Chapter 4 #2
As I stared into his unforgiving eyes, I realized a career in crime was plausible for this man.
He concealed his emotions with ease, was prone to violence, and the only time he expressed empathy was for me—his potential merchandise.
Was he caring for me so I wouldn’t be too scuffed up for the upcoming auction?
This ended up being a Hansel and Gretel story, after all. He was fattening me up to sell me.
“Calm down,” his commanding voice said gruffly. “You’re spiraling and thinking the worst. I can see it on your face.”
I nodded, suppressing my anxiety.
Somehow, he knew I was faking the complacency. With an eye roll, he pulled out a phone from his back pocket. The sounds of swiping and tapping were faint as he navigated through the device.
“My license,” was all he said as he thrust the phone in my face.
It was a picture of a document stating he was licensed to practice medicine in New York. There was a click as he scrolled to the next photo.
“My lab.”
He showed me pictures of a lab with white and beige colors and fellow research assistants looking professional and serious. He continued showing me photos of his respectable life.
“I’m not lying about who I am. You’re safe with me,” he said reassuringly.
Something on my face must’ve clued him in that I was unconvinced. With a curse, he withdrew the phone. The fresh tapping of his fingers was constant with a rhythmic beat as he pulled up browsers on the screen for various magazine sites.
It turned out that our resident doctor was a celebrity in New York.
His hands moved quickly, scrolling through the tabs of several articles he had published in the scientific field.
The journals crediting him as the author seemed legitimate, even to my untrained eyes.
A magazine called Forbes featured him in a segment, 30 Under 30.
According to the article, his list of achievements was never-ending: graduating from college at seventeen, becoming one of the youngest doctors, only to pivot to research.
The article said he was about to turn twenty-six. How the hell did he accomplish so much already?
He had also been featured in magazines that seemed less reputable, something called tabloids, which mostly speculated on his latest conquests.
I realized why he showed me the articles.
Unlike the journals, these articles were coupled with candid photos of him around New York.
Many of them featured him with women at various functions and fundraisers.
They were all incredibly beautiful, like Amelie, further establishing that he was untouchable to someone like me.
Nevertheless, he was telling the truth. Considering his public stature, auctioning humans would be impossible.
What was wrong with me? The doctor had been kind to me, probably the first to do so. Why did I jump to the worst possible conclusion?
I realized he was waiting for the same explanation.
Lifting my face and looking him in the eye was excruciatingly painful. “I’ve had a little trouble with trust,” I said apologetically. “Since my rebirth behind a dumpster.”
My amnesia humor might have been a hit had he not been tense. He eventually relented. “That’s to be expected.”
He went back to being silent, though I was still beyond horrified.
My shame doubled when I realized that, of all things, I was conscious about what he thought of my body.
He was probably used to pretty women with perfect skin like Amelie, whereas my body was marred.
As if all the minor injuries weren’t enough, large, ugly scars stretched from my midsection to my hips.
There were many of them, and vulgar enough to terrify grown humans.
I once lifted my hospital gown to relieve myself, and another woman doing the same caught sight of my scars.
She ran like her ass was on fire. People on the streets had lived through the worst. You knew something was terrifying when it frightened even them.
At least they looked old, so those couldn’t have been the reason why I lost my memories.
He was thorough, leaving no stone unturned until the section he worked on was squeaky clean. First, he used a soapy sponge, then a wet one to rinse off the soap, and finally, a towel to dry. I counted the seconds he spent polishing every part to dissuade the awkwardness and distract myself.
One hundred and twenty seconds.
Whether it was calculated or an innate timer, our resident doctor had an obsessive-compulsive disorder.
The fact that he was a human being with flaws made me feel better. He was more relatable this way. I stopped arguing with him and recalled a saying fit for the moment.
Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
The doctor had done nothing other than feed me and provide me with medical attention. Wasn’t that what I had hoped for—food and medicine? There was no need to overreact if this was a part of his medical care.
The pep talk lasted until he started on my chest. The thin white sheet barely covered my breasts, especially once he bypassed it to clean my belly and the underside of my boobs.
I crossed my arms across my chest with a lame attempt at modesty.
Though my nipples were obstructed from his view, his methodical effort left little to the imagination.
The sheet was drenched by the time he finished. I pulled it over my breasts, but the white linen was unforgiving. It was wet, see-through, and lewder than before. My pointy nipples stood out like little hills, and I internally groaned.
He was blissfully unaware, wiping off the excess water with a towel.
His thumb grazed over my nipples every so often.
They reacted ten times harder than before until it was damn near painful.
I had no idea if he felt them erect under his thumb, and I sagged against the mattress when he deemed I was dry enough to stop.
He lifted me with one strong arm to work on my back before drifting south with a couple of sponges and washcloths in hand.
I clamped my thighs shut when he scrubbed my grimy knees and calves, down to my feet.
Just when I thought the nightmare was over, he coasted next to my hips and sank to his knees.
