Asylum Bound

by Analeigh Ford

It’s that kind of thinking that landed me here in the first place. One too many jokes over the table at dinner, carefully documented, recorded, and signed by the staff as witnesses, of course . . . and here I am. He showed me all of this on the car ride up here, locked in the back of my own parent’s Rolls Royce with a driver who’d been told to ignore my desperate screams the entire winding road up to the asylum.

  Up until the moment I saw the orderlies standing outside in their all-white uniforms, ready to greet us, I thought it was some sick joke. After all the things Kemper’s done to me, all the things he’s said and tried . . . and it’s me who ends up in the asylum.

  If anyone should be here, it should be him.

  It’s grown so quiet in my cell that I can hear my own heartbeat, hear the pump of blood through my own veins. Every move I make, every little shift, it sounds like the crackle of lightning before a storm.

  And then there is a new sound.

  The door, the real door, not the one they open to shove food through, opens. I’d started to get so used to the silent solitude that for a second, I think I’m imagining it.

  But there’s no mistaking the massive man standing in the doorway, his clothes too short at the wrists and ankles. He glares down at me and makes sure to shuffle his feet so I can see the bandages poking up out of his sneakers on his right foot.

  I scurry up to my feet as fast as I dare. The soft ground doesn’t make for sure footing and I’m already prone to accidents. I stand with my back to the wall and my arms outstretched to either side for balance. If I didn’t already look insane, I sure do now.

  “Wow,” a new voice says, and following it, another doctor steps out from behind the orderly still barring the entrance in case I decide to try and run. “This might be the first time someone hasn’t smeared their feces all over the wall.”

  “No,” I say, my voice cracking, “just blood.” I nod at the wall, and the streaks left there from my futile attempt to claw my way out. I’m almost afraid to ask my next question, but I have to. “How . . . how long has it been?”

  The doctor looks at his watch, then glances at a chart in his hand. “Oh . . . about forty-two hours? We don’t usually leave patients in overnight, but . . .”

  He goes on talking, but I can’t hear him over the rush of blood in my own head.

  Forty-two hours? Less than two days. That’s it?

  “No way,” I say, shaking my head. I step forward, one hand pointing accusatorially at him. “It was longer than that. I’ve been in here for a week at least.”

  He glances back down at his chart with a frown and clicks open his pen to write something down. “That’s a typical reaction. Your first time in solitary like this is always the most disorienting.”

  “First time?”

  My arm drops to my side. “No, no first time. The only time. There isn’t going to be another. I demand my phone call. As soon as the police hear about this, I’ll be going home.”

  The doctor just keeps scribbling on his notepad. After a lengthy silence, he clicks his pen shut again, tucks it neatly away in his pocket and steps back to leave the doorway free.

  “This isn’t prison, Miss Novak. You get no phone call. And even if you did, do you really think the police are going to listen to you, a committed patient, over me?”

  I open my mouth to speak, and then quickly clamp it shut.

  He nods approvingly. “Now, are you going to behave, or are we going to have to leave you in here for another day?”

  I can’t get to the door fast enough. My feet are unsteady beneath me, and I basically fall out of the room rather than stepping out with whatever dignity might be hiding somewhere underneath my unwashed hair.

  As soon as I’m out in the hallway, the orderly shut the door behind me but stands much too close for comfort. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since he got here, and though my heels were taken away long ago, he keeps glancing at my feet as if I’m going to suddenly grow spikes and use them to stab him in the foot again.

  “I’m Dr. Silver. I’ll be the psychiatrist handling your case.”

  He reaches out a hand to shake mine as if he didn’t just uncage me like an animal. Now that I’m out here I get a better look at him. He’s handsome, too handsome to be working in an asylum. His hair is short and dark and he keeps a neatly-trimmed beard. I don’t have much of a choice but to shake his hand, but as soon as our hands touch his grip clamps down to crush mine.

