she would choose for herself, Marilyn noted hazily, and let loose a breathless little laugh at nothing in particular.
"You're going to be very happy here," Dr. Thredson reassured her as he inched the nightgown up over her hips, and she was mildly surprised to see she wasn't wearing underwear. "I'm going to do things differently. It won't be like with Lana. It won't get spoiled. Because you're not like her. Right?" His desperate stare told Marilyn to nod, so she did. This was the correct answer. Oliver beamed down at her like a happy child, clearly quite pleased that things were going so well.
He spread her naked thighs and sighed at the sight of her womanhood. She couldn't summon the strength to struggle or scream and so Marilyn just stared at him, a mouse caught in the paws of a hungry cat.
"I've left a note for your dear mother," Dr. Thredson said in a strangely even voice as he began to stroke the folds between her legs with one gentle finger. She jerked against his touch, the sudden intrusion both upsetting and somehow exhilarating all at once. "I've seen her coming and going from your house. She seems like a nice woman. Very… involved in your life. You don't know how lucky you were to have had a mother like that."
Marilyn felt hot tears pushing behind her eyes at the thought of her mother, the woman she'd so despised such a short time ago. The way he spoke seemed so final that she realized she very well might not ever see her mother again.
These thoughts broke apart into jagged pieces as the doctor inserted one strong finger inside her and pumped slowly, in and out, stimulating her to the very core.
"I wrote that you've run away to Hollywood," he told her gently. "Your mother will think you've gone to become an actress. It would suit you." She could scarcely comprehend what he had said; his deft fingers would be her undoing.
Dr. Thredson noted how faithfully her hips followed his touch and smiled.
"You won't have to degrade yourself in that disgusting place again. No more serving beers to sloppy apes who are too drunk and stupid to recognize you for what you are. I'll take care of you from now on."
A slow heat bloomed in her loins as the doctor slipped another finger inside, making a come-hither motion. Marilyn's hips nearly lifted from the bed and she groaned weakly. She had been right about his hands, it seemed.
"And, in time," he said, his voice dropping low, "you'll learn to take care of me."
She was almost there, almost coming, she tried to force him deeper inside but Dr. Thredson instead withdrew, leaving her trembling and unsatisfied.
Marilyn watched dumbly as he sucked his fingers clean of her juices, then smiled.
"We should take it slow," the doctor said in the tone of one consoling a concerned patient. "No need to rush. We have all the time in the world."
And with that he got to his feet, ascended the stairs, left her there in that impossibly white room, a white-hot fire burning between her legs and a million questions swirling in her brain.