Page 3 of Writhe (Wellard Asylum)

W ellard Asylum: a monument of misery, perched in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. There’s some kind of history behind it—wars, profiteering, and rich men who decided insanity was profitable. But honestly, none of that matters to me. It’s just another place where people like me get shoved away.

Out of sight and out of mind.

The intake process? Let’s call it . . . impersonal.

You arrive in cuffs, no matter how docile you pretend to be, and a couple of guards greet you, their faces set in stone, like they’re already bracing for you to lash out.

They strip you of everything—clothes, dignity, identity.

Then, you’re handed a thin gown or sweat suit, a number, and a label.

Behavioral analysis is next, which is where they decide who you are in their little hierarchy of madness. They watch your every twitch, listen to your every word, or lack thereof, and decide if you’re a harmless nuisance or a ticking time bomb.

You’re graded on a scale of one to five.

Level 1’s? They’re the “safe” ones. The ones who still have a chance of blending into the outside world if they ever get out.

Level 3’s might get into a fight or two, but nothing a nurse can’t handle.

And then there’s us: Level 5’s. The ones they call the “criminally insane.” We get sent straight to the top floor where security is tighter than a noose.

It’s efficient, I’ll give them that. Dehumanizing, too, but I suppose that’s the point. They don’t see people here, just problems to contain. And maybe they’re right. Maybe I am just a problem—a Level 5 problem, neatly labeled and locked away.

“State your name.” The older nurse looks at me down her nose, her glasses smudged from constantly having to push them up.

I glare up at her through bloodshot eyes.

I don’t remember the last time I slept. Jail was suffocatingly loud and abrasive, and sharing a room with three other women was miserable.

The nurse’s pen scratches against her clipboard as she waits for my answer, indifferent to my silence. Her uniform, a pristine white dress starched to military perfection, brushes against the floor as she shifts. The blood-red cross stitched to her arm feels more like a branding than an assurance.

“Eliza Marlowe,” I say, quietly, of course.

Her lips purse as she hands me a pamphlet. “Please read over the rules of our facility while I gather you some belongings to get you started here.”

I nod politely, reaching over to grab the folded brochure from her. It’s a glossy tri-fold with a posed picture of a “patient” smiling. She looks more insane than anyone I’ve seen here.

“Rules for the Preservation of Your Safety and Wellbeing”

Preservation . As if they’re keeping me in a jar of formaldehyde. How fitting.

I skim the brochure while the nurse busies herself gathering me another outfit or two, undergarments, and hygiene products.

No Sharp Objects

Obviously. Can’t have us lunatics running around reenacting Psycho in the hallways. But how sharp is “sharp”? Are fingernails considered a threat? What about words? Do I get a butter knife for my toast?

Take Your Medication as Directed

Twice a day—little cups of compliance with a side of forced smiles. They watch you swallow, like you’re a child they don’t trust with candy. Jokes on them, I’ve been hiding my pills for most of my adolescence. I can certainly do it with a few nurses as well.

Follow the Daily Schedule

This one’s my favorite. Therapy at ten, journaling at twelve, group confession at three, dinner at six, lights out by nine. How boring.

No Physical Contact with Staff or Other Patients

No touching, no hugging, no human connection. God forbid anyone here feels comforted. But I’m certain if any one of them touched me, I’d have to just let it happen. It’s not fair that my love can’t be reciprocated.

Stay in Your Assigned Ward or Room Unless Escorted

Translation: stay in your cage until your handler takes you out for your walk. Don’t worry, though, they’re not stingy with the collars and leashes.

The rules go on and on, but you get the idea. No fun. No freedom. No chance of escape. The nurse smiles at me when I hand the brochure back to her. She has this way of smiling that makes her look like a ventriloquist. Eyes too white, too hollow.

“Here’s a few outfits and things to get you settled. In a few days, you may request some other things if needed to make your stay comfortable.”

Stay. As if this is a temporary fix. No, if I am magically cured, I will be shoved into a trial and ultimately the death penalty.

No, thanks. I’ll feign a mental illness for as long as I can get free meals and entertainment for the rest of my days.

I take the meager belongings she gives me and start my tenure at Wellard Asylum.

THREE MONTHS LATER . . .

The rules have become background noise—white lines on a road you drive every day without thinking.

The nurses are strict about enforcing them, but I’ve learned to play their game.

