that there’s nothing wrong with the muscles, but I think we already knew that. It’s the signal from your brain that just isn’t getting to them. But we can retrain the other parts of your brain to take over the job of the parts that are damaged. I know a great technique for that. Here’s the bad news.”
She touched the stun gun to Adelle’s left arm and pulled the trigger.
This time Adelle let out a scream. Nothing long or protracted. It was short, truncated by the electricity, which quickly immobilized her larynx. Her arms shot into the air as the muscles contracted. Her legs kicked out again and once more her bowels voided onto the carpet. Adelle passed out. Each time she awoke, Natsinet was still standing above her with the stun gun to shock her again. Adelle wasn’t certain how long the treatment continued, but when she awoke the last time it was dark and Natsinet was gone.
The nurse must have lifted her when she was unconscious because she was once again in her bed, but the treatment had continued after she’d been lifted. Her sheets were saturated with urine and sweat. The room stank of excrement. Adelle knew that it was her own feces she smelled. She felt utterly humiliated. Her muscles ached as if she’d just been put through some vigorous weight-training program. Still, she was alive. The bitch hadn’t killed her. Not yet.
Adelle’s stomach growled and she realized she hadn’t eaten anything since the oatmeal early that morning. She was thirsty as well. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been given anything to drink and knew that with all she’d perspired, and with the urine she’d lost, there was a real danger of dehydration. But she certainly didn’t want to call for any food or water. She didn’t want Natsinet to know she was awake. Instead she sat quietly in the dark trying to find a comfortable position in her urine-soaked bed.
Her skin ached from rug burns and abrasions from the scrub brush and her own piss was now stinging her skin. She was afraid that she would get some kind of infection from it, then remembered that her husband Walt had once told her that urine was often used as an antibiotic in the jungles of Vietnam to fight off jungle rot. Still, it felt to her like she was getting the equivalent of a diaper rash, which increased her humiliation. She prayed that her daughter would be there in the morning and have this woman locked up. She fell asleep dreaming of Natsinet strapped to a gurney receiving a lethal injection while she and her daughter watched from the gallery. She had a smile on her face as she slept.
Chapter Nine
The first thing Adelle was aware of when she came awake was the pins and needles feeling in her right arm and shoulder.
Then, the pain.
She came awake suddenly, the sunlight streaming in through the blinds in her bedroom stabbing into her eyes. She tried to move and felt the rough texture of the restraints that bound her right arm to the bed’s armrest. With that came the sensation of dampness settling beneath her buttocks, her lower back, and the back of her upper thighs.
She’d wet herself again.
Natsinet breezed in the room, her features all business.
“Up and at ‘em. We’ve gotta get you out of this bed and get those sheets changed.”
Natsinet released the belts she’d used to bind Adelle’s right arm to the guardrail and set them on a chair. As the nurse helped Adelle out of the bed and into the wheelchair, she felt a flare of burning pain at the small of her back.
“When I’m finished changing the sheets I’ll give you a sponge bath and get you into a fresh gown.”
Adelle allowed herself to be helped into a sitting position in the wheelchair and wheeled out of the room. Now that she had the unrestricted use of her right arm again, she began thinking of a way to use it to get out of here.
Natsinet hummed a tune to herself as she stripped the bed. Adelle cast her eyes around the living room, looking for a heavy, solid object she could use to bash the nurse in the head with. The past five days had been an exercise in physical and mental torture. After using the stun gun, Natsinet had followed up on the so-called physical therapy the following morning by binding Adelle’s right arm to the guard rail and tying both her legs down to the bed to inhibit movement in her right side, which had been relatively unaffected by the stroke. This was called constraint-induced movement therapy, Natsinet said. The key was to limit movement of the unaffected part of a stroke patient’s body, restraining it if necessary, and encourage the patient to move those limbs affected in the stroke. This form of exercise rewired the brain, and Natsinet told her that it was a common therapy to help stroke patients regain the use of the parts of the body rendered partially paralyzed. For the first few hours of the therapy Adelle believed her. Natsinet sat on the edge of the bed and moved her left arm for her through a series of rotations and exercises. Then she encouraged Adelle to lift her arm. Adelle tried; she summoned all her strength, all her energy, and thought she detected a tiny hint of movement in her fingers, but that was it.
When Natsinet pulled out the cigarette lighter and ignited it, making a nice flame with a spin of the wheel, she had that look in her face again. The look she wore that first day. That look of evil.
“How about you move that arm now?” Natsinet asked as she moved the flame close to Adelle’s forearm.
Adelle had felt the heat of the flame as it grew close to her skin and she felt herself panic.
Despite the fact that she’d lost the power to move her left side, her nerves were still functioning. She could still feel pain.
“Come on, Mrs. Smith,” Natsinet said, bringing the flame of the lighter within kissing distance of her arm. “Move your arm away from the flame.”
Adelle tried to. And as she summoned the strength to move her arm she thought,
But Natsinet did.
She’d burned Adelle several times throughout the course of the past five days. She also utilized the stun gun. There were faint first-degree burns along her left arm, torso, and down her left leg, each in various stages of healing. Her muscles ached from the electricity that had been pumped into her nervous system from the stun gun. Each time Natsinet came in to her room to begin therapy, Adelle would try to yell for help and get away but she couldn’t. With her right side firmly secured, she couldn’t fight back. All she could do was try to move the stroke- affected part of her body away from the pain. Trying to do so in her condition was physically exhausting. At the end of these so-called therapy sessions she was drenched in sweat and urine, her heart racing with panic.
Natsinet always left her to lie in her sweat and urine sodden clothes. Today was the first day in almost a week she was able to get out of them and get cleaned up.
The burns itched more than hurt now and she refrained from scratching them. She also felt an itching pain along her lower back and buttocks, primarily where her urine had pooled on the bed.
Natsinet gathered the sheets and placed them on the floor. Then she wheeled Adelle into the bathroom, helped her out of her clothes, and gently assisted her out of the wheelchair. Her touch was sensitive, caring; the way a nurse’s touch should be. She guided Adelle to the closed toilet seat and helped her sit down on it. Adelle didn’t feel the least bit embarrassed by her nakedness around the Natsinet. All of her humility had been beaten out of her over the past five days and modesty at this point would have been meaningless.
Natsinet turned the water in the bathtub on and let it run warm.
“I have a fresh change of bed clothes for you,” she said. “First I’ll give you a sponge bath, okay?”
Adelle nodded.
As Natsinet bathed her Adelle listened to the woman talk. She had no idea what was going on in her mind, but she realized the best course of action was to observe her quietly. Let her think she was being submissive, convince her that she had accepted her fate.
Adelle had read about kidnap victims who were held in long periods of captivity that came down with something known as ‘Stockholm Syndrome’, in which the victim came to see the kidnapper as their guardian, somebody they could trust. The kidnapper usually let their guard down around this time. That’s how Patty Hearst
