The Torment

December twentieth is the day I remember being brought into the asylum for the first time. Like any typical psychopath, I screamed. I cried. I remember snatching the nurse’s hair until she screamed and I was slapped into unconsciousness and thrown into the room. The only difference? I wasn’t a psychopath. But who would believe a young girl in rags, coming from an impecunious family.

By the time I gained consciousness, I was in a small room, on a bed with sheets that stunk old, turning brown with time. They’d changed me into a white dress, the designated uniform for the insane. For the first few days, I would cry maniacally upon hearing any nurse go by, to catch one’s attention and tell her that I wasn’t insane.

“That’s exactly what an insane person would say” One of them spoke, looking at me bitterly. With time and a week later, I realized that there was no use. I was stuck with my haunting thoughts. Which brings me to the present day, another one that I’ll mark in history with red.

The day I met him.

The sky was turning dark as I stared out of the bars of the window, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. The door behind me creaked open and I glanced back to see a nurse appear from behind the walnut wood. She handed me a glass of water and then proceeded to give me my medicines for the day.

“You’ve been holding up well” She stated with a lopsided smile. I stared at her blankly and then averted my gaze back at the window.

“Do you think I’m insane?” I asked in a low voice. There was silence beside me before she shifted on her feet tensely.

“Everyone’s a little crazy deep down,” She said. I smiled. Humans and their philosophical ways of saying ‘you’re not suffering more than us’. I thought. She left the room and I stared at the dark sky outside, it had grown dark enough for the window to show me my own reflection.

With a sigh, I went for the door and stepped into the dimly lit lobby. The main gates of the asylum were locked so patients were allowed to roam free under the bulb’s yellow cast .It wasn’t much of a muse to see the sufferings but it’s better to witness someone else’s misery than your own.

The concrete asylum walls stood cold against the faded wood of the floorboards. My feet touched the slightly warm wood as I proceeded to glance into rooms. The first one belonged to an old man, sitting by the window, murmuring to himself. I passed. The second belonged to a man in his early twenties like me, crying hysterically. His head was covered with patches of hair and wounds, as if he’d been pulling at it.

A loud bang from the door opposite to his caught my attention and I stumbled back. My heart beat sped as one of the doctors rushed to the door and announced a lockdown. I was once again led into my room. But the sound got worse, screams of a woman echoed through the halls.

“You maniacs, goddamn you!” She shouted. There was loud screeching and a thud before the sound stopped. Gaining courage, I opened the door and peeked into the lobby again. There was blood in front of the crazy woman’s room but she was gone.

“Terrorizing, isn’t it?” I heard a voice and shot my head towards the room across from me where a guy stood. He wore a white button down with black pants. Not a patient. His blonde hair was combed neatly and blue eyes sparked green under the yellow cast of the bulb. He looked young, probably in his mid-twenties.

Certainly not a doctor.

“I’ve grown used to it” I lied, walking back into my room where he followed.

“I agree, it does get lonely here. You feel like the walls are closing in on you” He looked at the walls like a man who’s looking at his childhood home.

“Who are you?” I narrowed my eyes.

“Clinton. And you, sweetheart?”

“Muriel,” I replied. I’m not sure what it was about him that gave me an odd feeling. A feeling that made me anxious.

“Muriel, have you been to the painting room yet?” He asked. I shook my head.

“Well, then, let’s go,” He gestured. Going with this stranger wasn’t completely a good idea but it wasn’t like I was in a comfortable situation either. He led me through the hallways and into an isolated corridor where we strode for a while before stopping in front of another door.

The room opened to reveal a conservatory where I stared at the night sky for the first time in weeks. The sight of a starry sky made tears slide down my cheeks and I didn’t bother wiping them.

“Come on, good girls don’t cry,” Clinton smiled, wiping the tears away. On any other occasion, I would have smacked his hand away but for some reason, today didn’t feel right. I’d been holding on for a long time.

“Here, draw how you feel” He spoke, gesturing at the empty canvas behind me and a set of paints beside it. I picked up the brush and wondered for some time. All I could think of was the night sky so I painted it- a purplish blue background with a spray of white as stars.

“Lovely” He commented.

I took my place on a wooden bench and then continued to stare at him.

“Are you here for a night shift?” I asked.

“Well, you can say that” He shrugged lightly, the movement ever so graceful.

“You’re not an errand boy, are you?” I asked again, despite seeing his professional appearance.

“That’s a hard blow to my dignity, Arahood” He smirked and my blood ran cold.

“How’d you know my last name?” I asked.

“This isn’t the first time I’m seeing you, Arahood, but talking to you, it is. Felt like you’d be in need of a friend?” he explained with a charismatic smile. The boy had a face that screamed trouble.

After that night, Clinton visited me everyday during his night shifts or for whatever reason he was at the asylum only at night. We pretty much had the same opinions about everything, from the reckless behavior of nurses at the asylum to the poor quality of food.

Little by little, I started to like having him around, talking to him felt therapeutic. It helped me to distract my thoughts from the building itself. The atmosphere, though, still felt eerie, there were sounds of machinery running on the floor above me that kept me up most nights.

Agonizing screams filled the floor, which doctors passed as the sound of the rusted machinery. But even idiots could guess the difference between a rusted machine running and a human screaming. I didn’t see the crazy woman again but there were rumors that she was being tortured on the fourth floor.

The floor where the sounds came from.

As days passed, the rumors dropped and soon I forgot about the woman until that very night.

The woman was clapped in chains and laid on a hospital bed. She screamed as two figures wearing white overalls, towered closer to her. One of them had a saw in his hand, while the other sharpened his knife.

I gasped, sitting straight in my bed. Clinton was staring out of the window of my room, at the slightly lit dusk sky. Upon hearing me gasp, he glanced at me and sat at the far corner.

“Bad dream?” He asked. I nodded.

“Do you have any idea what’s happening on the fourth floor?” I asked him.

“Yeah, you’re not allowed to go there, it’s restricted” He raised a brow.

“Any idea why?”

“Well they say there’s some pretty messed up shit happening there, why’d you ask?” He queried.

“That woman from our first encounter, I keep dreaming about her screaming, like she’s being tortured.” I stated. Clinton stared at me for a while before looking out of the window, his shoulders tensing.

“Tortured” he tasted the word on his lips. “If you’re thinking about exploring that place then let me warn you, they’re ruthless, you’re just putting yourself in danger” His jaw ticked.

“Who said I’m exploring?”

“But you’re thinking about it” He stood up, staring down at me with icy eyes.

“Anyways, good night, love” He smiled before walking out of my room.

The room was silent for a while before the low sound of machinery filled the room again. I snuggled into the brown sheets, pressing my hands onto my ears and feeling tears slide down my face. Living in this place was no less than a torment.