  I try to pull back, shake free, but he doesn’t let go. He just draws me closer to him until I can see the color of his irises, a cruel dark blue, and stares at me unblinking.

  “I don’t stand for nonsense here,” he says. “You’re here now, whether or not you like it. So we can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way.”

  I gulp, biting back the pain in my hand. Once he’s satisfied by my silence, he finally lets go. He barely gives me time to cradle my crushed hand before he’s striding off down the hall and the orderly is prodding me to follow.

  “This here is Craven. I’ve assigned him to keep an eye on you while you’re getting settled in.”

  I want to say something sarcastic, but one look at Craven makes me clamp my mouth shut again. There’s some saying about biting the hand that feeds you…but what are you supposed to do when that hand might lock you up in solitary too?

  Aside from our footsteps, it’s so quiet that the only place we can be is the basement. I’ve stared at the outside of the asylum for years, a converted mansion nearly the size of the Biltmore Estate in the South . . . and none of the main floors of the house would be this barren. The floors below are made of concrete, and though the piping overhead is mostly covered, I can still hear the occasional gurgle of water.

  There are other doors in this hallway, but only one other looks like it’s recently been used. Even though the doors are so thick that I couldn’t hear anything when I was inside, I swear I hear something when we pass by. Almost like a voice, a scream turned to a whisper.

  I stop, my eyes glued to the door.

  The orderly, Craven, was walking so close behind that now he runs straight into me. He swears, grabbing at my upper arm for balance. His hand clamps down on the same place where my brother’s did, and I flinch from the bruise that’s formed in its wake.

  “Keep moving,” he growls. Dr. Silver has already gotten halfway down to the old, rickety elevator at the end of the hall, but I can’t make my legs move.

  I hear it again. A soft groan. It can only be coming from the other side of the door, but from the look on the orderly’s face, I’m the only one who hears it.

  “Who’s in there?” I ask, still refusing to move even as the orderly keeps pressing against my shoulders until I’m about to tip over.

  Dr. Silver glances back, and his eyes flickers over to the door. “No one, Miss Novak. That’s one of the old treatment rooms. Hasn’t been in use in decades.”

  I look back, my eyes scanning the otherwise innocuous door for just a moment longer. When I don’t hear anything more, I shake myself free from the orderly’s grasp and follow Dr. Silver. I don’t believe him for a second. I know what I heard, and contrary to Kemper’s assertions I don’t just hear unexplained voices in my head.

  But if finding out what it is, or who it is, means I’m going to come back down here, to this hell, then I hope I never find out.

  4

  Thalia

  I expect to be given some kind of debriefing or examination or something, but instead I’m led straight up into the main part of the building and assigned a bedroom.

  I catch a brief glimpse down a couple of the hallways as the elevator ascends. The rest of the asylum is much like I imagined it was as a house—all long, oriental rugs and expensive-looking paintings on the walls. The only thing that I imagine is different is the abundance of doctors and nurses, and one person in particular who I’m pretty sure was trying to take a bite out of some of the crown molding when he thought no one was looking.

  The girl’s ro
oms encompass an entire floor on this wing of the house. They seem mostly empty by the time Silver shoves the rusting metal gate on the elevator aside and leads me down to a room halfway down the hall.

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. The room is small but clean, with matching twin beds and two small dressers. A pair of windows look out on the front lawn, but the view is blocked by the tight line of metal between me and the glass.

  Dr. Silver must see the look of surprise on my face. I mean . . . I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.

  “This is a private institution,” the doctor says as he takes a small silver cuff and attaches it to my ankle, “paid for by your brother. So long as you don’t give us a reason to treat you like an animal, we don’t.”

  His comment is not reassuring, and I’m not sure it was meant to be. How reassuring can he be when he’s literally just attached the equivalent of a collar to my ankle? And here he is, trying to tell me I won’t be treated like an animal.

