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He stands in the darkness, watching Lana as she emerges from the infirmary. He has managed to stay out of sight for nearly two months now, with the help of Sister Mary Eunice, and he has watched her come and go from this place on a weekly basis. He knows the way she travels here from her cell, and the path she takes to get back to what she thinks is her safety. He sees the way she glances around her whenever she's not locked into her room, and he recognizes that look in her eyes. She tries to pass it off as hatred, revulsion, but he knows the truth. It's fear, nothing less.

The marks on his face are beginning to heal, the ones she left on him while leaving his basement. He's spent the time he's been given thinking of ways to punish her for murdering the child. The thought consumes him now like never before.

He never wanted to hurt her; he told her that over and over again, but she didn't believe him. She never stopped running from him. She always wanted to be one step ahead of him, thinking that she might have the upper hand if she could anticipate his next move. She didn't know that he was always watching, always two steps ahead of her next move.

He didn't want to hurt her then, when she'd been in his basement. Even when he'd asked her how she wanted to die, he asked her because he wanted her to have a choice. He wanted her to choose the less painful option because he cared about her. Maybe, in his own way, he had even loved her.

But all of that has changed. Now, he wants to hurt her. It is now his goal to harm her. He wants to make her suffer and pay for what she's done to their child; his child. The way she unfurled that coat hanger and inserted it between her thighs, puncturing the protective sac that held their child's life was something that he has no mercy for. Watching the blood as it flowed from between her legs. He could practically hear her laughing as she wiped it from the floor, cleaning away his DNA, his genetics, his very being.

To think of where his child might be now, in a garbage dump somewhere, buried beneath mounds of trash, it makes him sick. He spent so many nights thinking about it, lamenting over the fact that it was gone; the living thing that he had created within her was no more. She had taken it away from him. With that back-alley abortion she had deprived him of the one thing that he had craved most in his life; unconditional love.

He follows her now in the dimly lit hallways, the screams of other patients echoing to hide the nearly silent footsteps he makes in her shadow. She does not know he is behind her, and that's the point of tonight. He's been watching and waiting for the perfect time to approach her, and he knows her schedule forward and back. When she leaves the infirmary, she doesn't go to the cafeteria for dinner. Instead she goes back to her room to rest. He knows this, and so now he trails her down the hallway, waiting for her to enter and shut the door behind her.

He stands, waiting for the right moment to enter her room. He wants to be logical about this, and he thinks that in fact, considering the situation, he is thinking quite logically. She killed his child. Any rational human being would condemn her to the same death. Though he would be the first to admit, it is not without a tear being shed that he has decided her fate. He had so much hope for her before he had taken her from here the first time. And then, in his basement, she had cried and called him her baby. He had seen the love in her eyes.

And when he had been inside of her-it was marvelous. He felt her all around him, her walls gripping him as he pushed deeper, crying out not merely because of the pleasure he was feeling but because of the love. He had emptied himself inside of her, he had allowed her to recieve that gift from him, yet she hadn't been happy. That's when it had all started to go wrong.

That very night, she had left him. Hit him in the face with the very same framed picture he had provided just for her, just to make her feel more at home. And she was gone. He would be the first to admit that he cried about it later that night. The house felt so empty without her. But then he'd heard about her on the radio, and he'd come back to Briarcliff. Part of him had wondered if she might be happy to see him. Things had escalated quickly.

But that is behind him now. She is no longer his mother, or the mother of his child. She is no better than him. In fact, she is worse. She killed a child; their child, and that is something that he would never be capable of.

He decides that he has waited long enough to follow behind her and enter her cell. He knows she will scream when she sees him, but there is a rag in his pocket and a tiny bottle of chloroform that will serve him well to disable her until he has prepared her for what must be done.

He slips down the hallway, hesitates for only a moment outside her door and opens it quietly. Even in the darkness of the room, he sees her curled onto her bed, facing away from him. As silently as is possible with the groaning asylum doors, he slips it shut behind him.

