Page 41 of No Asylum Here

My claws detached from my nailbeds. My eyes burst and trickled tear-like ooze from my cheeks. My skin turned soft, and pustules rose while my muscles separated from my bones.

All the while, I kept death at bay, thoughts of her the only thing keeping me from succumbing to the darkness lurking all around.

Chapter Nineteen

Tuesday

Ward One was where the majority of patients resided, the “low risk” ones allowed to walk around common areas with low supervision. General population was supposed to be more favorable for our residents, but the conditions here were deplorable. It was upsetting, yet my jaw didn’t drop in surprise either. Rook's prerogative, whatever it was, sure as shit wasn't the patient's health and well-being.

Here, it was overcrowded, packed in like sardines in many rooms. The smell was awful, like piss and that unique scent of a patient covered in bed sores in need of turning over.

The halls and rooms were noisy, and the patient-to-staff ratio was dangerously out of proportion.

Patients were clearly divided into two groups—those who appeared to dictate the pecking order, and those who didn't. Predators and prey all mixed into one cage. General pop was co-ed, but there weren’t many women. My heart ached for the few here. They looked so defeated and exhausted.

My stomach churned.

Rook had insisted I enter general pop with at least three orderlies with me at all times. Odd that he suddenly cared so much about my protection after threatening to lock me in the basement with a predator.

As I walked through the ward, the sea of inmates parted, eyeing us with fear as we passed.

The pit in my gut dug deeper as the orderlies led me through a doorway with a faded sign reading “red room.”

There weren't enough chairs or tables for patients to sit. A pair of men fought over a ratty cardboard chessboard, sending chess pieces flying. A Victrola played a worn record that was so damaged I couldn’t pick out the words among the fuzzy notes that filled the room.

The orderlies stopped abruptly, and all three pointed to a young woman in a lone corner.

“That’s not Barbara Reed,” I told them, remembering the birthdate in the woman’s file. “We’re looking for Patient Forty-Two.

“That’s her,” one confirmed gruffly.

I veered my bewildered gaze back to the girl in the corner. She sat hunched over a doll that had seen better days. The toy was wrapped in a filthy rag made to look like a hospital gown, just like her owner wore.

This couldn’t be her. She didn’t look much older than eighteen, nineteen tops.

“Barbara Reed was admitted in 1969 at eighteen years old. She should be in her seventies by now.”

When the orderlies said nothing, I bridled my frown and approached the girl. She didn’t look up as I crouched beside her.

“Barbara?” No response. Probably because that wasn’t her name. Then I remembered that Seventeen had said that she preferred her nickname. “Bunny?”

The girl’s eyes lifted from her doll to lock with mine. “Am I in trouble?”

It was then that I spotted the bald patch on the side of her head, revealing a gnarly scar.

Unease slithered over my skin. “Bunny, what happened to your head?”

The girl’s whisper came out so thin, I had to read her lips to understand. “They tried to fix me.”

“Who tried to fix you?”

The girl’s mouth opened, but instead of a proper answer, a shrill laugh tumbled forth. She appeared to be in a strange state of psychosis, likely brought on by physical trauma. Maybe her old head wound was connected.

Her laughter echoed through the recreation hall, but the patients seemed used to it. Hysteria was the norm here.

“Tell me your dolly’s name.” I spoke louder to be heard over her laughter.

Like that, she stopped, blinking up at me. “Joanie.”