She reached for him and felt nothing but the cool tangle of sheets left in his wake. Oliver's side of the bed was empty.
Marilyn sat up, the fog of sleep clearing from her head in a split second when she realized he was gone. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet where the silence actually seems thick and tangible, like you could reach out and touch it.
She listened for him, but he wasn't there.
Her stomach began to lurch sickly. It was Saturday; he had the day off so he wasn't at the asylum, he'd bought groceries earlier in the week... where was he?
Somewhere outside a lone winter bird began to sing. Marilyn placed her feet on the floor, chewing her lower lip. Was he in the basement? Had he begun to "play" with their new toy... without her?
Suddenly her heart was in her throat and last night's dinner with it. She bolted for the bathroom and just barely managed to fall to her knees before emptying her stomach into the toilet with one powerful heave. Marilyn coughed, spat. She stared at the sick in the pristine porcelain bowl for a moment, then pulled the flush lever and watched it disappear.
She had expected morning sickness. What she hadn't expected was the way she felt when the doctor's eyes lingered on Lana just a little too long.
Her fate seemed inarguable. She would stay with Oliver, she would do whatever it took to survive, to not end up like them. So when had it happened? When did the man who chained her up in the basement become something she considered hers, and no one else's?
Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Marilyn gripped the corner of the sink and hauled herself up. She needed water, first, then she needed to check the basement.
She went to the kitchen like someone lost in a daydream. Her hands seemed to work of their own free will; as they found the pitcher and drinking glass, she wondered what she would do if she discovered Oliver and Lana together.
Marilyn supposed she might kill her. As for the doctor, she wasn't sure.
Water filled the pitcher. She waited until it was full then ran the tap in her drinking glass as well.
She drank slowly, rinsing the bitter acrid taste from her mouth. When the glass was empty, she placed it in the sink and took a fresh one from the cabinet. If Oliver wasn't downstairs, she'd let Lana have some water. If he was...
She'd figure that out when the time came.
Pitcher and glass in each hand, Marilyn descended the stairs into the basement.
The door swung open into the soundproof room, but she was greeted with no burst of noise - no screams, no moans, just silence. It was pitch dark.
She flicked the light on. The florescent bulbs she'd grown to despise buzzed to life and displayed Lana on the bed, restrained, asleep, alone.
Relief washed over Marilyn in waves. He wasn't here. She had worried for nothing.
Lana's forehead wrinkled as she came to, woken by the bright flood of light. For a moment she seemed to forget where she was; when her eyes fell on Marilyn, recognition and terror filled them.
"Stay away from me!" she croaked, already fighting against her leather restraints. "Don't come near me-"
"It's getting old," Marilyn muttered. As she filled the drinking glass with water from the pitcher she approached the bed, much to the reporter's dismay.
"I'm warning you-"
"Yeah, I'm shaking in my boots." She lifted the glass to Lana's lips, who pressed them together and shook her head. Marilyn exhaled sharply through her teeth, losing patience. "Oh come on, you bitch, it's water. Just drink it."
The reporter's wide brown eyes regarded her for a moment, skeptical, before she opened her mouth and began to gulp thirstily.
Marilyn let her drink almost all of it, then pulled the cup away and set it on the workbench along with the pitcher.
"Are you hungry?" she asked, looking at the doctor's tools with a faint longing. "I'm starving. I could make eggs."
"How do you do it?" Lana murmured. The strange tone of her voice caused Marilyn to turn to her, frowning.
"Do what?"
"Act like this is okay? Normal? God, you even seem to enjoy it."
Marilyn felt a little smile tugging at her cheeks.
"Oliver gets what he wants," she said thoughtfully. "It's useless to fight him. It's easier to just..." Her hands fluttered in a meaningless gesture. "...let him have it."
"I never stopped fighting," Lana whispered, and Marilyn laughed, a harsh barking sound that echoed off the walls of the basement.
"Yeah, look where that got you." She studied the reporter for a second, weighing her options, then sat on the side of the bed. "Can I give you some advice?"
"Do I have a choice?" Lana responded drily, averting her eyes. Marilyn seized her by the chin and forced the other woman to meet her gaze.
"Make the best of it," she said, serious. "You may have another chance at freedom. You may not. But you can't fight every day. You can't. It's... exhausting."