  While he crosses to the closest dresser and starts taking out linens, I crouch down to examine the device he just attached to my ankle. It’s almost comical because, in a way, it’s like I’m on house arrest. I’m just not . . . at home.

  As soon as I straighten up, Dr. Silver stands above me with a flimsy towel in his hands. “You should clean yourself up before meeting the others. They already have a hard time with newcomers. You wouldn’t want to give them another reason not to like you.”

  “No offense, Dr. Silver, but I’m already locked in a looney bin. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing they can do to make my life worse than it already is.”

  Neither Dr. Silver or the orderly responds, which I take as a very positive sign. I go to grab the towel and go, but the orderly bars the door. Dr. Silver’s grip only tightens on the towel.

  “We need you to leave your old clothes with us,” Dr. Silver says, still standing behind me. He takes out some of the loose white clothes that I’ve seen everyone else wearing and sets them out on top of the bed. I reach for them too, but he puts out a hand to stop me.

  “I’m going to do it,” I say, my voice rasping into more of a growl. “Just give me some privacy.”

  “Privacy is one of the things that is earned here, Miss Novak. We need to make sure you don’t have anything on your person that’s going to . . . interfere . . . with your recovery.”

  I glance between him and then the orderly still standing in the door.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” When neither of them shows any sign that this is just a joke in poor taste, I take a step back. “Can I at least get a female attendant? Isn’t there a law about that?”

  “Sure,” Dr. Silver says, “As soon as one becomes available.” He glances down at the chart in his hand and then back up at me. “If you don’t mind waiting until tomorrow afternoon. It’s a busy week for all of us, and we’re a little short staffed every time a new patient arrives.”

  He looks at me pointedly, like I should have considered this before my brother committed me against my will.

  “And if I do wait?”

  Dr. Silver sighs exaggeratedly. “Well, we’ll have no choice but to put you back downstairs in solitary. At least then if you did bring any substances with you, you can’t hurt anyone but yourself.”

  The walls in the room suddenly feel a little tighter, the air a little thinner. Dr. Silver steps a bit closer, pushing the clean set of clothes nearer to me.

  I can’t go back in that room. Not now, not even for one night.

  “Can you at least turn around?”

  Dr. Silver shakes his head. “I’m sorry, it’s policy. I have to see for myself that you aren’t carrying anything.”

  I look once more from the orderly, still standing in the open door, to Dr. Silver. There’s no way around it.

  I’m suddenly keenly aware of how cold the tile floor is beneath my bare feet. While the hallways all have carpet, this room’s floor is bare. There’s a slightly chemical smell to the air, as if it’s been freshly bleached.

  I turn to face the blank wall. If I’m going to have to do this now, at least I don’t have to look at them.

  My hands fumble to find the zipper behind my neck. It sticks between my shoulder blades, leaving me to struggle with my inflexible arms to find a way to get it undone . . . but I’ll be damned before I ask either of these two bastards to help.

  The dress I’m wearing was meant for a funeral, not the proceeding three days in which I refused to take it off. Eventually it does unstick from my body to flutter in layers of black gauze to the floor. My stockings are ruined too at this point, more runs than not. They roll up in my hands as I pull them off one leg at a time, the thin fabric so shredded it wants to stick between my toes.

  When I straighten back up, arms across my chest, all I wear is my bra and panties.

  “Can I go now?”

  “Not quite,” Dr. Silver says. He picks up my dress and stockings from where I flung them unceremoniously to the ground and tucks them into a plastic bag with my name across the front. He sticks this out to me, his eyes trailing down to rest on my bra expectantly.

  I feel heat rush to my cheeks, though more from anger than embarrassment. My arms reach around behind me, feeling for the clasps that shield the rest of my nakedness. I feel it unhook between my fingers and the release as my breasts are freed the support of the underwire cups.

  I shimmy out of my panties as quickly as possible, and then throw them into the laundry bag as well. Since there’s no point in trying to cover myself anymore, I just straighten up and square my shoulders.

