Page 8 of Asylum (The Wellard Asylum #9)

I ’m fucking obsessed.

Jesus Christ.

I knew the moment I laid eyes on her, she would be mine. Now that I’ve had her tight pussy wrapped around my cock, she’ll never escape me. She’s drawn my blood, and soon, I’ll draw hers.

Earning her trust has proved to be an easier task than I originally thought.

Long conversations and comfortable silence.

Kindness with a firm hand. I easily provide all these things based on what she needs.

Throw in some charm and a few orgasms, and I just about have her where I want her.

Her faith and complete submission are what’s needed for when the true torture begins.

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 it evil .

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 Traumatic Stress 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.

Not her .

She’s strong as fuck, and stubborn. But I can help her be more . 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 onto me .

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 matter how 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 recognize their disconnect 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.

The profession 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.

Patients never leave.

If we can’t control them, we dispose of them, the manner in which that happens is of no importance. It’s truly survival of the fittest here, and if you’re weak, you’ll be euthanized, and I’ll collect a hefty amount of compensation for your organs.

Simple.

But deep down, I know my little doll is a survivor, and I have every intention of proving it. I’ll teach her how to survive in this hell, though I’ll be the devil in her story. The villain she’ll come to despise, the man she’ll need above all else.

Wellard Asylum is an unsanctioned hospital, meaning there’s no government agencies or programs overseeing it. It’s privately owned, therefore Dr. Halstead can run the place however he sees fit.

I’ve heard many rumors about him since I came here.

Some of the whispers lingering in the halls say he was a patient at Wellard during his teenage years after killing his entire family.

They claim he changed his name, earned a degree, and took over as the main psychiatric doctor immediately after Dr. Ravine died.

I find it hard to believe a previous patient would be in charge of this facility, but stranger things have happened in the few years I’ve been here.

While those particular statements may be rumors, there are things I’ve seen with my own eyes, things I took part in.

Participating because it interested me or simply to earn his trust.

Halstead has a hidden basement inside the asylum; one he uses for his own research in new treatment options for the criminally insane.

He subjects patients to sensory deprivation, lobotomies, and my personal favorite, electroconvulsive therapy.

I’ve been present, looking on as he performs transorbital lobotomies, a truly fascinating approach to altering the way a brain processes emotion.

I find sensory deprivation to be effective, but it takes a while for most patients to react.

I’m a fan of instant gratification, so this method doesn’t appeal to me as much as electroconvulsive therapy.

It’s instant stimulation used to subdue the person’s brain functions.

It has certain side effects if performed often, but used sparingly, it will help the patient with their mental illness.

Knowing Olivia will require certain treatments has a bolt of excitement shooting through me. The plan I’ve come up with has me thinking outside the box, and a little deprivation might just be what my little doll needs.