Page 13 of Asylum
I want her pleasure, but more, I want her pain.Her rage.
Her murderous side to come out and play.More.
She killed an orderly with a fucking metal spring.
I almost came in my pants when I walked in her room, the fire-haired goddess on top of him, not a care in the world other than killing the threat.
Fucking beautiful.
She needs a safe environment to unleash the killer inside her. I’ll provide that for her, encourage the morally corrupt behavior. Release all her sinful desires, the ones she tries to bury deep inside her soul. Once she’s free, not a care in the world, I’ll shatter her into a million pieces. Break her beyond repair, reshaping her into the woman I want her to be.
Call it diabolical. Call itevil.
Either way, Olivia Sterling belongs to me until the day she takes her last breath.
Even her death will be on my terms, by my hand.
Not a moment before. I’ll fight the fucking reaper for her soul. Fate guided her onto the path of murdering her family, carefully weaving the intricate threads leading her to me, her destiny.
She was institutionalized at seventeen. She spent three years under the care of a fucking quack before he did the world a favor, and retired. He didn’t help her. He gave her a comfortable space where she could hide instead of owning her trauma, using it to overcome her disorders. None of that matters now. The universe has delivered her to me, and I’ll push her until she breaks.
At twenty years old, she suffers from Intermittent Explosive Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and Post TraumaticStress Disorder. The PTSD triggers her explosive episodes. The OCD keeps her mind focused at times, bringing her out of the episodes. Other times, she’s too far gone, and sedatives are needed to stop the tantrums. I find it intriguing she wakes from the sedation in an episode. Dr. Sweeney never mentioned that in his notes, only a small note scribbled on a therapy session journal advising against further use of sedatives.
Her brain decides when she’s allowed to return to her normal psyche, and God help anyone who crosses her path before that happens. The devastating combination of all three disorders would destroy anyone.
Nother.
She’s strong as fuck, and stubborn. But I can help her bemore. If anyone is capable of breaking her,it’s me.
She’s permitting the rage and PTSD to control her, constantly terrified of having an episode. She refuses to consciously allow her demons to play, let them consume her, unleashing her hell into the world.
Releasing them ontome.
I’ll embrace her wrath, show her how to withstand it, mold it. She’ll hate me, and I’ll enjoy every fucking second of the fight. I look forward to the challenges I’ll face with Olivia. It’ll be quite refreshing compared to the mundane life I live.
Growing up, both my parents worked in the mental health field. My father was a renowned psychiatrist, specializing in bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. My mother was a nurse at a juvenile behavioral center; rehabilitating adolescents diagnosed with mental health problems. Due to their professions, my childhood was ridiculously boring. Both my parents observed me constantly, analyzing every word I spoke, every move I made. I often felt as if I were on display, trapped in a glass cage. Their clinical approach to their work spilled over into our family life. They weren’t affectionate people, nor complimentary. No matterhow well I excelled, how proficient I became, there was always room to improve.
Nothing was ever good enough.I was never good enough.
Once I graduated high school, I decided to go into psychiatry. It’s not so much I enjoy helping people with their problems. I enjoy digging into their psyche, discovering what makes them tick. If I help them along the way, good for them. If not, I really don’t give a shit. It’s become a dull existence, the same thing day in, day out.
It’s slowly driving me insane.Ironic.I’ve held out hope that one day someone will come into this asylum, capturing my attention. Someone to captivate me, show me something fascinating I haven’t seen a thousand times before.
At thirty-four years old, my life is empty other than this fucking place. My parents died a few years ago in a fatal car accident. Their death didn’t affect me the way it probably should’ve. I felt nothing for the people who brought me into this world, the parents who raised me. After I moved out, and went to college, we didn’t communicate much. They were always suspicious of my behavior, recommending I should be evaluated due to my lack of emotion. While I may not share the sentiments and feelings of the average person, I feel the blame should be placed on my sterile upbringing. Love and comfort were absent in our home, and I find it absurd to expect something from a child that you never taught them, much less gave them.
I have no siblings or extended family, none that my parents mentioned anyway. They never discussed their past or their own parents, but I was the one who needed help. They refused to look in the mirror and recognizetheirdisconnect with the outside world.
Shortly after graduating college, I took a job as a mortician while I interned at a mental health facility. I needed money to pay the bills, and I enjoyed working with the dead. Theprofession was low-stress and enjoyable, no endless chatter about feelings and expectations. The corpses were a finality I admired, an end to whatever suffering or misfortune they had while living, but I didn’t have to hear about it. It was done, and they were guided to the darkness, existing in whatever awaits us after death.
A chance encounter at the cemetery one night changed my financial status significantly.
A man approached me from the shadows, offering a way to make fast cash if I could keep my mouth shut. Little did I know, stealing organs from cadavers and selling them on the black market would set me up for life. While every corpse wasn’t eligible, depending on how long they were expired by the time we received them, I moved quickly on the bodies that arrived immediately from the hospital.
No one suspected a thing.
Taking the job at Wellard Asylum, I had to give up organ trade. Dealing with the living was disappointing, but financially, I had already made all the money I’d need to live a very comfortable life.
Once I’d established myself as loyal and trustworthy, Dr. Halstead confided in me.