The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls

by Emilie Autumn

  ‘We must use Dr. Stockill’s ignorance upon this point to our benefit,’ said Sir Edward, ‘and we must also do our parts to hinder the successful creation of this “cure”, for, once a cure exists, the Doctor will find a way to distribute the disease, rats or no rats.’

  ‘‘ow can we stop ‘im?’ asked Veronica.

  ‘Disturb his formulas. Tip his vials. And instruct your fellows to do the same. Use your perceived madness to your own advantage, and to the advantage of the entire world.’

  Though I longed to be as inspired by Sir Edward’s speech as appeared the girls round me, I could not be.

  ‘The world is a wretched place, Sir Edward,’ I said, before I could stop myself. ‘It was this world that sent us here, after all. Forgive me, but why should we care what happens outside?’

  Sir Edward answered me without reproach, yet sternly.

  ‘It does not matter why you should care, my Lady, for you do care, whether you choose to admit it or not.’

  Asylum Letter No. L

  Having attempted several times now to disrupt our Superintendent’s work as Sir Edward commanded—break his bottles, rearrange his notes—I am now strapped to the table as the Doctor sharpens his chemical weapons upon my body, testing and refining, preparing them for release into their ultimate destination: the world outside.

  ‘Let’s play our game.’

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  ‘Where would you go?’

  ‘I’d try to run.’

  ‘Who do you know?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Faster.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d tell someone. Anyone.’

  ‘Come now, you’re cleverer than that. How would you escape in the first place?’

  ‘I’d use the key.’

  ‘How would you get it?’

  ‘Someday you’ll see . . .’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  These are the last words that I remember, for the Doctor has been pushing my body to the limits of consciousness.

  How much longer do I have? How many days with the Captain? How many nights with Veronica?

  Asylum Letter No. LI

  A suite of rooms upstairs has been decorated in gaudy fashion for the pleasure of the ‘clientele’ Dr. Greavesly had spoken of—the men who visit the Asylum in order to partake of only our finest lunatics; the men who received our adverts and responded as our depraved surgeon had known they would. They want us at our best: wild, in tatters, in tears, and, of course, bound.

  I cannot say that being used thus does not affect my mind in gruesome ways, but, rather than breaking me beyond what has already been done, I feel myself hardening—outwardly becoming more resilient whilst, inside, my ability to escape into my own world grows ever stronger.

  In my dreams I see another version of myself, or I think it is myself, for I cannot see her face, but I sense the likeness—even her cheek is marked like mine. She is imprisoned too, and she writes as I do, to keep herself from becoming as mad as she is told that she is. Sometimes I can feel her watching me, even when I am awake.

  The ghosts have been quiet of late, yet they speak to me now, and I sit with my hands pressed against the weeping walls of Ward B, Cell W14, and feel the stripes stir beneath my palms. I have undergone such a transformation during my nine years within this prison that my demeanor as a victim of this latest offence is one of defiance—I do as I am bid, and I dare them to do their worst.

  hospital entry 24: coming down

  My surrounding inmates are either shuffling around the Day Room in a sedated stupor or violently attacking both property and people in frightening fits of psychotic rage. There is no one in between besides me, and so I end up standing in a corner by myself, waiting for someone to notice that I don’t belong here. Nobody notices.

  I am coming down now . . . down from the bouncing, chattering mania of the past week.

  Soon I will be so low that they will not be able to pull me out of bed. I look forward to this . . . I want to close my eyes.

  I am calm.

  I behave myself.

  But I have within me that which could tear this place apart . . .

  There is a Quiet Room just off the hallway—a padded cell, soundproof, with a tiny, letterbox window, like in the movies. When it is empty, I slip inside and shut the door behind me. I sit, facing the wall, and I know that I don’t belong here yet.

  But, in a week, I will.

  For we do not go to the asylum to be cured. We go to the asylum to die.

  This is not the bitter voice of one solitary crazy girl.

  This is the truth.

  MADAM MOURNINGTON LETTER NO. 5

  To: Augusta Mournington

  The Mourning Room Tea House

  Coventry

  From: Prudence Mournington-Stockill

  The Asylum F.W.V.G.

  London

  My Dear Augusta,

  I fear something has gone terribly wrong, and I know not how to right it.

  I serve my son, and I exist to promote his genius and all the good that he does for these wayward girls and the whole of society, yet I am not at ease with this new development in commerce within the Asylum.

  I realize that those we admit are defective, most often criminal, and, in every single case, a plague upon society itself, and I do believe we treat them better than they deserve, and as well as they could expect. But I had never intended to become the mistress of a house of human traffic. I am quite sure I have this beastly Greavesly fellow to thank, for I know my son could never have authored such a scheme. Surely he is not aware of what is taking place, or he would never support it. I am right to think this, am I not?

  I should speak to Monty and tell him what a devil he has hired in Dr. Greavesly, but, in truth, I have come to be afraid of the surgeon, and I dread to think what might happen if I were to cross him, for I know he is a violent man.

