Page 39 of Asylum
This is it.
I’m about to change both our lives.
“Look down,” I tell her.
She does as I ask without hesitation. Lifting a cotton swab from the metal tray, I dip it into a small bowl of water. Once it’s soaked through, I lift it to her eye, carefully pinching her eyelashes, rolling the eyelid over the cotton swab. Removing the applicator, the eyelid stays in place.
Gripping the orbitoclast between my fingers, I lift it to her eye, and I’m surprised she doesn’t flinch.
The valium is working well.
Or she’s disassociated.
She won’t be doing that anymore once I’m finished with her.
Pinching her eyelid, I pull it from the socket, flicking the cotton piece out of the way. Lifting the orbitoclast, I push itbeneath her lid, running parallel with her nose until I feel resistance from the orbital plate.
The goal is to sever the nerve pathways in the frontal lobes of the brain, as well as severing the connections between the frontal lobes and the thalamus. The thalamus is part of the limbic system, which controls emotions, memories, and learning. These are all skills Olivia struggles with.
Sweat forms above my brows as I carefully lower her eyelid onto the metal of the ice pick. With my free hand, I reach for the hammer, taking a deep breath before gently tapping it through the orbital socket. The soft crack of bone dissolving under the light force of the mallet has me grinning.
Fucking incredible.
After penetrating the barrier, the orbitoclast slides into the frontal lobe, gliding smoothly into the brain.
I’m a medical professional, with fluent knowledge in all medical jargon, but there’s only one way to describe the texture of the human brain.
Squishy.
A sharp inhale disrupts my thoughts. Daring a glance at her, Olivia’s eyes have glazed over, disassociating herself from the situation entirely. While I don’t blame her, I wish she’d show more interest in this complex yet monumental procedure. Dr. Halstead wasn’t successful in his attempts, but my knowledge well surpasses his, along with my skills. He performed lobotomies as experiments. I’m doing this to benefit my patient, as well as myself.
Blood oozes from beneath her eyelid, gathering at the corner of the socket, trailing down her nose. Crimson merges with the clear mucus seeping from her nostrils, and I grab a gauze pad, wiping away the thick stream of fluid. I’m not concerned; some bleeding is to be expected. Placing the hammer back onto the metal tray, I reach for another gauze, soaking up the salivaleaking from the corners of her mouth with my free hand, discarding it onto the tray.
As I push further into the frontal lobe, I twist the orbitoclast slowly in a back-and-forth motion. A strangled sound leaves her throat, and my eyes fly to her. Gaze still glazed over, staring at the ceiling, her face is blank. The need to say something makes my throat itch, but even I’m not that kind of monster. I’ll leave her in whatever world she’s in right now.
Rotating the orbitoclast, I visualize Dr. Halstead’s lobotomies. Mimicking his movements, I imagine the connections in her mind, the tool between my fingers cutting the links. If the lobotomy doesn’t work as it should, I’ll have to assess the aftereffects before deciding her fate. If her symptoms aren’t a burden, I’ll figure out a way to make things work. If the side effectsaretoo much to manage, I’ll be merciful by putting her out of her misery. While she belongs to me, and I’d prefer to have her in my life, I won’t support her in a vegetative state.
It’s cruel to keep her that way.
That line of thinking is pointless anyway. I’m confident in my abilities. My skills are perfection, and I know she’ll come out of this better than she was before.
And it’ll be because of me.
Slowly, I retract the tool from her brain, easing it out of her eye socket. A trail of blood trickles from the wound as I drop the orbitoclast onto the metal tray. She doesn’t flinch at the clanking sound, and it’s all the confirmation I need.
I’ve missed wearing belts.
Reaching for a towel, I wipe the blood and mucus from her face. “Can you hear me, little doll?”
She blinks once, but she doesn’t speak. I begin unfastening the restraints on her wrists when I notice a puddle of liquid on the table. She may be the object of my obsession, but her weak bladder is quite annoying.
Scooping her into my arms, I take her into the bathroom to clean her up. She’s dead weight as I wrestle to remove her soiled gown, wiping away the urine from her skin with a cloth. Once I’m finished, I carry her into the bedroom she’ll be staying in, placing her on the bed.
She’s catatonic, her eyes open but unseeing. I wonder where she is right now.
The swelling in her brain should be minimal, but when she wakes from her current state, she’ll likely have a migraine, and a black eye. I’ll check her temperature every few hours to ensure she doesn’t have a fever. She lies motionless as I cover her body with the blanket, flipping off the lamp on the nightstand, quietly leaving the room.
Heading for the shower, I undress, stepping under the warm spray. Mentally replaying the procedure, pride swells in my chest, realizing I’ve done something miraculous. I’ve penetrated Olivia’s brain with expert precision, and forced it to develop new neural pathways. Her disorders will have disappeared, her emotions manageable and more stable. It may be too soon to congratulate myself, but I did so well on my first attempt.