Asylum Box Set

by Sian B. Claven

  What happened next still deeply disturbs me.

  She ran a finger along my neck, which of course made me involuntarily shudder. She seemed to find this amusing and continued to do it. I allowed it - I shouldn’t have and in retrospect I understand this now - but I wanted to comfort her. Slowly her hand fell to stroke my chest. It was lulling, and I found my eyes closing slightly as I rested my cheek against the top of her head. I didn’t at first realise what she was doing until she was actually doing it. She was stroking me through my trousers. My body betrayed me and my penis became erect. I immediately got up, all but dropping her at my feet.

  She is quick for a young girl and was instantly on her knees with her head buried in my crotch. I pried her away, but she just kept saying she would make me happy, that she could make me happy if I wanted her to.

  I left, quickly, and returned to my quarters. Much later, once I had calmed myself, I thought of a rational explanation for what had transpired.

  Of course!

  She obviously transitioned from young girl to young woman and, as is the case with most young women, she wanted to experiment, her hormones driving her to explore sexually. I felt, and still feel, ashamed for how my body reacted and I know I cannot see Clara for a few days, and then I will need to sit with her and explain to her why she cannot act like that with me.

  I distracted myself by checking in on my two new patients. Both seemed to be responding to treatment well and if they continue to progress they will soon be ready for phase two.

  The nurses are talking about me. I can tell. Every time I walk into a break room or into one of the day rooms they will suddenly stop speaking and look anywhere but in my direction. It is starting to aggravate me and I am left to wonder if I should address it or leave it for them to get over. I never realised that managing a place like an Asylum can be so tiring, not just from the patients, but from managing the staff as well.

  I can’t get the smell of honeysuckle and jasmine out of my senses. I need to think of something else, distract myself more. I think this evening I may leave the grounds and journey to town, perhaps have a quiet meal at one of the establishments there. Perhaps holing up in the Asylum, in my work, is starting to fray me. I may just need to remind myself what is out there in the world, and enjoy it.

  Tomorrow I will contact Mr Marx to reschedule our appointment with his wife. I refuse to let Clara suffer a day longer.

  3 December 1950

  Mr Marx brought his wife today to attend the session with Clara. I had emptied out one of the unused day rooms to create a safe place for the two women to meet under my supervision. I wasn’t sure what to expect, what results I would get from this, but I was prepared for everything.

  Or so I thought.

  The session began as I supposed it would. Mr Marx was not permitted in the room and waited outside. Mrs Marx and Clara sat on opposite chairs, facing each other but certainly not looking at each other. I sat a little away, observing their behaviours. After a few minutes I encouraged them to speak about what they were feeling. At first it seemed as though neither had heard me, but then Clara’s sweet voice flitted through the air as she apologised to her mother for taking away her family. Mrs Marx did not respond. Clara went on to explain that she wasn’t sure why she did it, that she wanted to get better and come home to her mother and her daddy.

  I want to note here how Clara addresses her mother formally and her father informally. This clearly indicates that the bond between father and daughter is much stronger.

  Mrs Marx did not respond to her child; she simply fiddled with her handbag on her lap, muttering softly to herself.

  Clara looked at me and I nodded, encouraging her to continue.

  It seemed that the more Clara justified herself to her mother, the more irate her mother became, until she finally screamed at the little girl about how she knew, she knew what she really wanted and why she had taken the family away.

  Clara was upset, and instantly burst into tears, looking at me and begging me to not allow her mother to hurt her. I reassured her that the day room was a safe space. I then inquired with Mrs Marx why she said those things to Clara and, when she didn’t respond, I asked if perhaps her disconnection from her youngest child caused the tragedies.

  The woman burst out laughing, and I must say it was the most unsettling thing in the world to watch this woman, as though possessed, hoot and holler at the thought of what I had just said. She then spat in my direction and started rummaging through her handbag.

  She explained that Clara had been having sexual relations with her father for some time, and when her brothers wouldn’t satiate her sexual desires in her father’s absence, Clara had taken their lives. That Clara suspected her sisters of enjoying her father’s company and had thus taken their lives too. Then she blamed her mother, who had the opportunity to bed her father every night to her heart’s content, and it was this that drove Clara to murder her uncle, aunt and cousins, in insane jealously.

  Declaring that she never wanted Clara to come out of the Asylum, that she would rather she die here than ever see an ounce of daylight again, before I could stop her, she pulled long sewing scissors out of her bag and launched herself at her child, stabbing the scissors deeply into her neck.

  I rushed to Clara, to save her. I pulled Mrs Marx off her child and she fell back, laughing hysterically.

  Everything after that is a blur. I recall Mr Marx coming in, sobbing, to help his daughter. I remember orderlies escorting Mrs Marx away while other doctors, medical doctors, rushed in and tried to save Clara as I held her in my arms while she bled to death.

  It is an ugly world we live in, and I see now that I was right all along. Mrs Marx had never loved her daughter and, as a result, finally snapped and murdered her. It had never been Clara’s fault.