  Whilst it is my duty to society and to my country to rid the civilized of the feral, to clean the streets of those unclean of mind and body, I cannot stay to watch countless girls, however defective, be abused physically for the institution’s profit. And I know . . . I know now that their inevitable and unwanted offspring will be torn from inside them, a week after which they will be up for market again.

  None of these girls could possibly deserve this. Not one.

  I feel I should be away from the Asylum for a time, until all of this rights itself. I shall arrive in Coventry by the first train next Tuesday.

  Your affectionate sister,

  Prudence

  Asylum Letter No. LII

  Daybreak found me peering through the bars as a coach wheeled into the courtyard below. Madam Mournington emerged from the Asylum, and my old friend Maudsley followed her with a traveling trunk. I wonder who will be in command of the Ward Key during her absence . . .

  I am disappointed to find that it is Dr. Stockill himself who will be fulfilling our Headmistress’s duties and seizing control of the Ward Key. It is no surprise, of course—none of the staff are particularly reliable, not even our other doctors, who frequently disappear to drink or engage in some debauchery or other. Dr. Stockill is the only one who never leaves.

  ‘Let’s play our game,’ he says . . .

  Asylum Letter No. LIII

  Whilst we inmates have gained a tormentor in Dr. Greavesly, Dr. Lymer has gained a mentor. He has even been trying his hand at the smaller surgeries, and I fear where this path will lead.

  Upon my most recent visit to the Bloodletting Wing, I observed Dr. Lymer as he produced, from a velvet-lined case, a silver spike pointed at one end to the breadth of a needle. He had buckled a screaming inmate to one of the metal bleeding beds, and I watched in disbelief as, with the aid of a heavy mallet, Dr. Lymer drove the tip of the spike directly into the poor girl’s forehead. I heard the crack of her skull as it was pi
erced, and she fell suddenly silent. Though internally frantic, I did my best to pretend calm, recognizing that the more ‘hysterical’ I appeared, the greater my likelihood of undergoing the same procedure.

  As the Doctor revealed to his assistants, he believes that many of the more severe cases of madness are caused by excess pressure being applied to the skull by the swollen brain within. Comparable to the philosophy behind our bloodletting, this being that madness courses through the blood and must be forced out by any means, Dr. Lymer’s new theory is that, by puncturing the skull, the internal pressure shall be lessened, and the subject returned to ‘normal’.

  And God bless Dr. Lymer’s eternal optimism, for he has christened the procedure a lobotomy and continues to practice the operation upon inmate after inmate, despite the best success the procedure has yet been met with being the ability of one solitary girl to remain alive for a whole week afterwards. During this time, she was perfectly calm and did nothing but lie upon her back and stare at the ceiling, nary a flicker remaining of the complex, sentient, and utterly sane being she had once been.

  Of course, this was viewed amongst the medical staff as a great achievement—the patient had indeed been quieted, and, thus, caused no more trouble to anyone. The eventual death of the girl only proved that the operation had not come soon enough.

  Asylum Letter No. LIV

  Having been dubbed ‘The Cell’, the Asylum’s fledgling flesh-trade has proved a smashing success from its commencement, our photographs having worked their mad charm upon our madder clientele who had already experienced every other diversion the world had to offer.

  I have come to the realisation that this undoubtedly illegal operation is inextricably linked with that which governed the Conservatoire, as well as the other factions of which Anne had told me. The reliance upon visual solicitation—first paintings, now photographs—suggests this, and Dr. Stockill’s close financial affiliation with the Count de Rothsberg and others of his set confirms it. How much of the world might be connected thus? What secret alliances might be made right under the noses of an unsuspecting public?

  By midnight, a light rain was falling outside the barred window of Cell W14, delivering the scent of horses and wet leather from the courtyard below. Several of our fair Ophelias had been ‘entertaining’ in the dedicated suite, and the temporarily sated gentlemen were just then departing. The Captain and I watched as Maudsley and two more of our Chasers performed their masquerade, escorting our customers from the Asylum, lighting the way to their waiting carriages.

  A tall man walked down the front steps under the protection of Maudsley’s umbrella. The umbrella was lowered, and the man helped into his carriage. He leant from the window, tossing a disdainful coin to the mock servant, and the Captain’s hand gripped my arm; I had seen him too.

  The carriages departed, I remained standing at the window beside the Captain, staring out at a cold red moon, for I was afraid to look at her directly. She did not speak, and so I knew that I must.

  ‘You will not believe me, Captain, but that man was an enemy I once knew well.’

  The Captain said nothing for a long while.

  ‘It was he you were running from when you leapt from the bridge . . .’

  ‘That is true. But I am not alone in loathing that man, am I?’

  The Captain was again silent.

  ‘Despite your admirable self-control, my friend, you seized my arm a moment ago—here is the mark to prove it. And I think I know why.’

  ‘Nobody knows why.’