The noise alerts her, however, and she turns quickly, her face contorting into fear at the sight of him. For a moment, this alarms him because he's never wanted to make her feel that way, but then he remembers his purpose tonight. Tonight is all about fear. Fear and revenge. The first shriek pierces through the air before he's crossed the room to her, and the loud noise makes him angry. He hates loud noises, he always has. He jumps on her, shoving the chloroform soaked rag into her mouth before she finds the strength to fight him. The element of surprise works well for him, and he feels her going limp in his arms within a matter of seconds.

She is totally relaxed in his arms; completely at his disposal, and he takes a moment to appreciate the scenario. It could have been so easy if she would have allowed him to hold her like this when she was awake. If she hadn't decided to fight back at his house, he could have gently stroked his fingertips over her skin and hair, promising her that everything would be okay and that he wouldn't hurt her. It's too late for those promises now.

By the time her head begins lolling and her eyes flutter open slowly, he's already restrained her. It takes her a moment to realize what's happening; her eyes are glazed and far off and he wonders if she is daydreaming that she's somewhere else. Perhaps she is back in her home with that Wendy she talked so much about. Maybe she is at work. Either way, she's definitely not in this moment. He'll need to change that.

"Lana," he says her voice quietly, not because he's afraid anyone will hear him. Sister Mary Eunice has ensured his privacy tonight. No, he says her name quietly because he has no reason to raise his voice. He uses his hand to smack her cheek lightly. "Lana." Her name comes out like a tune this time, and the recognition flashes in her eyes briefly. He sees that she's beginning to come around.

Moving away from her bedside, he steps to a side table and unrolls a cloth containing the equipment he will need for tonight. A scalpel, a straight razor, a pair of surgical scissors. He takes the items out one by one, studying them for a moment before placing them on the table. How desperately he wishes he could have that wire hanger with which she penetrated herself. It would be so ironic to use it on her now, after everything. After she scraped her insides with it, killing their baby, and then held it against his throat, his unborn child's DNA still fresh on the metal tip.

He hums a tune softly to himself as he organizes his tools. He glances back at Lana, and she's no longer anywhere but here. Her eyes are wide in terror, hands and feet secured to the bed by the very safety of the bindings she so longed for when she was in his basement. She's trying to speak against the gag in her mouth, but it's not time for that yet. She'll have her chance.

"Lana," he says her name, though this time his tone is conversational. "Good, you're awake." He turns around to look at her, and she is staring at the bindings on her wrists, her eyes wide and already full of tears. She tests them cautiously, tugging just enough to ensure that she is, indeed, bound and gagged. She makes a muffled cry behind her gag and he smirks at her.

"No key this time," he tells her, "Wrists and ankles. I've learned my lesson."

He isn't sure what to do first; the possibilites are endless, but he doesn't want to rush. He's been thinking about this for weeks now and he wants to take his time, especially with the build-up.

"I've brought some supplies with me," he tells her, showing her the gleaming tips of his tools. He enjoys watching the way her body inadvertantly pulls away from them, her breath increasing in fervor. He can't suppress the childish chuckle that escapes from him as he touches the tip of the scalpel to his finger. It's quite sharp, he's made sure of that.

He knows she's watching, though she wishes she could turn her eyes away. She's wondering what exactly he plans to do with those tools, but it won't be long before she knows.

"You know," he begins, "at first, I was overcome with grief. Thinking about how you murdered our child. It-" he finds his breath catching and takes a moment to compose himself, "It was almost too much for me to stand." He feels a sob building in his throat and sighs deeply. To distract himself, he picks up the scalpel and begins to pace slowly.

"So, I started thinking. How could I ease this pain? What could I do to ensure that no one else ever goes through what I went through with you?"

He sees her eyes widen with fear, her head shaking slightly. She's frightened now, and he likes that.

