This time, Marilyn made breakfast.
She wasn't a great cook by any means but her mother had taught her the simple staples of a wholesome American meal: eggs, bacon, toast, and a glass of orange juice to wash it down. With the grin of a mischievous schoolboy Oliver suggested they add a little something extra to their morning beverage to "celebrate". As she plated the food he topped off each of their cups with a hearty splash of vodka. Now we're talking, Marilyn thought grimly.
"Breakfast is served," she said in a voice so bright it actually surprised her. She slid the steaming dish before him and, on a mad impulse, smoothed the hair from his forehead to press a kiss there. Hell, she was already acting the part of his lover, why not go the extra mile and really sell it?
The doctor seized her by the wrist before she could draw away and pulled her roughly back to him, the impish smile still playing at the corners of his mouth.
"I knew you'd take care of me," he murmured, and caught her lower lip in his teeth just as she'd done to him before. Oliver appeared to be a fast learner; he sucked gently, eyes locking with hers, as a warm rush of pleasure flooded her body.
When he released her Marilyn all but fell into the dining room chair, flushed. This reaction left him quite pleased with himself and he began to eat ravenously. She noted - not for the first time - how he tended to resemble a wolf, sleek and powerful and so very dangerous.
If he was a wolf, what did that make her? Little Red Riding Hood?
The thought made her want to laugh wildly but she bit it back, unsure if she started laughing that she'd ever be able to stop. Instead she took a big gulp of her orange juice (now a screwdriver) and relished the sharp tang of vodka against her tongue.
Oliver took a large bite out of a piece of toast with burnt edges. She cringed, noting how black some of the bread had become, and felt an inexplicable sense of disappointment in herself. Her mother had taught her better than that.
"I'm sorry about the bread," Marilyn said, poking the sad singed pieces of toast on her own plate. "You don't have to eat it."
He smiled crookedly, the very picture of an impetuous young boy, and shoved the uneaten portion into his mouth whole. Crumbs peppered the front of his sleeveless white undershirt as the doctor worked his jaw around what was undoubtedly far too big a bite.
It took her so by surprise that Marilyn let out a breathless little giggle before clapping at hand over her mouth, still not convinced the hysteria had passed. Though difficult to admit, he certainly had a sort of charm about him.
"It's good," he managed through a mouthful of bread, then swallowed and beamed at her. "Really." Oliver lifted his glass of orange juice, tilting his head towards hers. She followed suit by lifting hers as well.
"Cheers," she said, that wild urge to laugh fluttering through her again, but she pushed it aside and downed half the screwdriver in one mighty gulp. When she set her drink on the table she saw him watching her, a predator examining its prey. She ignored this and reached across the table to brush the breadcrumbs from his chest.
"Messy!" Marilyn chided gently.
His eyes met hers, intense and serious, but that child's smile kept playing around the corners of his mouth.
"Thank you, mommy."
The words caused a strange chill to ripple through her but it was nothing new; she could be surprised no more, everything that shocked and terrified her past self was now simply old hat. Of course this handsome young doctor had issues with his mother, and did that really make him so different from any other man she'd slept with in the past?
Don't be smart, Marilyn, her own mother's voice scolded sternly somewhere in the recesses of her mind. But hadn't being smart gotten her this far?
"I was thinking," Oliver said suddenly, breaking the reverie she'd lost herself in, "that perhaps we should visit the asylum."
Marilyn felt the hairs rise on her arms at the thought of leaving this house to see the sunlight but she played it cool and moved eggs around her plate with the tines of her fork.
"Oh?" she murmured, innocent.
"Yes." The doctor put down his own silverware and stared hungrily at her across the table. "You need to meet her. To see her. She's very smart, we can't take that for granted." She assumed he was talking about Lana. It was the only name any of them had been given, and it was a powerful one. When a serial killer looked you in the eyes and demanded that you weren't like her you developed a very keen sense of who her was, and you avoided it like the plague.
