Page 9 of Writhe
Outside these walls, people believe in justice. In rehabilitation. They believe that places like this exist to heal.
I know better.
I am not here to heal them.
I am here to make them useful.
The halls are silent at this hour, save for the occasional flicker of a dying bulb or the distant echo offootsteps from an orderly making their rounds. The asylum breathes in the stillness—shallow, rhythmic, alive in its own way.
I walk with measured steps, clipboard in hand, my shoes tapping against the cold tile. Each step carries weight, not just in movement but in purpose. Every patient here is a study, a case, a work in progress.
I stop at the first door.
Patient #042 — Daniel Halloway
Paranoid schizophrenic with violent tendencies. A chronic self-mutilator. The last incident left his arms covered in jagged lines, deep enough that an artery was nearly severed—a failure of supervision on the staff’s part. He’s sedated now, his face slack against the dim glow of his night-light. The restraints on his wrists ensure no more accidents.
I make a note.
Increase observation intervals. Reduce access to sharp objects, including removal of his fingernails.
I move on.
Patient #077— Madeline Caine
Delusional disorder with religious preoccupations. Former nurse, convicted of multiple counts of involuntary manslaughter. Administered her own “holy sacraments” to patients under her care—lethal doses of insulin, claimed she was “saving them” from their sins.
She’s awake, sitting cross-legged on her cot, whispering into her cupped hands. Prayers, most likely. Or confessions to a god who does not answer.
I observe for a moment, then, I jot down my assessment.
Continue lithium regimen. Increase sedatives at night—delusions are worsening.
The next door.
Patient #089 — Tyler Grayson
Sociopathic traits, history of arson, and no known family. He killed a man when he was fifteen—set fire to his house with him still inside. Barely spoke a word at trial. Barely speaks now.
When I glance through the small glass window, he’s sitting perfectly still, staring at the ceiling. His hands are folded in his lap. Controlled. Unreadable.
I make a note.
Monitor for signs of dissociation. Reinforce conditioning through isolation therapy.
Another step, another door.
Patient #131 — Eliza Marlowe
She’s not asleep.
She sits at the edge of her bed, back straight, arms folded, staring at the opposite wall. A defiant posture. A statement.
Her new dosage has not yet taken full effect.
That will change soon.
I watch her for a moment longer. There’s something almost admirable in her stubbornness, this refusal to break, even when she must know it’s inevitable.