The wet sponge scrubbed my thighs, which he pried apart whenever I tried closing them.
When he reached my inner thighs, I stared at the ceiling as he did more of the same to my most intimate part.
The evidence of my heated insides must show on my flushed skin.
To his credit, I had reacted blatantly to his bare chest while he seemed oblivious to my nakedness. Perhaps he was repulsed by it.
Why wouldn’t he be?
Without the gown as armor, my terrifying scars were on full display.
To my shock, the doctor nonchalantly continued with the circular motions, as if the ugly welts were the most natural thing on a person’s body.
If he had a reaction to spare, he didn’t let it show.
He had appeared more stunned when I made eye contact to speak to him for the first time than by my ungodly skin mutilations.
Why?
Distracted by his lack of reaction, I didn’t notice when his fingers slipped between my thighs. Much after the fact, I realized what the washcloth was for—the sponge would’ve been too rough for what he intended.
My eyes were about to bug out of my sockets, and suddenly, my past wasn’t the only thing to disappear from my memory. Words left me, as I forgot how to speak.
He meant to—oh God.
It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.
He was OCD and wanted to clean everything. A man who looked like him, and a doctor no less, had no interest in someone like me, at least not like that. He was extremely out of my league. If anything, I’d made googly eyes while he had maintained professionalism, concerned only with patient care.
The mantra helped soothe me, and I relaxed with each affirmation.
With my eyes closed, I convinced myself that nothing existed besides the sound of the waves and his inebriating scent.
I relaxed and let the wet washcloth slide between my thighs.
Once I forgot everything else, I realized the warm towel caressing my skin felt good.
Too good. Especially each time his thumb accidentally brushed against my lips.
My senses heightened, my thighs trembled, and I kept wishing he’d linger at the spot for a little longer.
What was wrong with me?
I was a pervert for reveling in a sponge bath. It was supposed to be a part of my medical care. I had no clue what his touch had evoked, only that this reaction was inappropriate in front of a doctor.
An embarrassing moan bubbled at the back of my throat, and he had barely started. He focused on each area for two minutes. You could do anything for one hundred and twenty seconds, even suppress an involuntary reaction, right?
One hundred and twenty seconds turned out to be a lifetime.
The washcloth rubbed between my lips with meticulous precision. Back and forth, then in the same circular motion as the sponge had on the rest of my body. Soapy water from the soaked towel gathered between my thighs, the slippery mess working against me.
My eyes were screwed shut as I held my breath.
He removed the soapy towel and restarted the torture with a wet one meant to rinse me off.
Water droplets from the washcloth ran a line from my lower abdomen to my sex.
The swipe of a cool, wet sensation glided over the skin to erase the traces of water, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake.
It was too soft to be a towel. Something inside me screamed it was him licking the water off, and it was the feeling of his lips setting my skin on fire.
I squeezed my eyes even tighter. No. This was crazy. He wasn’t leaning over to taste my soapy, salty skin.
The pressure from the cloth continued, inducing an unbearable throbbing between my thighs.
I bit into my fist to hold back the scream that wanted to break free.
My heart pounded. This time, I didn’t fear my embarrassing reaction.
I feared he’d stop before whatever wished to break through could do so.
He pressed the washcloth against me, pushing farther inside to rub and clean. A wave of intense bliss pulsed through me, and my thighs convulsed. I didn’t know what was happening, but I never wanted it to end.
My mouth opened in a silent scream, and my back arched slightly off the mattress.
A jolt of electricity in my veins made me shudder and gasp for air in shock.
It consumed me, leaving me breathless and trembling in its wake.
My ears pounded as if everything in the world had gone quiet.
I was in a dark vacuum without vision or sound.
After an eternity, my eyes snapped open, cheeks heating with humiliation.
What the hell just happened?
More importantly, did he notice? How could he not?
Maybe he thought I fell asleep and experienced a sleep-induced seizure. Anything. I was grasping at straws.
I eyed the doctor, who had finished toweling me dry. He was cool as a cucumber. Even he couldn’t act so aloof if he heard me. No way. Perhaps I had nothing to worry about after all.
As he covered me with the large comforter, I noticed a Band-Aid on my left arm.
He must’ve administered the so-called tetanus shot while I was asleep.
Apparently, it wasn’t enough. He inserted a needle into my vein, securing it with tape.
I knew it wasn’t the same as the needles I had seen on the streets, especially when he ran a line and attached it to an IV bag.
I thought it’d hurt. It was painful when Amelie merely dabbed me with antiseptic.
However, I barely felt a pinch while he poked and prodded, went over my wounds with antiseptic, and covered them with bandages.
He used gauze to wrap the angry-looking ones, taking his time with each injury as if it required the precision of brain surgery.
Was he always this gentle with his patients, or was he taking his time so I wouldn’t feel an ounce of pain? I stopped trying to decode his intentions and passed out long before he started on my ankle. I only knew one thing for certain—the doctor was a godsend with the patience of a saint.