  Chapter Eight

  HANS

  1 January 1951

  The new year has begun and after Clara’s death I feel I am finally up to assisting more patients. Shortly following her passing I attended her funeral, and then I was present at her mother’s hearing where she was sentenced to death for murdering her child. Mr Marx was a broken man and thanked me for trying to fix his family, but felt they had always been cursed. I read in the paper that he had taken his own life shortly before Christmas, leaving behind a simple note that read, To Be With Clara.

  After that, I spent most of my time following up on patients and ensuring that my staff treated them correctly. I didn’t have extra energy to pour into any form of research. I felt defeated. I felt like a failure.

  But as cliché as it may be, I feel that this New Year brings with it a new start, a start in which I can reflect on the failures of my work and push forward. After all, did all those great scientists before me not fail? Was it not failure that led them to their greatest discoveries that would go on to change the face of the world? They persisted and so too shall I.

  There are brief moments, like earlier today, when I feel I can hear Clara’s sweet little voice carrying down the corridor, but today it is not haunting me, today it is a driving force reminding me of the good of my work and giving me renewed gusto.

  This will be the greatest Asylum in the history of mankind.

  This will be my legacy.

  25 January 1951

  Eric Carver continues to weigh heavily on my heart and mind. I haven’t paid attention to him since last year and I feel somewhat guilty, especially because of his neglect and maltreatment. I will not be intimidated by Eric’s short little doctor; I am in charge of this facility and therefore all the patients are in my care.

  I instructed the orderlies to bring Eric up from the lower rooms into one of the brighter rooms upstairs. Although they didn’t like the idea, they complied, knowing I can easily fire them and employ new staff.

  Once they confirmed he was in his new room I went to see him. I sat opposite where Eric was seated on his bed, banging his head against the wall and muttering about being naughty and dirty and impure. He was
naked today, his mutilated penis drooping between his legs as he sat there, confined and combined with his bindings.

  I let him know I will be assigning a new nurse to him, someone who can care for him nicely. He didn’t seem to listen, or perhaps he didn’t understand, but I have already sent in a request to the Head Doctor of our area and requested a new nurse be brought in here, preferably someone young with lots of patience, whose heart has not been hardened by our world yet.

  Aside from Eric's, I have been going through the patient logs rather diligently, and executing random spot checks to keep the orderlies and nurses on their to the

  One of the other patients to really catch my eye is young Molly, a twenty-nine year old woman who is a nymphomaniac.

  Molly Newbroksi was admitted to our Asylum a few months ago by her family. They said she was not a prostitute - at least those that prowl the night are paid for their services - but rather that their daughter was simply addicted to sex and they needed her cured to become respectable for society.

  I paid a visit to Molly in the day room and although rather flirtatious, she seems a pleasant young woman. I asked if she was happy to begin treatment with me and I must say she seemed eager. I see how she obtains all the sexual intercourse she wants. At just over five feet, she is a sweet thing, with jet black hair, pale flawless skin and round green eyes. Even I find myself aroused thinking of her beauty.

  Perhaps I can explore what makes her addicted to sex in depth in our first session.

  03 February 1951

  I feel guilt for my thoughts. As a medical professional I should have far better control over my own desires and physical needs, but, journal, oh, if I can explain the flawless beauty that is Molly. I know better than to betray my own feelings and succumb to the wiles of a patient, especially a nymphomaniac. I have been here for so many months, though, lonely months, and it wasn’t until my sessions with Molly that the beast within me awoke, roused from its slumber and starving.

  My first session with Molly went very well. We started with discussing if she knew what she was doing was wrong, that it was an illness, and if she understood why her family sent her to our facility.

  Molly is a bright woman with an excellent education and she is well aware of why she is here. We delved into why she is so obsessed with sexual intercourse and, though I steered our session and the few after that, from this way to that, there is no sign of sexual abuse, mental retardation or any other medical reason. Molly explains that she isn’t addicted to sex. Sex is pleasurable and therefore she wants it, like an ice cream cone on a hot summer’s day.

  Our last session was yesterday and I asked Molly if she wished to leave this facility and lead a normal life. She was confused at first. When I asked her again, she wanted to know something from me first; why her normal life can’t include as much sexual intercourse as she wants.

  I explained that it can, that if she is decent until she finds a husband, she can have as much intercourse with him as she desires. She disagreed, saying that intercourse with the same person all the time got boring. She knew this from a boy she dated; she had gotten bored of their sex after only one month.

  It was then that my thoughts got the best of me. I was listening to her explain the things she would do to that boy. The way he would kiss her legs. The way he would lick at her skin. I couldn’t help but drop my eyes to her knees and let them look slowly up her thighs. Her legs were slightly parted, and I could see quite clearly beneath her hospital issued gown that she wore white cotton panties that had a large wet spot.

  I could not help but stare. I heard her voice, but it was faint, as though she was talking from far away. All I could see were those panties and how wet they were. My body betrayed me; my erection strained in my pants. It was only when she asked me something that I snapped out of my reverie.

  She had no top on.

