Asylum

by Amy Cross

  Chapter Two

  First comes the headache, and then the blinding light of morning. Opening my eyes, I see that the blinds in this tall, white room are open and sunlight is streaming in, warming up the air. It takes me a moment to remember where I am, and for a couple of seconds all I can think about is the headache. The pain is so intense, it's hard to focus on anything else. Finally, remembering some vague impression of being far from home, I decide I should sit up and see if maybe a change of position might stop the pain.

  I sit up.

  Mistake. It feels instantly as if some heavy weight has rolled from my head down into my chest. There's a sharp pain behind my eyes, the same pain I remember from earlier. If anything, it's worse. I sit still, and slowly the pain subsides just enough to be bearable. I look straight ahead and see my own pale feet sticking out from under the other end of the rough bed-sheet; sunlight is playing across the white wall that's facing me, and the room feels hot and stuffy.

  I look over to my right and see another bed. The sheets have been ruffled and messed up, as if someone has been sleeping, but I'm alone in the room. Whoever was here before, they're gone now. I have no idea what time it is, but I guess I've missed breakfast. I swing my feet over the side of the bed and slowly stand up, but the pain in my head becomes so strong that I have to steady myself against the wall for a couple of minutes until the agony becomes a little more bearable.

  "Fuck," I say to myself, mainly because I want to hear my own voice again. I sound rough, like I've been dragged backward through a bush. God, I'd hate to see myself right now; fortunately, there's no sign of a mirror in this room. In fact, there's no sign of very much at all. It's just a small white room, with two beds, and nothing else. There's not even a light switch. I wander over to the window, but I find that it's covered in hard plastic. No way in or out, not even a little gap; no wonder the room feels so stuffy and airless.

  I stumble over to the door, which looks like it's made of metal. I already know I won't be able to open it, but I decide to give it a try anyway. There's no handle, but I manage to get hold of a small edge. No luck. I'm sealed in here, like I'm in a tomb. I pause, taking a deep breath and trying not to panic. I wouldn't say I'm claustrophobic, but at the same time I don't exactly like being trapped in confined spaces. I mean, if everyone outside suddenly died, I'd have no way of getting out. I'd just have to sit here and starve to death, or if there was a fire, I'd burn. I'm helpless.

  "Get back from the door!" calls a voice from a buzzy, tinny intercom on the wall

  "What?" I say.

  "Get back from the door now!" the voice says, sounding angry.

  Without really thinking about it, I take a few steps back, almost colliding with the bed. I manage to stay upright, but my headache returns with a vengeance. There's a faint beeping sound in the corridor outside, as if someone's entering a code on a keypad, and then there's the sound of a metal lock sliding open.

  "Keep back," the voice says before the door opens and a large, well-built guard stares at me. "You're coming to the ward," he says.

  I stare back at him. He's so big and strong-looking, I guess he must be the guard who carried me here last night. Or was it even longer ago? Frankly, it could have been last week, or even last month. I've been losing track of time, and my mind is still foggy.

  "I said you're coming with me!" he says firmly, stepping towards me, grabbing my arm, and pulling me out into the corridor with such force that I slam into the opposite wall. I can tell from the roughness of his touch that he's the same guard from last time. "Something wrong with your ears?" he continues as he pushes me along the corridor. I stumble ahead of him, finding it a little difficult to control my legs. Something's still not quite right with my head, and my balance is pretty off. I'm getting better, but I'm not there yet.

  "Hang on," he says, putting a hand out to block me. He pulls a rolled-up magazine from his back pocket and hands it to me along with a pen. It's some tabloid scandal rag, and my face is on the cover. The headline screams 'Killer Jailed!'; other stories, about stars like Kim Kardashian and Justin Bieber, are pushed to the side of the cover. I'm famous. I guess Americans are all agreed that I'm a monster. "Sign it," the guard says.

  "Why?" I ask.

  "Just sign it," he says. "Just your name."