When Lana didn't respond Marilyn sighed and released her face.
"Do you want eggs or not?"
The reporter glared at her in silence. Marilyn stood and headed for the stairs.
"You're gonna learn," she called back just before hitting the lightswitch again, losing Lana in the darkness of the basement. "One way or another, you're gonna learn what you have to do to stay here. Or he'll be done with you. Just think about that."
She waited in the living room listening to the scratchy sounds of an old Billie Holiday record until she finally heard the slam of a car door in the driveway. Marilyn was dismayed to admit she felt like a puppy kept in a kennel all day waiting for its master to return even though only a few hours had passed.
The front door swung open and she hurried to meet him as the doctor entered, slim and handsome in his habitual button-up shirt and tie. Marilyn took his freshly-shaven cheeks in her hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. He dropped a small brown paper sack on the floor to draw her hips against his, returning the kiss eagerly.
"Where were you?" she murmured when she pulled away at last. "I thought you were-" Marilyn cut herself off, reconsidering her words. "-I didn't know where you were," she finished carefully.
"I didn't want to wake you," Oliver said, giving her waist a gentle squeeze. He seemed genuinely touched that she was so pleased to see him; his expression was the same she saw the first time she called him 'baby'.
"Next time, wake me." She smiled, still so relieved to find him here at the door and not writhing on top of Lana in the basement. Then she noticed the little brown bag on the carpet. "What's that?"
"This," he said excitedly, bending to retrieve it, "is going to make Lana's treatment much, much easier."
A cold slither of envy coiled around her heart but Marilyn bit it back.
"Oh?" she asked.
"I don't want to ruin the surprise," Oliver told her mysteriously. When he smiled it was his little boy smile, the one that was so charmingly crooked and meant only trouble.
He took her by the hand and lead her towards the basement and Marilyn gave in because, as she'd told Lana, the doctor always got what he wanted.
"Did you feed her yet?" Oliver trotted down the stairs and flipped the light back on, frowning.
"She didn't want to eat," Marilyn said, eyeing the reporter as she lifted her head from the pillow to watch them enter. "I offered her eggs. She was rude to me."
The doctor made a little sound of disapproval and moved towards the bed.
"Now Lana," he murmured, opening the paper bag, "this kind of behavior is unacceptable."
"Fuck you," Lana hissed. Thredson's lips twitched into another dark little smile, his troublemaking smile.
"You'll change your tune soon enough." He pulled a small bottle of pills out of the sack and waved it over Lana's face. Her eyes followed it warily. "It took me all morning but I found it."
"What is it?" Marilyn asked again, moving to his side. He absently placed a hand on the curve of her waist and pulled her close.
"This," said Thredson as he lifted the bottle so she could see, "is methylenedioxymethamphetamine." She cocked an eyebrow at the unfamiliar word.
"In English, doctor?"
"It's a stimulant." His dark eyes were bright with excitement behind the lenses of his glasses. "Some members of the psychiatric community use it to help foster trust between therapist and patient."
"No, no, no," Lana begged, tugging helplessly at her bonds.
"It increases production of the neurotransmitters serotonin and dopamine," Oliver went on. "Basically, the drug stimulates the nervous system and increases positive emotions in the brain while reducing the negative."
Marilyn had a terrible sinking feeling.
"I've had such fine results with pharmaceutical treatments in the past," he said softly, giving her a knowing smile, "it seemed to make the most sense."
She remembered the powerful weed he'd brought her (and continued to bring her) and its undeniable effects. If he now had something for Lana, what did that mean, exactly?
As twisted as her situation had become, she didn't think she could bear to see the doctor with another woman, let alone the woman she considered her enemy.
It was time to play the game, and fast.
"How interesting," she purred, running a red-painted nail along the tiny prescription type on the label. Marilyn tipped her head towards his until their lips were nearly touching and wrapped her fingers around the bottle. "May I?"
"I insist," he whispered, and she smiled as the bottle slipped from his fingertips to hers.
She twisted off the white plastic cap and tapped the bottle against her palm. One small round tablet tumbled into her hand.
"I won't take it," Lana whimpered, but Marilyn reached towards her face and pinched her nostrils closed. The reporter thrashed back and forth; it only took a few moments before Lana's panic overwhelmed her and forced her mouth open to gasp for air.