"I can do that," Marilyn said cautiously, pretending to be preoccupied with her breakfast. Her brain was spinning in her skull but she took care to not let it show. After a brief pause she continued, "I'll need my clothes, Oliver. My makeup. I can't go in there looking like this." She emphasized her last word by plucking at the cheap cotton nightgown at her neck.
Thredson's eyes flashed momentarily, but it passed. He forced a smile to surface on his lips and she noted the strain.
"I see," he said.
Getting too smart for your own good, Marilyn? her mother's voice taunted, and she began to backpedal frantically.
"I just mean," she assured him, spearing a hunk of egg at the end of her fork, "a nightgown would perhaps stand out in an asylum. Or, more importantly, it wouldn't—not for a visitor."
The darkness cleared from his face at once and the smile became more genuine.
"Ah, I see," he repeated, his voice notably warmer than before. "You need your street clothes. I understand. You need to… blend in with the normal crowd."
"Yes!" Marilyn dropped the fork full of eggs she never intended to eat. "I need to blend in!" The doctor's smile was suddenly so much kinder; she sensed she'd crossed the bridge between ally and enemy very quickly, and in perhaps just enough time.
"I'll bring you what you need," Oliver said, finally focusing back on the cooling breakfast before him. "Then we'll go to Briarcliff. It's my day off, but I'll tell them I needed a file. On Kit Walker, perhaps – I hear he's gotten himself in a bit of trouble recently." He smirked, clearly proud of himself. Marilyn tried not to think about what this might mean; that was a locked door she simply couldn't afford to open.
"Thank you," she told him, and already the thoughts of fresh air and sunshine and something other than this hideous nightgown were filling her brain like bees in a hive. She paused, finished her screwdriver, then caught his eyes with hers provocatively. "Oliver?"
The lenses of his glasses glinted her pale, pretty face back at her.
"Yes, Marilyn?"
She watched herself smile in the reflection.
"I want something in red."
The doctor allowed her to ride with the window down. She couldn't take breaths deep enough to satisfy her craving for the sweet autumn air, and it was a difficult temptation to resist sticking her entire head out like an excited puppy.
It was a bright fall day; she wasn't sure she'd ever seen a more beautiful blue sky in her entire life. Marilyn looked to her left and saw Oliver smiling as they drove. He was handsome in his work suit, clean-shaven and trim. She'd been given a melon-red wiggle dress to wear – high-cut at the collar, fairly modest for what typically hung in her closet – and had taken time to style her thick blonde hair into a stylish updo.
Here they were, a dashing doctor with his pretty young female companion, driving through the New England scenery, admiring the fiery colors of changing leaves. The whole thing felt so… normal.
As if sensing her thoughts (as he was so apt to do), Thredson put his hand on her knee without making eye contact. He was humming to himself.
Marilyn felt a slow heat building inside her at his touch. She had tried, unsuccessfully, to convince herself that he had no effect on her, she was simply playing his sinful games to survive. Her traitorous body told a different story.
Behind dark cat-eye sunglasses she closed her eyes. Without turning from the window Marilyn spread her legs and placed her hand on his, urging his fingers down the creamy skin of her inner thigh.
She heard the doctor take in a sharp breath but otherwise he didn't react. Her lips twitched into a small smirk as she moved his hand towards the warm heat of her sex. As usual, he'd provided her no underwear.
When his fingertips touched her there they both made little noises of pleasure but Oliver withdrew unexpectedly, returning his grip to the steering wheel.
"Later," he told her sternly.
Marilyn found herself oddly bereft, unused to being rejected by her captor-turned-lover. She pursed her red-stained lips into a pout. Thredson kept driving, the set of his jaw now tense.
Without thinking she abruptly unbuckled her belt and scooted across the bench seat, pressing her body against his. She felt him stiffen as her hand trailed lightly across the fabric of his pants, over the growing erection in his lap.