  Realizing he wants an autograph, I write my name and hand the magazine and pen back to him. It's kind of humiliating to be treated as some kind of celebrity, but I understand all too well that I have no power to resist. This asshole's probably gonna have the magazine up on an online auction site before the end of the day. He'll probably turn a nice profit, too. After all, I've never given an autograph before.

  "Keep moving," he says, pushing me along the corridor as he puts the magazine back in his pocket.

  As we walk, other patients wander past and I see that they're all trying to pretend that they don't want to look at me. Great, even the psychos and nut-jobs know who I am. My fame has spread. Too bad that none of them know the real story. They just see me as that bitch from the news, the girl who shot her little brother. They think it's that simple.

  "Stop!" the guard says. I do as I'm told, as the guard knocks on a nearby door; as he does so, the sound of his knuckles rapping against the wood seems impossibly loud, and I step back, putting my hands over my ears. The guard turns to me and laughs, and then the door opens to reveal a short, old man with untidy gray hair. He takes one look at me, and steps aside. The guard grabs my arm and guides me into the room, and I hear the door slam shut behind me.

  In contrast to the earlier room, this place is much larger and more airy. There are tall, open windows all along the opposite wall, and there are chairs arranged in a circle in the middle. There's no-one else here, though; just me, the guard and the older man.

  "Annie, won't you take a seat?" the older man says, stepping past me and gesturing toward the middle of the room. "My name is Dr. Campbell, and I'd like to ask you a few questions. Is that alright with you?"

  I turn and look at the guard, and then I reluctantly wander unsteadily over to the circle of chairs. My head still feels groggy, and I'm not sure whether I've understood what Dr. Campbell said. Does he want me to sit in one of the chairs? Does he want me to move them? I feel like I should understand, but I don't.

  "Please sit down," he says, taking a seat himself. He smiles, a look of amused surprise crossing his face. "I won't bite. This is just an introductory session. The biting comes later." He pauses. "That was a joke."

  I nod slowly, not sure what to do or say. I've got this terribly uneasy feeling coursing throughout my body, as if some silent part of my mind is desperately trying to warn me to be careful. I want, more than anything, to turn and run, but I know I wouldn't get far. I get the impression that this place is pretty tight when it comes to security, and any attempt to escape would probably just invite trouble. Besides, my head's all wrong; if I'm going to come up with a plan, I need to wait until my system's free from whatever crap they've been pumping through my veins.

  "Here?" I ask, indicating a seat nearby.

  "If you like," says Dr. Campbell.

  I sit down, cautiously glancing over at the guard. He stares at me with a blank expression. I'm pretty sure he sees this whole thing as stupid: he'd probably prefer to just knock some sense into me with his fists. Dr. Campbell, though, at least gives the impression of caring. That'll do for now. I just wish I could get my mind back.

  "We'll start with a few questions," Dr. Campbell says, looking at a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. "Do you know your name?"

  I stare at him. Of course I know my name, but as I try to say it, I realize that it's not quite so easy. I have a sensation of knowing my name, but I can't quite put it into words. "I..." I start to say, "I'm..."

  "Go on," he says.

  I suddenly remember that he called me Annie a moment ago. "I'm Annie," I say tentatively.

  "Good," Dr. Campbell says, writing something on his sheet of paper. "Annie, I want yo
u to listen very carefully to me, okay? Do you know how many days have passed between the time you were committed to this institution, and today?"

  I pause. "How much... time?" I ask.

  "Yes," he replies. "How long have you been a resident here at Lakehurst?"

  "Not long," I say. "I think I came last night."

  "I see," the doctor says, writing something on his chart.

  "Isn't that right?" I ask, reaching my hands down and gripping the seat of the chair on either side. I look over at the guard, but he's no help.

  "Not entirely," Dr. Campbell replies. "But don't worry. We'll soon get you sorted out. You're still feeling the effects of the Duodraxadine and Hexadrall we had to put in your system. If you're feeling a little groggy, rest assured that you're simply experiencing a natural side-effect of the treatment. Nobody expects you to be a whizz right now. We'll just let you come back to normal slowly. Do we have a deal, Annie?"