"And then, it hit me." He perches on the edge of her bed. "Like a freight train." He looks up at her. Silent tears are slipping down her cheeks and she's trying to talk around her gag, but she is unable to. "You took my child," he can barely find the words to speak, and brings a hand to his mouth, knuckles against lips. It takes him a moment to compose himself but he finds the words. "So now, I'm going to take your uterus."

He hears her shrieking behind the gag, and she is flailing desperately now, trying to break free of her ties. It's no use, of course, so he doesn't bother commanding her to stop. Instead, he allows her to thrash about while he goes on preparing himself for surgery.

He slips on a pair of thin medical gloves, because honestly, he doesn't care much for blood. It's warm, yes, but the consistency doesn't do much for him and its act of leaving the body causes the skin to pale in such a way that he can't help but remember the first time he saw that woman, his mother, in his anatomy lab. It hurts like the memory of a broken heart, so he prefers not to come into much contact with it.

He places the scalpel on the supply cloth he's bought, because he's not quite ready to make his first incision. He's been a doctor long enough to know how surgery works. He picks up the pair of scissors and approaches her again. She shakes her head furiously, mumbling desperately behind the gag. She wants him to remove it, and he will, but not yet.

He uses one hand to pull up her gown, revealing her underwear and thighs. Her lower body jerks away from him as she is revealed to him, but he merely smirks. He grips the scissors with one hand and uses the other to lift the waist band of her asylum-issued underwear, using the blades to slice through the thin fabric, pulling the tattered shreds off of her.

She sucks her breath in in a sharp gasp and tries desperately to pull her legs together, but to no avail. He grasps one of her knees and pulls it away from the other, keeping her spread-eagled. She's starting to sob behind her gag now and it makes him angry.

"Keep your legs apart or I'll cut them off," he tells her sharply, and he can tell she's not sure what to believe. She continues to sob, but her thighs, still trembling, fall apart. He steps between them and then kneels awkwardly, placing himself at eye level with the lower half of her body. He can see the that she is quivering, and he assumes it is with fear. He hears her muffled pleas and ignores them. "I suggest you stay as still as possible, Lana. The slightest slip of my hand and you could bleed to death before you're even numb from the pain."

He presses the edge of the razor to her skin, at the line just above where her pubic hair begins. It wasn't so long ago that he'd been in medical school; he remembers that the first step of preparation prior to performing a successful surgery is shaving the area to be operated on. He presses the razor against skin, skimming it against the soft white flesh that normally hides beneath her underwear. The hair is short already, but it is coarse, and he much prefers her skin to be smooth, just as it was in his basement. He'd shaved her there, as well, just before they'd been intimate. She'd cried the entire way through, but he'd relished in the act then, just as he does now. The extra time had been worth it; his body as it moved against the smooth, hairless area had added levels of pleasure to what had already been pure ecstasy.

He is careful with his hand, making sure not to knick the area as the razor slides across her skin. It won't do to have her skin marred before the surgery.

When at last he feels that he has finished, he steps back, holds her legs apart, and considers his work. He has done well. The skin looks pink and new. He moves to his satchel of tools, replacing the razor and reaching for the scalpel.

He turns to Lana again, and her eyes are squeezed shut. She holds her head against the bed, tears slipping down her cheeks. Her face is red and swollen, but her legs are still apart. She realizes at this point, finally, after all this time, that resistance is futile. She is giving into him. This should make him happy, but it irritates him. He suddenly is angry, that he's chased her to this point and she has given in so quickly. He had hoped to have more fun with her before she came to terms with her fate.

He acts quickly and without thinking, which is something that he rarely does, when he steps to her and pulls the gag from her mouth. He needs some sort of reaction from her before he can fully enjoy himself and this act of revenge.

As soon as the gag is pulled from her mouth, she's gasping for breath and crying out mumbled words that it takes him a moment to comprehend.

"It's alive, it's alive," she gasps, shaking her head furiously, "not dead, it's not..."

He narrows his gaze at her, clenching his teeth.

"What are you talking about?" His voice is barely above a whisper. He tries not to respond to her, but she is like a magnet, pulling him in, even now.