  In my daze, my obsession with her, lost in my lustful thoughts, I had not even noticed her slide out of her gown. She now sat there, legs parted and perky little breasts exposed as she leaned back on her hands. I shook my head and asked her to cover herself, but it took some coercing. I looked away, ashamed, and waited for her to put her gown on before I declared the session over and left.

  I think of her.

  I cannot lie.

  I thought of her as I took care of my erection in my rooms. I did it in the shower, hoping no one would hear the moans escape as I imagined what it would be like to be buried deep inside of her.

  I am so ashamed.

  05 February 1951

  I don’t want to continue treating Molly if I cannot control myself, but I also don’t want her to feel I have abandoned her. I am caught in an awkward space, but I can maintain professionalism, so I have scheduled an appointment with her tomorrow.

  In the meantime I turned my attention to Eric today. I went to spend time with him, trying to get him to open up to me. At first I believed it was hopeless. He just kept muttering about his impurity, his dirtiness, and banging his head against the wall repeatedly. How he was still conscious I do not know.

  After an hour I got up to leave and he stopped, just stopped, and stared at me. The lack of thudding made me pause and look back at him. His eyes were wide and he opened his mouth, smiling widely. He commented on Dr Wellbottom’s sudden departure. That was all.

  He simply said, and I quote him here - “Strange that Dr Wellbottom just up and left, when he had tenure. It’s like he just went up in smoke.”

  I don’t know what to make of that comment. I don’t know if he is alluding to the fact that he knows something about Dr Wellbottom’s disappearance, or that I had a hand in it.

  This worries me. He cannot possibly have any idea, considering he had been locked up for so long. Perhaps he heard something. I doubt he saw something.

  I asked him to repeat himself, but he went back to banging his head against the wall.

  06 February 1951

  I requested that the orderlies ensure Molly was dressed fully, in hospital issued pants and shirt. I also pushed my chair a little further away while still facing her. I want to help her, but I don’t want to be tempted.

  When she came in I was already sitting and I indicated for her to take her seat. She didn’t; instead she draped herself over the chair from the side like a French woman one saw in those paintings. I pushed my glasses up my nose and promptly started the session.

  I recapped what we discussed last time, and how it led to her inappropriate behaviour. I reminded her that I was here to help her, and would not be seduced. She seemed disappointed, but I was glad because that meant the message had at least been carried across.

  We then went through what had happened. She acted dreamy, as though she didn’t care that she had stripped in front of me, and I maintained a calm demeanour, explaining why I think she did it. She didn’t acknowledge or deny my claims.

  From there I attempted to direct the conversation into possible variables of why she was a nymphomaniac, and possible treatments, but she seemed distracted. She looked at me and for a moment I felt as though my heart had arrested in my chest, because before me I didn’t see Molly but a sweet and innocent Clara instead. This was not the voluptuous woman I had been consulting, but Clara, alive and smiling at me, with her bright wide eyes. I stood up quickly, knocking over my chair as I backed away from her, but it was Molly I was looking at once more.

  This facility is getting to me. I am seeing things.

  I called the orderlies to take Molly away and came straight to my room for a strong drink. I’ve been here for a few hours, but I need to rest now. I need to clear my head so that I know where to go from here.

  07 February 1951

  I can’t rest, I tried but I can’t, despite drinking three-quarters of my bottle of brandy neat. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I have decided to prescribe myself some mild sedatives in order to keep myself calm.

  At five in the morning I awoke, and started my rounds. Two of my gender modification patients are
showing excellent progress and I am certain I can release them soon. I have already started working on my paper and with two or three more successful cures I will have enough evidence to publish.

  I stopped by Eric’s room to check on him. They sedated him, so he was still asleep; sitting up with his head against the wall he normally banged it against. I couldn’t help but smile at how peaceful he looked. I haven’t discussed it with Eric yet, but I plan to surgically remove the bindings. It will upset him, he feels it is his punishment, but I am about healing, so I will remove them, stitch him back up, and help him realise that with therapy and medication he can live a normal life.

  My next check was Molly. Unlike Eric she was awake and extremely busy. I turned away, but then I heard Clara’s voice. I heard it clear as day.

  “Daddy.”

  That was the only word I heard and I looked back through the window. Instead of Molly I saw Clara laying there the way Molly had been, naked with her legs spread, with her hands between them, touching herself. I looked into her eyes and saw that quiet desperation and need and could feel my erection bulging in my pants.

  I was breathing so deeply and, as she climaxed, I couldn’t stop myself. I opened the door to her room and quickly went in.

  It was Clara, my beautiful Clara, and before I could think I unbuckled my pants and was on top of her. She was tight and wet as I moved in and out of her, I could feel her skin rubbing against mine and buried my face in her neck.

  When I was done I rested against her, and heard Molly say how she knew I would come to her eventually, and I felt ill. I lifted my head and found it was not my Clara that I had buried myself in. I got up quickly and pulled my pants up. I heard her call my name and say something about keeping a secret, but I left. I left and I came here.