  "I guess so," I say.

  "Do you know why you're here?" Dr. Campbell asks.

  I open my mouth to respond, but I'm suddenly hit by a flashback to a time, several weeks ago, when I was standing in the forest. I don't remember much, but my father was hugging me and trying to get something out of my hand, and my mother was on her hands and knees. "No," I say, my voice bringing me back to the room. I stare at Dr. Campbell. "I don't know." It's a lie, but one that I'm hoping will get him to lay off the details for a while. I look around the room, which seems to still and calm.

  Dr. Campbell scribbles something on his clipboard. "Do you believe in ghosts, Annie?" he asks, not looking over at me.

  I stare at him.

  "Annie, I asked you a question."

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I'm not sure what to say.

  "It's not a trick," he says. "Just answer the question. Would you like me to repeat it?"

  I shake my head. "I don't know," I say eventually.

  Sighing, he writes something down. "And do you believe in morality?"

  I pause again. These questions aren't what I expected at all. "Morality?"

  "Right and wrong. Good and evil. That sort of thing." He stares at me, clearly studying me, analyzing me. I don't like it. "Are you driven by an inward sense of what you should and shouldn't do, or do you base decisions solely on what you think you can get away with? Do you think about, and care about, other people?"

  I consider the question. "I think I believe in it," I say eventually.

  He sighs. "When you see other people going about their daily lives, bound by a sense of morality, what do you think? Do you admire them, or do you think they're idiots?"

  "I... don't know."

  He writes something down. "That's interesting," he says.

  "What is?" I ask.

  "Oh, nothing. It's just that most people have a very firm answer, one way or the other. Even if they don't, they pretend to have an opinion. You're the first person who has ever expressed any doubt." He puts the clipboard aside, pops the pen in his top pocket, and leans forward with a smile. "Now Annie, I'm going to tell you why you're here and what's going to happen to you."

  I take a deep breath.

  "Lakehurst is a level four psychiatric evaluation and treatment center. What that means is that we're going to determine what's wrong with you, and what can be done to fix you. Now, I know a lot of specialists avoid using terms like 'wrong' and 'fix', but I don't believe in beating around the bush. I think it obscures the truth." He stares at me for a moment. "Annie, are you aware that there is something very, very wrong with you?"

  I narrow my eyes a little.

  "Well, there is," he continues. "Your head is not functioning properly. Your mind is damaged, and you've shown evidence of this by making some very bad decisions. The good news is that all such abnormalities can ultimately be traced back to some kind of physical cause, usually related to hormone imbalances or structural problems in your brain. And these, you'll be pleased to hear, can be treated. We have a one hundred per cent success rate here at Lakehurst." He smiles. "No-one who leaves this place has ever gone on to re-offend. No-one. Do you know what that means for you, Annie?"

  I shake my head slowly.

  "It means you're going to get better," he says. "You're going to be alright. It might be a bumpy road, but you're going to get out of this mess, back on the straight and narrow. I'm going to make sure of that." He smiles. "Okay?"

  I stare at him.

  "We're going to do this together, Annie," he says. "It's a big mountain to climb, but we're going to start at the bottom and methodically work our way to the top. And we're going to get you to the point where... Well, you can't ever forget what you did to your brother, and that's not what I want to do anyway. I want you to be able to come to terms with it, and move on. Is that clear?"

  I look up at the wall as the air conditioning unit seems to shift into a different mode, its buzz rising slightly.

  "Is that clear, Annie?"

  I look back at him. "Yes," I say. "It's clear."

  "Excellent," he says, getting to his feet. "Eddie will take you back to your room, and we'll have another discussion tomorrow. Is that okay?"

  I stand up. "Yeah," I say, still feeling a little uneasy.