"The baby," she sobs, "I tried, but it didn't work. It's still there..."

Her words infuriate him. He feels his face growing hot with rage, and without considering his actions he smacks her hard across the face, stunning her into a temporary silence.

"Shut up!" He screams the words at her, "You shut your mouth, you lying bitch!"

He begins to pace quickly now, grabbing for the scalpel and glancing at her just long enough to see a vaguely hand-shaped welt appearing on the side of her cheek. He is unsure now, and he grows angrier. She has thrown off his plan. He doesn't believe her, but-what if? Is there a chance his child could still be growing inside of her? He can't go through with this now, not until he's proven her wrong. But there's no way he can-

"Prove it," he demands to her, his voice sharp with indignation.

She looks up at him, her mouth open as she attempts to steady her breathing. She shakes her head slightly, not understanding him.

"What do you-"

"I want you to prove it," he hisses at her, gripping the scalpel. He's beginning to sweat. He can't progress until he is sure. He can't imagine opening her up and finding his own under-developed child inside of her. The effects would be scarring.

Her eyes search his desperately, and he looks away from her. He can hardly stand to be in the same room as her right now.

"Touch me," her voice is barely a whisper from across the room. He turns to her, his eyes burning with tears. He wipes angrily at them with the back of his arm and shakes his head. "Feel my stomach, you'll have to. I want you to." Her voice is barely a whimper.

He doesn't want to get any closer to her, but the thought of his child being inside of her is too much to stand. He moves closer, slowly, and hesitates for a moment. Her gown is still slightly askew on her frame, revealing her nether regions and the base of her stomach.

He doesn't trust her, but he raises the edge of the gown, pushing it back on her stomach, revealing her from the chest down. He studies her for a moment, remembering the way her skin felt and looked while she was his captive. Her stomach had been flat and soft, he remembered that part. Her flesh had been pale and her complexion dull.

As he stands so near to her now, he sees that these things have changed. Her skin is no longer so lifeless. It has a luster to it now that he can't remember seeing before. Her breasts are larger beneath the gown and her hip bones less noticeable.

Slowly, with all the caution of a man who has known nothing but pain, his hands reach out to touch her. They find contact at the base of her navel, and his fingers trace the slight swell of her abdomen.

"I visit the infirmary every week," she attempts to speak to him, to distract him from his minstrations. Of course he hears her, but he doesn't allow her to know that. He is overwhelmed by the feel of her skin. "Every week Sister Mary Eunice schedules an appointment for the baby."

His fingers test the skin gently, and he is surprised how firm it is. It is stretched across her abdomen, rising in an incline to just beneath her ribs, where it flattens once again. His hands trace the area, confirming to him that this is not the same stomach she possessed when she was with him. Her nightgowns hung flat on her belly then, but not now. To test his theory, he pulls her gown down for just a moment, and sure enough, it hugs the soft curve of her belly.

He feels an overwhelming joy rising in him, his hands still pressed to her stomach. She's beginning to squirm now, and he is sure she's hoping he'll leave her, now that she's proven her point. But he has no intention of leaving.

"My God," he whispers the words into the darkness of the room. Lana looks to him, waiting to be acknowledged, but he doesn't see her face. He sees only her glorious belly, swollen and growing every moment. Practically pulsing with the life that he created. His child is alive.

As if on cue, he feels a flutter beneath his fingertips, and one glance at Lana's grimace tells him that he isn't imagining it. It's the softest yet strongest movement he's ever felt. He can't stop the smile from pressing across his lips, his eyes welling with tears again, though this time from joy. It is a miracle. The miracle of life. Within Lana.

It isn't until this moment that he realizes the scalpel has slid from his fingers and onto the floor. He can't possibly perform the hysterectomy now. Not now. Not until after she has given birth to this child. To his child. After the baby has been safely removed from her, he will take his revenge. He will mutilate her, even murder her.

But tonight, he has a child to consider. And right now, that child needs its mother.