"Later, baby?" she purred in his ear, and began to gently nibble at the lobe, taking care to not smudge her lipstick there. At once Oliver grunted and grabbed her leg with surprising strength. He forced the hem of her short dress past her knee and massaged the soft muscle at her inner thigh, working his way towards the spot that was now hot and pulsing from his touch. Marilyn spread her legs further, pushing her hips towards his fingers, but the doctor suddenly shoved her away.
She hit the passenger door with a gentle thud. It wasn't hard enough to hurt, yet the rebuff stung like salt rubbed in some deep inner wound.
"Damn it, Marilyn, not now!" he barked, running a hand nervously over his perfectly-coiffed hair. She stared at him from her side of the car and willed away the strange tears threatening to spill behind her dark sunglasses.
After a moment he glanced from the road to scan her face. Her mouth must've given her away because Oliver looked immediately repentant, his brows meeting in a concerned frown.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, reaching for her again. Marilyn sat there, stiff, as he stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb. "It's Lana. She makes me crazy. And bringing you to Briarcliff… it just…" His eyes searched her briefly before looking back to the road. "…I'm on edge."
She remained silent. He returned his hand to the steering wheel.
They drove.
When they arrived at the asylum at last she was struck by the building itself. Sure, she'd heard about people who ended up in Briarcliff, but she'd assumed it was more like a hospital or a standard medical facility, not this hulking brick monstrosity. The windows stared blankly at her like blind unseeing eyes.
Oliver parked the car and exhaled a short little breath through his nose.
"Maybe we should go home," he said sullenly. Marilyn whipped her head to look at him, alarmed. She had felt her will to escape ebbing day by day but somewhere inside her chest a tiny hope still survived; while it was unlikely she'd make it out any time soon, she'd known a trip to the asylum was precious time outside his house, and at least some small opportunity to be seen or recognized by a bystander. If they turned the car around now even that measly shred of hope was gone, perhaps forever.
"No, Oliver, we've come all this way." She placed her hand on his shoulder. "I have to meet her. Remember? How else are we going to do this... together?" On the word 'this' she gave him a little squeeze, a wordless reminder of what they'd discussed in bed that morning - and that did it. The anxiety melted away from his handsome face as he recalled the promise she'd made him in bed while sweat cooled on their exhausted bodies.
"You're right," he murmured, and pressed a sudden kiss to her forehead. "You're right. Let's go. But-" Thredson took her chin in his hand, forcing her eyes to meet his. "-you must listen to me. Every word. This is my place of business, and I simply cannot afford any... unpleasantness."
"I understand," she said at last when he refused to release her face.
"Good." The look in his eyes was unreadable; he let her go and plucked the keys from the ignition. "Let's go."
She wasn't prepared for the noise when she entered the towering doors of the asylum. Again, the idea that this was a calm, orderly building of white walls and pleasant silence couldn't be farther from the truth; the drab brick seemed to permeate from the inside out and patients staggered around apparently unsupervised. Marilyn found herself sticking close to Oliver, the most familiar thing in this strange new environment.
He appeared unfazed. The doctor checked his watch, then turned to her, already distracted by his work.
"Wait here," he said in a low voice, glancing around for eavesdroppers. "Lana may be on lockdown. Or in electroshock therapy, depending on her mood." A queer smile twitched at the corners of his lips; he seemed a thousand miles away.
"Oliver," she said uneasily, but he was already moving from her, climbing the wicked-looking spiral staircase two steps at a time.
Marilyn rubbed her upper arms, anxious, and tried to not seem so out of place. Why in god's name had she demanded to wear red? She felt like a big flaming bull's-eye right in the middle of insanity's playground.
She found a wall to back against, hoping to not draw the attention of any inmates, particularly the ones mumbling to themselves. Across the room she spotted a man with his hand down his pants seated next to a woman drawing snot from her nose to wipe across the forehead of the ragdoll in her lap.