Marilyn dropped the pill past Lana's lips and forced her jaw closed, one hand pressed firmly under her chin. Lana made a strangled sound of protest, struggling wildly against the leather restraints.
"How long does this take to kick in?" Marilyn demanded. The doctor was watching with utter fascination.
"I'm not sure," he murmured, rubbing his palms along the dark material of his pants. Marilyn shrugged.
"Better safe than sorry."
She kept Lana's mouth closed for what seemed like a very long time. The reporter's eyes darted crazily back and forth; slowly, her gaze began to glaze over, and Marilyn saw her muscles go slack. When it seemed safe she released Lana's jaw, stepping back in case she had chosen poorly.
The reporter breathed in and out, her chest heaving. She didn't say anything.
Oliver made a move towards the bed but Marilyn pressed the palm of her hand against his firm chest.
"Hold on, baby," she said softly, her gentle voice masking the cancerous jealousy coursing through her veins. "You told me yourself – she's not cured yet, right?"
Thredson's brows knit in confusion.
"Medically speaking, no—"
"Then let's make the transition a little… easier." She smiled, so demure and innocent, as she slid up onto the bed where Lana lay. Marilyn began to stroke the reporter's sweat-soaked hair with one careful hand. "Our little Lana has gone through quite a lot, hasn't she?"
Lana frowned lightly; her brow contorted as she tried to sort out the conflicting feelings in her brain.
Marilyn moved her hand to Lana's face, caressing the soft skin there; the other woman's eyes drifted closed at her gentle touch. She looked to Oliver, awaiting his diagnosis.
"I believe she's under," he said quietly, then shifted like his legs had fallen asleep. Marilyn knew he was itchy, anxious, ready to take their new toy for a spin.
But she'd be dead before she saw that happen. That much was certain.
She turned back to Lana and allowed her fingers to dip a little lower, over the silky curve of her collarbone. This time the reporter's hips twitched visibly; each touch seemed to affect her a little more.
"Poor baby," Marilyn whispered, echoing the doctor's words. She watched as her fingers traced a teasing path down Lana's chest, between her breasts, stopping just below the crease of her hips. Lana moaned weakly, her pelvis thrusting towards the touch.
"Marilyn," Oliver said, his voice a low warning, but she ignored him.
"She just needs someone to take care of her," Marilyn murmured as her face moved towards Lana's. "She just needs a… feminine touch." She hesitated, unsure if she was ready to cross this brave new territory. Then the image of Oliver on top of Lana invaded her thoughts, his hips pumping ravenously, his brows knitting in the way she had grown to know so well just before he came to orgasm.
Marilyn pressed her lips against the reporter's, delicate, not quite certain where to go next. Lana took the lead and thrust her tongue inside Marilyn's mouth, whimpering with desire.
It was the first time she'd kissed another woman. She found the experience pleasant, but not necessary. Lana felt thinner, less firm than Oliver, but it was a good kiss nonetheless. Something different.
On impulse she moved a hand over Lana's nightgowned breast, feeling the pebbly nipple rise hard under her touch. The other woman was arching her back towards her, little helpless sounds falling from her lips, but suddenly he was there, pulling Marilyn away from Lana's writhing body.
"Enough!" the doctor roared, all at once a volcano of fury.
Marilyn was flung from the bed across the room; she crashed into the front of the workbench, knocking a few utensils loose to scatter across the cement floor.
"This," Oliver gasped, his shoulders heaving with the force of each breath, "is not what I had planned."
She grasped for the edge of the countertop and tried to pull herself to her feet.
"You bastard," Marilyn hissed. She saw the look of utter rage pass over his features but she went on, unable to stop the flow of angry words like bile from her throat. "You just want to fuck her while I watch? I'm not going to do it! I've earned this, I'm better than her!"
Thredson began to move towards her but she scrambled away like a cornered rat.
When she was halfway up the stairs Marilyn turned back to him, trembling.
"I'll leave," she said firmly. "You fix… this. Or I'll leave."
She waited just until his rage dissolved to fear at her words. Then she fled upstairs to the bedroom, locking the door behind her.
Marilyn knew there was every chance he'd break the door down behind her but she reasoned it was time to take this chance.
She screwed her courage to the sticking place.
And she waited for him to come out of the basement.