(VIII)
His idea was a good one. Hollywood would pay a lot for a beautiful woman who
not only could be menaced by bad guys and monsters but could actually be
beaten, burned, buried - and still show up fresh and ready to work the next
day.
But the orderly was only an orderly, and men and women with far more
impressive credentials, if much less imagination, now met in the Center's
boardroom to decide SG's fate.
The committee agreed that the Foundling was incredibly durable - far more
durable than poor Cutler, who was now in intensive care with a concussion
and two broken ribs. This durability was a matter that deserved further
study, but not only for the sake of advancing scientific knowledge. If the
Center couldn't dispose of her, she might one day become a liability. She
had to have a weak spot, and the committee had to find it.
Dr. Distruggio suggested that her ability to feel pain might offer some
clues. Dr. Tickler enthusiastically agreed. The mind-body connection was
well established, said Tickler, and perhaps psychological warfare would
succeed where physical assaults had failed. The committee agreed it was
worth a try, and SG was now to become the property of Distruggio and
Tickler.
The good doctors set about their work with the seriousness it deserved. They
consulted with the staff psychiatrist, Dr. Taubmann, but he offered only
platitudes about self-esteem and gave them a self-help tape. But when Dr.
Distruggio and Dr. Tickler listened to the tape, purely for amusement, it
occurred to Tickler that if encouraging words boosted mental and physical
health, perhaps a tape filled with hateful, demeaning messages would have
the opposite effect.
They began recording a series of such messages in the technical suite where
the Sexual Response videos were edited. "You are a useless slut," hissed
Tickler into the microphone. "Nobody loves you," snarled Distruggio. "We all
eagerly await your death."
Soon others on the staff were joining in. Cutler, newly released from
intensive care, offered her own special endearments: "Die, you slimy little
bitch. Feel your spirit shrivel up inside you. Die, you little coward. Die,
you miserable piece of shit."
Hammond's efforts were recorded, then erased. Drs. Tickler and Distruggio
agreed he was much too stiff and self-conscious for this kind of work. "We
are very annoyed with you," went one of his messages. "I don't think you're
capable of rehabilitation, and you've cost us a lot of money."
Surprisingly, Dr. Bowles caught on quickly. His messages were brief and to
the point: "Eat shit and die." "You're a worthless tramp." "You're too
stupid to live."
They even had her favorite sex clinic video co-star send in an especially
nasty tape telling her that she was a lousy lay and that when he fucked her
it was like sticking his dick in a bag full of garbage.
Then speakers were installed in the ceiling of SG's tiny room, and the
psychological bombardment began.
Day and night, hour after hour, the taped messages ripped at her soul. The
sound of hateful voices alternated with hideous human and non-human sounds:
metal scraping against glass, the squeal of pigs in a slaughterhouse, the
angry hiss of a cat or snake, the screams of torture victims, including
several screams by SG herself that had been recorded during earlier
experiments.
SG was at first puzzled by the psychological barrage. They had tried in so
many ways to hurt her, ways that were infinitely more painful than this.
What could they be thinking?
But in its insidious way, the negative conditioning began to work. She
became listless. Her energy drained away. Sleep was impossible. She yearned
to talk with someone, anyone, but she remained locked in the tiny room, her
only company the voices of people who hated her, who wanted to see her die.
And, deep inside, she began to die.
After 10 days, Distruggio and Tickler decided to see how their experiment
was going. They found SG lying curled up on the floor, her arms wrapped
around her head, trying to ward off the voices.
"Get up, bitch," Tickler commanded. The medical staff had agreed beforehand
that SG was to be addressed only as "bitch," "slut" or "trash."
SG didn't move. Tickler kicked her in the back. She groaned but remained
curled up on the floor. Distruggio reached down, grabbed her collar - her
only clothing -and dragged her from the room. A burly orderly took her,
slung her over his shoulder, and they went to the upper level lecture hall.
The entire medical staff was there. SG was brought in on the stage, flanked
by Distruggio and Tickler.
"Here we have our subject for the day," said Tickler. "Let's greet her
appropriately."
"Die, bitch, die," the assembly roared in unison.
"Very good," said Tickler. "Now, Dr. Distruggio and I will run some routine
tests."
Distruggio held SG firmly, her elbows jammed together behind her. Tickler
raised his right hand dramatically, spread his fingers, then made a fist. He
lowered it, pulled it back, then punched her with all his considerable
strength in the stomach.
She crumpled up and would have fallen to the floor had Distruggio not held
her.
"As you can see," said Tickler, "the subject remains sensitive to physical
pain. The question is whether, after days of psychological torture, her body
is at last vulnerable to real and lasting damage. Whether her skin can be
penetrated. Whether she can bleed."
Here he drew from the pocket of his white lab boat a syringe. He removed the
plastic cover from the needle, pulled back SG's slumping head with his left
hand and plunged the needle into her neck with his right. The plastic
chamber quickly filled with blood.
There was a gasp, then applause from the audience. Tickler gave a signal,
and everyone shouted, "Die, bitch, die."
"And die she surely will," said Distruggio. "It's only a question of how."