"Jesus Christ, what am I doing here?" Marilyn whispered, and all at once she decided it ended here, she was leaving, the doctor be damned. She was just as much prisoner to him as these people were to their madness. She would have to be crazy to stay.
Her black heels clicked against the cement floor as she tried to hurry towards the exit without being noticed. She threw one last glance over her shoulder, searching the staircase for her handsome kidnapper, and stopped short.
Hovering near the stairs was now a woman, one Marilyn seemed to recognize as if she'd seen her in a dream. She was wearing the asylum's regulation faded blue jumper and a look on her face like she was simultaneously lost and angry. Brown hair hung limply to her shoulders but Marilyn could've sworn she'd seen it swept into some smooth mod style, perhaps in a photograph, or-
It hit her like a freight train. Was Oliver's Lana truly Lana Winters, the local reporter? What was she doing here? And how had she come from the dark basement bedroom to another place of such horror and insanity?
Before she knew it her feet were taking her across the room towards the woman Marilyn was sure had written endless recipes clipped and sent by her meddling mother only to be glanced at briefly then relegated to the trash can.
"Lana? Lana Winters?" she said tentatively, and the woman's head snapped up, a fierce animal panic glinting in her eyes.
"Yes? What do you want?"
"I... I read all your articles," Marilyn lied, simply not knowing how to start this conversation. She saw the other woman's body relax a little but her guarded nature remained.
"Great," Lana said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. "Which one really inspired you? Was it the bundt cake or the fettuccini alfredo?"
"Neither, I guess." Marilyn laughed in a way she hoped was disarming. "I'm not a very good cook. My mother, she sent me your recipes hoping I'd improve, but I'm afraid I'm a lost cause." A reluctant smile surfaced on Lana's face.
"I'll tell you a secret," she said conspiratorially, motioning for Marilyn to lean closer. When she did, Lana whispered, "So am I."
They both laughed. Someone watching might have assumed they were old friends meeting after years apart, falling right back into step with one another. Then Lana looked over her shoulder anxiously as if checking for enemies. She reminded Marilyn of a rat in a cage.
"You seem sane," she said offhandedly, her desperate animal eyes meeting Marilyn's again. "I need your help. I need to get out of here. I don't belong here. And there's a man, a murderer on the loose-"
"Bloody Face," she finished for her, and Lana's expression froze.
"You know," she whispered, then grabbed her by the wrist and began pulling her up the winding spiral staircase. Marilyn remembered Oliver's command to wait for him but she felt light-headed and weak, like life was rushing at her in a thundering tidal wave and she was simply swept along for the ride.
"Wait," she begged, dully aware that this woman was pulling her deeper into the labyrinth, that another opportunity for escape had slipped through her fingers like grains of sand, that she was allowing herself to be drawn back in, oh god, what if she was crazy? What if she belonged here like the rest of them?
When they reached the top of the stairs Lana glanced around again, always on the lookout, then pulled her into the shadows near some closed office doors.
"What do you know?" Lana demanded, her grip tight on Marilyn's shoulders. When she didn't respond the reporter shook her once, hard. "Damn it, what do you know? As far as the public's concerned Bloody Face has been taken care of, so you shouldn't know anything, but you do, I can tell."
Marilyn's mouth opened and closed uselessly. She was utterly taken off guard. She should want to confide in this woman, tell her that she had been a prisoner too, that she would help her. But she didn't. She couldn't.
Suddenly a hot flash of pain spread across her cheek. It took several seconds before Marilyn realized she'd been slapped.
She looked at the woman in the blue jumper in disbelief, bringing her palm to her stinging face, and for a moment they simply stared at each other. Lana's eyes were hard, bright. There was something in them that she both feared and loathed.
"He's my neighbor," Marilyn said at last, her voice tight.