  “So, do you want me on the bed, or should I just bend over right here and be done with it?”

  Craven, who’s just been staring at my bare breasts slack-jawed ever since my bra came off, snaps back to his senses. Dr. Silver, on the other hand, never lost them. His eyes trail over me with a professional gaze that’s almost more infuriating than the way the orderly looks like he wants to fuck my brains out right here, right now.

  “Turn around.”

  He prods my shoulder and I do as I’m told.

  “Bend over.” For a second, I freeze up. I feel the muscles in my back spasm, feel my hands reach for something to grab hold of. Then Dr. Silver sighs dramatically, and adds, “Your chart shows a history of substance abuse. I have to know that you didn’t bring anything in with you.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Because that’s what I packed when I found out I was going to be committed. An ass-load of coke.”

  The orderly’s eyes flash, and he takes a step towards me before I throw up my arms to stop him.

  “Fuck. Sheesh. I’m complying. I’m complying! Just go back to ogling from the door.

  I make sure to position myself so Dr. Silver is the only one getting an eyeful of vagina and bend over as far as I can, making a point to note that I can almost touch my toes this time. Dr. Silver lets me stay that way a moment before asking me to cough, and apparently satisfied that my ass-coke joke was actually just that, a joke, lets me straighten back up.

  Dr. Silver goes back to jotting a few quick notes on his clipboard while I snatch the towel off the bed and wrap it around myself just to stop the orderly from eye-fucking me any longer.

  “Very well. I suggest you shower and change before coming downstairs for breakfast. I’ll send your roommate up to show you around.”

  “What is this,” I say, wrapping my arms tighter around the top of the towel, “sorority week?”

  “Unless, of course, you’d rather Craven stay.” He glances towards the orderly, and I quickly shake my head.

  “Wait a minute, Dr. Silver,” I say before he finally leaves. He stops and looks back, clearly annoyed.

  “What is it?”

  “After all that . . . you’re going to really leave me here, alone?”

  Dr. Silver tucks his clipboard under one arm. “Like I said, Miss Novak, privacy is earned . . . and you just earned yourself some. Besides, there are things here far
more dangerous than yourself. Unless you’d like to convince me that you’re currently a danger to yourself, I’d rather not have to babysit you for the remainder of the day.”

  Then, before he goes, he stops and looks back once more. “By no means should you consider this an invitation to simply ‘run wild’. Adelaide will be up well before you’re finished washing up, and I have you scheduled for your first evaluation directly after breakfast. I expect you to report there promptly or I’ll be forced to send Craven to fetch you.”

  “Oh darn. I was really looking forward to running wild. Through an asylum. Where I’m currently held against my will with actual crazy people.”

  Dr. Silver just looks at me, plainly not amused. “Just do be careful, Miss Novak, I meant what I said earlier. This isn’t a friendly place to newcomers. It’s in your best interest to watch your back.”

  5

  Thalia

  Sixty days of this. Now less . . . maybe fifty-nine? Fifty eight, if they count the first afternoon…which I somehow doubt. A little under two months. I can handle that. I can handle anything for two months. All I have to do is prove I’m not as crazy as my brother made me out to be. Then I’ll be free, I’ll collect my parent’s money from my trust, and I’ll never have to see this goddamned place or my brother’s face ever again.

  “You look way too happy to be the new girl.”

  I nearly jump out of my freshly-scalded skin when my roommate greets me as soon as I open the door.

  She’s perched on the end of her bed, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She’s the exact opposite of me—where my hair is long and dark, hers is blonde and cropped short. She can’t be more than five-two and like, a hundred pounds.

  “Shit, you scared me.” I’m about to throw my towel on the bed when I have to stop. “What the hell?”

  The mattress on my bed is gone, leaving only a bare metal frame.

  The girl looks at it lazily. “Oh, that’ll be the boys.”