  ‘I know that you had a sister once, and that she looked just like you.’

  The Captain turned to face me, and I saw that her hands were trembling.

  ‘How can you know that? I have never spoken of it.’

  ‘I also know that she was killed, and that, at the time of her discovery, she had upon her head more hair than she was buried with. That day, in the Bathing Court . . . it wasn’t your hair that came away in the maid’s hands . . . was it? And when the servants at Bainbridge gossiped . . . they weren’t wrong . . . were they?’

  ‘Please, Valentine . . . don’t.’

  ‘Jolie, sweet friend . . . I am not speaking of such things to give you pain. But this man has followed us from that world into this, and, if we are to have any chance of escaping his cruelty once more, we must be honest with one another. We may perish here yet, but it must not be by his hand.’

  Slowly, the Captain nodded her head.

  ‘I am so awfully sorry for what he did to your sister . . . for what he did to you. If the Count returns, I will do everything I can to keep him from you. You have kept watch for us all these years. Let me keep watch for you now.’

  ‘But he hurt you too.’

  ‘What a man does to an orphaned girl is a terrible thing. What a father does to his own daughters is infinitely worse.’

  ‘I fell asleep . . .’

  ‘I know.’

  I settled upon my straw and held up my hand to her. The Captain lowered herself, and, after a brief hesitation, lay her head upon my lap. Within moments, I knew, from her deep and steady breathing, that she was sleeping at last.

  Asylum Letter No. LV

  Insanity is on the rise, or so they say, and a witch-hunt for the mad is spreading its poisoned shadow over the country.

  Obsessively devoted to their cause, the medical community had first convinced the county heads, and their church officials, that they must increase their vigilance in the watch for any lunatics lying hidden in their boroughs; in turn, the counties and churches instructed their flocks, commoners and gentry alike, to observe their fellow citizens for any sign of madness—any small deviance from the social norm. Ripe for a panic, the public has complied.

  Upon receiving word, the local police swiftly dispatch a madhouse representative to sequester the accused for the well-being of all, and thus the people are always on their guard, fearful of being watched as they are watching others.

  The acquaintances of these supposed lunatics are not accurately told what will become of the abducted, and those who point their self-righteous fingers at their neighbors never regret their hasty act, for they never learn the true consequence of what they have done.

  It is frighteningly commonplace for families to accuse their own, for they have been assured that any hope of rehabilitation lay entirely in early detection, and removal from the home. The important thing is that the mentally unwell are going to receive treatment. What sort of treatment, and what exactly is in need of treating, is of little significance, for is it not always safer to err upon the side of caution?

  The country’s insane asylums have eagerly taken advantage of the public’s predilection towards fear, and are only too glad to accept the nominal sum they have been offered by our government for each new patient accepted into their care. Naturally, this financial incentive encourages many less-than-upstanding superintendents to commit a greater number of patients than they can reasonably house, and many more than they can even pretend to care for.

  As for the Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls, we too are crowded with the influx of new inmates, and this only increases the neglect, the violence, and the unsanitary conditions for all.

  Collectively, we know that it is impossible to maintain even the semblance of a proper hospital under these circumstances. There must be a public outcry against it; somehow, the people must know. Something must change.

  Asylum Letter No. LVI

  The Asylum is in something of a tumult, for the Royal Lunacy Board will soon be visiting the institution to perform an inspection of our building, our grounds, and our methods of caring for the mad.

  Annual inspections are usually no great cause for alarm to the staff. Our honoured guests whip their horses up the steep incline towards our monument to misdirected funds, and are then led into the Entrance Hall where the subterfuge of artificial architecture and servants
play-acting as patients will impress them with the civility of our establishment. Look how much care has been taken to beautify the institution! Look how gentle and subdued are its inmates! A good lunch in Dr. Stockill’s quarters, and several bottles of the Asylum’s best port later, and the Board is generally delighted to affix their seal of approval and trot along home, spreading the good word, and leaving the Superintendent to run his enterprise as he wishes, until the next visit.

  This time will be different.

  This is no routine review of the facilities and the relative health of its patients; people in the city below have spotted the vultures circling above our grounds, and have begun to inquire.

  I pray that this is our chance—that someone will come and look closer at last. All they need do is open their eyes, and we will be free.

  Asylum Letter No. LVII

  Earlier this afternoon, a cart drawn by all of six great Shire horses drove through the Asylum gates, conveying an enormous wooden crate. It took ten of our Chasers to get the thing inside, and, once done, we endured several hours of the clanging and hammering that echoed up to us from the basement before quiet finally came.

  It is now four o’clock the following morning, and I am waiting, as I always do, but the creaking of the Death Cart has not yet come. I know I should be relieved . . . but I’m not.

  hospital entry 25: the jury

  I stand before the jury—ten people with clipboards, pens raised and ready. I banter on at top speed, attempting witticisms, apt observations, and generally being what I imagine is charming.

  I don’t know why I do this.