"Who?" Lana demanded, shaking her again, and Marilyn felt hate rising in her like bile at the back of a throat. How dare this woman talk to her as if she were a stupid child! Lana may have escaped Bloody Face but she now was here in this asylum, getting electroshock therapy and meals without sharp silverware. She hadn't figured it out, the effortless way you could fold to meet his demands and still remain somewhat whole. But Marilyn had. Marilyn still had her skin and she was allowed to ride with the window down and she'd been in his bed with no heavy iron chain around her ankle.
"Oliver," she told the reporter, whose face lit up at the name.
"Yes, yes!" Lana cried, but something in Marilyn's eyes must have told her more because her expression darkened like a great cloud had fallen over it. "Wait. How do you know him?"
It was as if a venom had been pooling inside her ever since the handsome doctor slipped between her legs and into her life - perhaps even before that. Years of listening to her mother tell her she was cheap and drunk barflies tell her she was a tease and friends telling her she'd never land a husband with that attitude. She felt a deep and sudden urge to lunge at this desperate woman, take her by the throat, and squeeze.
"We're lovers," Marilyn murmured, and a little smile turned up the corners of her mouth. A look of horror crept over Lana's face like someone who's just realized the nightmare is continuing, they're still asleep, they haven't woken in the safety of their own bed after all.
"Jesus Christ," Lana whispered, releasing her shoulders.
"Oh, I've been in the basement, if that's what you're asking," Marilyn went on, and took a step towards the reporter, who backed away with a shuffle of her cheap asylum shoes. "Did he use a sedative on you? He did for me. 'To keep me calm', he said. Seems like after you escaped he needed to try again."
"It's not my fault," Lana said, her voice dry and cracking. "I didn't - I can help you-"
"It wasn't that hard, you stupid bitch," Marilyn heard herself saying pleasantly, and it was like she was in a fog, her heart was a hot stone at the back of her throat, she was just so angry. "You just have to play along. He's nice enough when you behave."
Lana's eyes were wide in her skull; they darted left and right, seeking help, but the corridor was empty.
"You don't know what you're saying-"
Marilyn took another step towards the scrambling reporter, relishing the fear on her face. She hadn't even touched her yet. It felt so good to be the one in control for a change.
"I took your place," she hissed, her heels making soft clicks that echoed through the vast stone hallway. "Now he wants me, and he wants you dead. And you know what?" Marilyn stopped as she cornered Lana against a closed door that read ADMINISTRATION in thick black letters on the glass. She licked her lips, smiled, and placed her mouth near the terrified woman's ear. "I think I'll help him."
Lana shoved her away with surprising strength. Marilyn stumbled a little, wobbling on her black pumps, then caught herself against the cool brick of the adjacent wall.
"You're sick," the reporter spat at her, glaring.
"No," Marilyn huffed, her breath coming in short spurts. She felt like she'd taken a drag from one of her joints but this high was all-natural. It was adrenaline. It was hate. It was the high of a survivor. "I'm special."
Lana laughed, a humorless bark that resonated in the emptiness around them.
"You poor, foolish little girl," she said wonderingly. "You think he's, what, your boyfriend? That just because he hasn't flayed you alive yet he's attached to you somehow?" The reporter moved slowly to her left and Marilyn countered as if they were doing some bizarre waltz in the asylum hall. Lana's full lips pulled back in a sneer. "Let me tell you something – it's only just beginning for you. In the end, you'll be exactly where I am." She emphasized her words by grasping her stomach with one rigid hand.
Lana's brown eyes met Marilyn's blue ones as a moment of understanding passed between them.
"In hell," she finished, and made a break for the stairs behind her.
Marilyn watched her go, still vibrating with rage and shaken by Lana's ominous warning.
A hand clamped over her mouth; she was pulled back into a hard warm body, one she knew all too well.
"Oh, Marilyn," Oliver breathed in her ear, his lips grazing her skin, "you've been very bad, haven't you?"