Captive

Chapter 7

Twenty minutes can travel at the speed of light or at the speed of sloth depending on the reason a person is made to wait. Small children find the anticipation of opening Christmas gifts causes time to pass at an excruciatingly slow pace. A twenty-minute nap can be over just as soon as a person closes his eyes. Bridget's twenty minutes flew off a non-existent clock quicker than she wished. She had not moved from the fetal position, and her eyes had not broken their blank staring contest with the wall next to her bed. She came back to reality when she heard the loud buzzer for her door. The electric fence was now disengaged, and Bridget turned to see a man enter her cell, pushing an office chair in front of him.

He appeared several years older than she, and his blue eyes and dashing smile greeted her with warmth. She stared at him, unable to formulate words. He was well-built beneath his crisp, white lab coat. The tie around his neck was loose, suggesting that he was a relaxed gentleman, and his brown loafers did not match his pastel blue dress shirt and black slacks. As he sat in the chair, Bridget's emerald eyes could not break their gaze, and her face remained emotionless. She was unsure how such an amicable-looking man could be so cruel.

"Good afternoon, Bridget. My name is Doctor Spencer. I will be taking care of you during your stay. I gather you had a good lunch?" Still positioned on the bed, the patient craned her head and squinted her eyes to get a better look at the doctor. He wore no name tag, and he carried a clipboard. Several gel pens peeked from his shirt pocket.

She asked softly, "What kind of doctor doesn't wear an ID badge?"

"You are observant. Good. I don't wear an ID badge because I don't require one. I built this place, and I run it. All of my employees and my patients know who I am."

"I don't know who you are," she replied as she turned to face the wall again.

"I was the voice you heard through the intercom, and now, I am your doctor. Later, I hope to be your friend and confidant."

She grunted, "Yeah, that'll never happen."

"I assure you, all my patients come out of their rehabilitation programs fully cured. Some have even come back to express their thanks or work for me." He stopped and watched her for a moment. "Bridget? Will you please turn and look at me when I'm talking to you?"

"No."

He took a more assertive approach. "Bridget, sit up and look at me when I'm talking to you. Let's have an adult conversation."

"I don't want to talk to you."

Spencer's nerve was wearing thin. "You will sit up, or my boys will make you sit up. I have one you haven't met, and judging by your reaction last night, you're not really going to like this one. Do I need to call him in here?" He pulled a pen from his pocket and clicked it so he could scribble down a note.

She rolled her eyes and released her knees from her grip. "All right. I'll sit up." She pulled herself up with her hands and shifted her weight until she was facing him.

"That's a good girl," he replied with a smile.

"I'm not a dog."

"No, you're not. But you act like a child."

"I'm thirty," she blurted out. "But you knew that already."

"You're right, I did. You are thirty, but you act like a child. Your mind is trapped in a mental age younger than the age you are now."

"What?" She raised an eyebrow.

"People have a physical age and a mental age. Sometimes, if there is some sort of emotional, mental, or physical trauma, a person's psychological age becomes stuck. For instance, if a child is sexually abused when he or she is nine years-old, that person grows up to be forty-five with a mental age of only nine. The person's mentality becomes anchored to the age when the trauma occurred."

With both eyebrows raised and a slight smirk, Bridget said, "That sounds like a load of bullshit."

"Yes, you would think that. You feel that way because you don't want to admit that you, yourself, are trapped by a mental age. You might be thirty, but you have the emotional understanding and well-being of a fifteen year-old girl." She looked at him with anxious intrigue but said nothing. Her fingertips began to twitch, so she placed them beneath her thighs. He looked at his clipboard and then continued, "When you were fifteen, something happened to you to make you fear the dark. Am I wrong?" She cautiously shook her head from left to right. Spencer smiled. "Very good. You've taken the first step to admit that something caused your mental age-clock to stop ticking. Do you want to tell me what happened?"

"No," she squeaked. She felt the adrenaline begin to pump into her blood stream. Her heart sped up, and her body started to feel the heavy press of her flight mechanism. She had nowhere to go, and without consent, her figure started to rock back and forth gently. Bridget took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. "No. I don't want to tell you."

Spencer jotted something down with his gel pen. "You don't have to tell me right now, but you will tell me soon. When you're ready, my dear."

"When I tell you what happened, does that mean I can leave?" He wheeled himself closer to her.

"Of course not," he replied with the friendliest smile known to man. "You only get to leave when I determine that you are cured." He pushed himself away from her with an immature spin. "Now, let's start your treatment, hmm?"

"The visual stimulation thing?" She could not bring herself to make eye contact with the man. Everything about him repelled her. She had only known him five minutes, and already, she hated him.

"Yes. That."

"How does it work?"

"Well, my dear, this exercise is designed to engage your psychological fear through a series of images. It was quite easy to find stimuli for your ailment. I have weeks' worth of quality film for your sessions." It did not require much thought on Bridget's behalf to decipher his supposedly cryptic description. He was about to make her watch countless hours of slasher and horror movies. She closed her eyes and pursed her lips.

"I don't have a choice, do I?" she asked after some time.

He shook his head. "Of course not. Now, I know there's no possible way you will be able to watch these on your own accord here in the comfort of your room, so I will have Matthews bring you to the viewing room where we can make sure you see everything you need to see in order to help aid in your recovery."

"What's the viewing room?"

"It's like a movie theater. You'll see." He unclicked his pen and shoved it back into his pocket. Doctor Spencer stood and walked toward Bridget with a smile and an out-stretched hand. "I think we'll have you right as rain in no time, Bridget Dunn." Her eyes met his hand and then his eyes before she turned her attention to the wall. He retracted his palm. "Very well. I'll see you in a few minutes." He grabbed the back of the chair and dragged it toward the door. As he approached, the barricade dropped with the buzzer sound, and he exited without a word. The second buzzer indicated that the force field was active once again. Bridget did not budge, and her face was without expression. She sat, quietly defeated like a chess player who lost a career match in less than four moves.