Page 24 of Hell Breaks Loose

Rising slowly, testing the aches and stiffness in my muscles, I settle onto my bare feet, the ice of the basement concrete only a faint sting. Standing is more of a chore, but I do not want to force anyone to offer “assistance”.

Crossing the hall, I lead the way into the viewing room, turning back to face the door with my back to the paper covered table.

“Wondered when you’d call me again. The cumulative injuries to her body could cause serious issues in the future.”

“Just make sure she’s still breathing and let us worry about her later.”

“Of course.” The doctor tilts his head at Grico as he steps into the doorway, his eyes flicking this way and that.

“How long you need?”

“As long as it takes, you oaf.”

“Watch your tone, you junkie-ass old man. Ring the bell three times when you’re ready to go.”

“And you watch the door. Isn’t that all you’re good for?” he sneers, right before he slams the door in the giant man’s face.

The lock on the outside clicks shut.

“You’re in a mood today,” I snip, my body tensing to the closed quarters and the fact that I’m only wearing a simple shift. Someone cleaned me up and dressed me.

The thought makes me shiver.

I really hope it was one of the maids and not the brutes outside.

“I don’t like bullying tactics. Those two harass me every time I come to do my job.”

“And how many times has that been? Remind me.”

The doctor ignores my question, setting his bag down on the cabinet and sorting through his tools. His movements remind me of the other times.

Still, something itches in the back of my brain, a slight hint of familiarity that has nothing to do with the doctor.

“What do I call you?”

“Doc or Doctor should suffice.”

“Can’t get too attached to your victims. Smart.”

“My patients are my life, Miss. Even if they aren’t… conventional. Criminals need treatment too.”

“And you need money under the table. Drugs.”

A flicker of a smile plays at the older man’s lips, and what might be a flash of amusement in his eyes behind his round glasses.

“Sit.”

“No, thank you. I’ve been sitting in filth for hours. Days. I lost track of how long the torture lasted.”

This time, he turns back to me with his stethoscope, a clear look of concern on his face. Grief, even.

“I’m sorry they have mistreated you. No one deserves such cruelty. Except maybe the one who ordered it.” He snickers softly, like he’s sharing a private joke with me.

I keep my disdain clear.

“You’re just as wretched as the man who’s paying you to be here.”

“You are not wrong, there. But he is. And I am here to do a job. So take off your gown and sit on the fucking table.”

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