Page 2 of Writhe
I return to my seat at the table, picking up my fork and knife as I cut into the prime rib, savoring the flavor of freedom.
After all, I still have a meal to finish.
The court finds that the defendant, Eliza Marlowe, lacks the mental capacity to comprehend the nature of the proceedings against her, or to assist in her own defense. As such, the court declares her legally insane and unfit to stand trial at this time. The defendant will be remanded to the custody of Wellard Asylum for treatment until such time as she is deemed competent to proceed with legal adjudication.
Wellard Asylum: a monument of misery, perched in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. There’s some kind of history behind it—wars, profiteering, and rich men who decided insanity was profitable. But honestly, none of that matters to me. It’s just another place where people like me get shoved away.
Out of sight and out of mind.
The intake process? Let’s call it . . . impersonal. You arrive in cuffs, no matter how docile you pretend to be, and a couple of guards greet you, their faces set in stone, like they’re already bracing for you to lash out. They strip you of everything—clothes, dignity, identity.Then, you’re handed a thin gown or sweat suit, a number, and a label.
Behavioral analysis is next, which is where they decide who you are in their little hierarchy of madness. They watch your every twitch, listen to your every word, or lack thereof, and decide if you’re a harmless nuisance or a ticking time bomb.
You’re graded on a scale of one to five.
Level 1’s? They’re the “safe” ones. The ones who still have a chance of blending into the outside world if they ever get out.
Level 3’s might get into a fight or two, but nothing a nurse can’t handle.
And then there’s us: Level 5’s. The ones they call the “criminally insane.” We get sent straight to the top floor where security is tighter than a noose.
It’s efficient, I’ll give them that. Dehumanizing, too, but I suppose that’s the point. They don’t see people here, just problems to contain. And maybe they’re right. Maybe I am just a problem—a Level 5 problem, neatly labeled and locked away.
“State your name.” The older nurse looks at me down her nose, her glasses smudged from constantly having to push them up. I glare up at her through bloodshot eyes. I don’t remember the last time I slept. Jail was suffocatingly loud and abrasive, and sharing a room with three other women was miserable.
The nurse’s pen scratches against her clipboard as she waits for my answer, indifferent to my silence. Her uniform, a pristine white dress starched to militaryperfection, brushes against the floor as she shifts. The blood-red cross stitched to her arm feels more like a branding than an assurance.
“Eliza Marlowe,” I say, quietly, of course.
Her lips purse as she hands me a pamphlet. “Please read over the rules of our facility while I gather you some belongings to get you started here.”
I nod politely, reaching over to grab the folded brochure from her. It’s a glossy tri-fold with a posed picture of a “patient” smiling. She looks more insane than anyone I’ve seen here.
“Rules for the Preservation of Your Safety and Wellbeing”
Preservation. As if they’re keeping me in a jar of formaldehyde. How fitting.
I skim the brochure while the nurse busies herself gathering me another outfit or two, undergarments, and hygiene products.
No Sharp Objects
Obviously. Can’t have us lunatics running around reenactingPsychoin the hallways. But how sharp is “sharp”? Are fingernails considered a threat? What about words? Do I get a butter knife for my toast?
Take Your Medication as Directed
Twice a day—little cups of compliance with a side of forced smiles. They watch you swallow, like you’re a child they don’t trust with candy. Jokes on them, I’ve been hiding my pills for most of my adolescence. I can certainly do it with a few nurses as well.
Follow the Daily Schedule
