Doctor Whitlock's Experiment

Chapter 8

When the soup was gone, Sera's headaches had ceased greatly and her stomach felt full.  Then, she caught sight of the elaborately decorated pink box Whitlock was trapping between the long ghostly fingers of each hand.  He dropped it into her lap and pushed it toward her. 

Sera tried to shove the box away. "I don't w-"

"Take it," he commanded. Then, in mock pout, added, "If you should refuse my gift, I may be offended." He was relentlessly forcing it back into her hands. 

Sera pulled her hands away. She didn't want to touch the evil box. "I will never accept any 'gifts' from you!" she retorted. "You are a monster! No, worse! You," Her voice was shaking. It was softer now but still threatening like distant thunder. "have betrayed the trust of every person you should care about. He should've been you best friend. Your..." 

"Sera, I suggest you open that box now," his quiet voice hissed, full of venom. 

"Fine," whispered Sera as her courage spilled down the drain. Timidly, she lifted off the pink lid with the pink bow attached. This hot pink color was going to make her physically ill which was odd considering it had been her favorite before. Before... 

She dumped the innards, trying to pretend she didn't care. Contents sprawled over the bed.  Despite her feigned disinterest, her curious fingers reached to touch the fabric that had tumbled out. She didn't know what she'd expected, but it wasn't this. 

"Uh... a swimsuit?" she murmured. 

And, a very nice swimsuit at that. It was bright pink with baby blue hibiscus flowers were scattered over the pattern. TYR marked the corner of the athletic one piece suit. There were even matching blue goggles and a pink swim cap. 

"How--" Sera started. Doctor Whitlock seemed to know everything about her. He knew she liked-- no loved-- to swim. And, he knew her favorite colors: blue and pink. He was right about everything down to the blue hibiscus flowers which were here favorite flowers. They reminded her of how her parents used take her to the beach for vacation. They were supposed to go this summer too. Before...

"How did you know?" she whimpered. Tears welled in her eyes. She longed to swim, to be free. But then, she remembered where this suit came from. She knew it meant the opposite of freedom. 

"Oh,"  he responded, a somewhat unkind smile in his voice, "I only had an idea." 

"You're horrid!" Words broke forth as sobs from her chest. Tears rained down her pink cheeks, blurring her vision. "I hate you! You did this only to tease me with something I love!" The sobs quieted some. She was no longer yelling when she uttered, quiet and sad, "Something I'm beginning to feel sure I'll never do again..." 

"Don't say that," he cooed, his voice dripping with fake sympathy like acid. He stunk of it. Artificial kindness drifted from him in waves like bad cologne. "You'll be swimming again very soon indeed. For me." 

"For you?" Sera repeated in a haunted whisper. "I'll never do anything for you." 

The doctor ignored her protest. But, his eyes seemed to say, Yes, you will. You will do anything and everything I tell you. Aloud, he said in a business-like manner, "Yes. Well, since you are well rested and now fed. Soon, I suppose, since you are so eager, I will have you swim a few laps. You feel better, I presume?" 

"Better? BETTER?" Sera shrieked. Her voice rang out like a firetruck siren, and the fire it rushed toward was Sera's grief and anger. "Hell, no, I don't feel better! What the fuck is wrong with you? I want to go home! That would be better!" 

Whitlock just stared at her with an unreadable expression. Then, his ice-blue eyes flickered to the left of her cheek. His hand reached out and Sera flinched at the idea of his  cold, smooth fingers against her face. Instead, his hand found something beside her. The rag Raphael had laid on her forehead was seeping wetly onto the pillow beside her and had been for a while. Whitlock's hand closed around it, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Sera pictured black and green spots growing and crawling over the white rag, covering it with mold. He was infecting it with filth. With evil. 

"Interesting," he mused. "I wonder how this got here..."

"Don't touch it!" Sera cried, suddenly feeling an intense attachment to the rag. It was her last standing proof that kindness, true goodness, still existed in that dark world. It was proof that Raphael was real and not just an angel she'd dreamed up. She grabbed hold of the rag, not caring when she touched his death-cold hand in the process. "Give it back!" 

"But, Seraphina, it's gone warm, and, anyway,  what use do you have for it now?" he remarked in a calm, reasonable way. He gave her a quizzical look. "I don't suppose you could enlighten me as to how it got here?" 

Sera shrugged pretending to be just as puzzled a he was. She would never tell him that Raphael had been here. 

"I have a son," Doctor Whitlock said suddenly. 

Sera didn't blink. 

"Ah, you have met him," concluded the doctor. "I thought he'd been here."

"Wha-- of course I don't-- he hasn't been here!" she argued, blood rushing to her face. 

"Sure," he agreed. He didn't sound half convinced, but he was already moving to the next matter. "Anyhow, I shall return at two o'clock. That gives you about three hours. I expect you to be rested, refreshed, and ready to swim when I arrive." He gestured carelessly to the glowing numbers of a digital clock before he strode toward the door. 

"Wait!" Sera called after him. For she had realized all at once that she had no clue what time it was, what day it was, or what country she was in.  "At least tell me: is it night or day?" 

"Why, daytime, of course," he laughed at her. "Do you fancy me a vampire?" 

"No," she said darkly. "You're far worse than that."

Indifferent to her jab, he left, closing the door behind him. Sera was plunged into a thick darkness where she was terrorized by the shadows; a hungry bear lurked in the corner and something with a mouthful of sharp teeth was hiding under her bed. No, Sera tried to convince herself, the thing I'm afraid of is real and he just left. 

But he'll be back, hissed the monster under the bed. 

He'll be back, growled the hungry bear from the corner. 

The clock red numbers on the clock glared at her: eleven fifteen,  it read. It ticked her precious time away. Time without him. She closed her eyes. A stubborn, firm resolve was growing from clay to cement. She would not be ready to go at two o'clock. She would not make this easy for him. Even if it caused her more pain, and she would lose in the end, she could not go down without a good fight.