Smile when they say, “Good morning,” keep your voice calm in group therapy, and never, under any circumstances, tell them the truth.

The truth is for me, and me alone.

The rec room is quiet as I stare out of the barred windows as rain slides down the glass.

The rule about no physical contact is posted on the wall in bold letters.

They act like it’s for our own safety, but I know better.

The guards and orderlies can touch us whenever they want—restraining us, dragging us, forcing pills into our mouths.

But we’re the dangerous ones, apparently.

Dangerous. That word makes me laugh. I wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Unless it landed on my plate during dinner. Then, well . . . I’d kill it without hesitation.

I trace a finger along the arm of my chair, the coarse fabric scraping against my skin.

This place, the entire goddamn hospital, is sterile and lifeless.

Beige walls, plastic plants, a faint smell of disinfectant mingling with the stench of burnt coffee.

Other patients are scattered across the room, moving like ghosts in a dollhouse.

It’s the only few hours a day we aren’t under-involved in a structured type of activity.

One woman is muttering to herself in the corner, her hands twitching with some invisible tempo.

A man sits at a chess table, playing against an opponent who doesn’t seem to even exist.

“Hey, bestie!” The singing voice cuts through the room like nails on a chalkboard.

I don’t even bother looking up. “Rina,” I say flatly.

Rina plops down on the couch beside me, the floral soap she somehow got her hands on whiffs past my nose and I fan it away.

She’s a nymphomaniac, so I’m certain she sucked her way to convincing some guard to sneak it in. She flips her long blonde hair—straight as a pin—over her shoulder as she pops her lips. She leans over, taking in my face. I raise an eyebrow, wondering why she’s being so fucking dramatic today.

“Why do you always look so serious? You know, they say smiling burns calories.”

My eyes narrow slightly. “I’m not really the athletic type.”

Rina giggles. “You’re so funny, Eliza. You’ve got that dark, brooding vibe going for you. Very mysterious heroine in a gothic novel. Bet the boys out there are eating it up.”

I glance at her from the corner of my eye. “Yeah, they’re just dying to get past the electric fences to ask me out.”

She doesn’t miss a beat, crossing her legs and leaning back, her thin frame sinking into the sagging cushions. “You joke, but I saw Jacob checking you out the other day during group therapy.”

Jacob. The guy who thought the CIA planted chips in his teeth. Yeah, definitely my type. I stifle the urge to laugh. “Sure, Rina. I’ll pencil him in between my lobotomy and shock therapy.”

Rina gasps, mock-offended, her hand flying to her chest. “Eliza, you’re so morbid.

Honestly, it’s why I like you.” She flashes a grin, her teeth yellowed from years of tobacco use.

She’s young, but she’s been a smoker for a long time.

Probably also does some other drugs considering her extra-curricular activities .

“But I do worry about you sometimes. You’re so .

. . detached. Don’t you want to make a friend or two while you’re here? I mean, other than me, obviously. ”

I snort. “You’re more than enough, Rina.

Couldn’t handle another.” I don’t want another friend.

I barely even wanted her, but she’s an annoying little thing that thinks, just because we’re both in our mid-twenties, we’d instantly become friends.

I’d rather be friends with the rat that scratches my wall at night.

She preens at the backhanded compliment, as if she doesn’t catch the sarcasm dripping off my words.

“I know I’m fabulous, but seriously, this place is depressing enough without you pouting all the time.

Maybe you should, I don’t know, join in?

Play chess, talk to someone? Hell, even the muttering Gladys over there looks like she could use a buddy. ”

I glance across the room at the woman in question, who’s now rocking back and forth, her fingers still twitching in midair. “Hard pass.”

Rina sighs dramatically, leaning closer again. “Fine, be a loner. But I swear, one day you’re going to thank me for being your one and only friend here. Without me, you’d go full Jack Nicholson in The Shining .”

I finally look at her, my lips twitching at the edges. “If you’re my saving grace, Rina, then this place really is Hell.”

She throws her head back, laughing as if I’ve just told the funniest joke in the world. The sound makes a few of the other patient’s glance in our way, their eyes dull and glassy. Rina either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

“You’re a riot, Eliza,” she says, nudging my arm with her elbow. “Anyway, I heard some juicy gossip about you.”

Here it is, the real reason she came over. I turn my head slightly, meeting her curious blue eyes. “Do tell.”