  "The effects of the initial medication will wear off," Dr. Campbell says, putting a hand on my shoulder and ushering me over to the door. "You'll still have to be on anti-psychotics, but as long as you behave yourself we can keep you off the Duodraxadine and the heavier stuff. The worst side-effect you'll have after a few days is a little constipation." The guard opens the door and we step out into the corridor. "Now, I must warn you, Annie," Dr. Campbell continues, "that we don't tolerate any bad behavior here. We have a strict system in place, for your benefit as well as ours. Violence is not tolerated, nor are insolence, pettiness and rudeness. Those who follow the rules are generally happy. Those who do not... well, they come around eventually. I'll see you tomorrow." He turns and walks away, leaving me standing in the corridor.

  "Follow me," says the guard, stepping past me. He turns when he realizes I'm not following. "Follow me," he says again more firmly, but then he looks down at the floor and sighs.

  I look down and see that I've wet myself. A trickle of dark orange urine is dripping down my leg. It's weird, but I didn't even feel it happen.

  "Sorry," I whisper under my breath.

  "Fucking animals," the guard mutters under his breath as he grabs me and pulls me along the corridor. "Clean-up!" he shouts at a nurse, who almost jumps out of her skin with shock.

  When we get to 'my' room, the guard types in the access code, turns the bolt, opens the door and pushes me inside without saying a word. I turn to see the door being slammed shut, and then I look down at my leg. I'm still dirty. Why didn't he take me to get clean?

  "Pissed yourself, huh?" says a familiar voice from behind me. I turn to find that the girl from before is now sitting on her bed. "Don't worry about it," she says, smiling. "That's the least of your problems now."

  Chapter Three

  "Kirsten," she says, smiling cautiously. "Great name, huh? I think it means 'Follower of Christ' or something like that, which is kind of inappropriate given my personality."

  The first thing I notice about Kirsten, who's apparently my room-mate, is that she has large, dark, pretty eyes. The second thing I notice is that she's very thin, though she doesn't look particularly ill. And the third thing I notice is that she seems confident, as if she feels like she knows way more than I do - which, to be fair, is probably true. She sits on her bed and smiles as she watches me. I can't stop wondering how much she already knows about me.

  "You got a name?" she asks.

  "Annie," I say slowly, sitting on the edge my bed.

  "That's better," she replies. "You couldn't even talk last time. Not your fault. That's what Duodraxadine does to you. It basically fizzes up your brain and sends everything haywire. Not good stuff. Not good stuff at all. And you know what else? It takes fucking days to get out of your
system. You'll still be feeling a bit weird 'til Tuesday, Wednesday maybe..."

  "What day is it today?" I ask.

  She grins. "It's Saturday, Annie. But don't worry, days of the week don't matter here. Every day's like Sunday anyway."

  I smile, because it seems like it's the polite thing to do, but the truth is: I don't feel too good. My stomach is heavy, like there's a brick in there, and my head is spinning. On top of that, I feel really hot, like I'm about to break out in a cold sweat, and I can smell my own urine. "Is there any way to open the window?" I ask, taking deep breaths to try and calm my stomach.

  "Sorry," Kirsten says.

  I keep on taking deep breaths, and it's helping a little.

  "Don't be scared," Kirsten continues. "They gave you a lot of Duodraxadine. That stuff's pretty mean to your system. It'd be weirder if your body wasn't going crazy. It's healthy that you're reacting like this. It'll get better, slowly, and eventually you'll be just like the rest of us. Pacified into oblivion and completely free of aggression."

  I nod. It feels like I'll vomit if I speak. Staring down at my feet, I realize I'm a little dizzy.

  "I might as well ask you the three questions now," she says.

  I look over at her.

  "There are three questions that we like to ask all our new patients. It's a fun little process that we believe is very useful at this early stage. Don't worry, I'll pass your answers on to the others, so you won't have to do it over and over again." She grins. "I mean, the doctors have questions, so why shouldn't the patients also have a few for you, right?"

  I nod.

  "The good news is, I'll answer all the questions too. Okay? First off, I have to ask you why you're here."

  I swallow. I was hoping she'd start with a slightly less difficult question. "I..." I start to say, still feeling really nauseous. "I killed someone," I say eventually. That's the first time I've ever said those words, in that order, and it feels really strange. "I killed my little brother."