I see the sketch in my mind. The strings. The wooden limbs. I trace over the parchment, drawing it with my thoughts.
I have to hold my breath, keep my lips pressed firmly together as if pins and needles are holding them in place, preventing me from screaming.
“Meridei, it is in poor taste to speak ill of the dead.” Suseas clucks her tongue.
I look into Meridei’s cold dark-almond eyes. She taunts me with her unwavering gaze. My forehead is burning and my arms tingling with social discomfort.
“I’d use the word intriguing and unique,” I tell Meridei. “May she rest in peace.”
“Yes, dear, of course.”—Suseas cuts in—“Ladies, I’d like to show Miss Ambrose around. Please return to your morning duties.”
Thank you.
My blood simmers down to a reasonable temperature as the four conformists walk to the stairwell in a single file line. I raise the cup of tea to my lips and blow the steam away, pretending it’s the tension Meridei just injected into my body with her inappropriate comments. The steam circulates away from me like the mist from a waterfall as it makes impact with a lagoon.
“Miss Ambrose, I feel a moral obligation to inform you that this occupation isnotfor everyone. It takes a certain amount of… detachment to get along here.” She tilts her oval face downward, keeping her gaze leveled with mine like she’s trying to communicate telepathically. “What I mean by that is—if you have a strong sense of empathy… or even a weak stomach, this path isn’t one you should pursue.”
A frigid tingling sensation coats my upper back and legs. Foggy flashes of Scarlett’s stories clutch my mind’s eye like flipping through a photo album, and I wasn’t even there to witness it myself.
“I think you’ll find I’m the perfect fit for this then,” I answer confidently. I’m careful to keep my expressions neutral. Scarlett once told me that when interviewed, they watch your body language for signs of weakness. If you blink too fast, readjust your stance, scratch your head, or touch your nose—it’s like your body is answering their subliminal questions honestly. I stay perfectly still. My breath is even and controlled. My legs haven’t moved from their ankles-crossed position. I’m as still as a corpse, and as a result, my lower back, neck, and legs are aching from the lack of movement.
“Very well.” She bows her head and stands from the couch. “We’ll take a brief tour of the intricate section to touch on what the day-to-day looks like and the process of treatments for our patients.”
5. Simulated Drowning
I follow Suseas up astone stairwell with oil lamps mounted on the walls and a draft that carries the faint odor of damp towels that have been sitting in a corner for weeks. The stairs twirl upward, revealing a door at each loop.
We pass three doors before entering the intricate section. The marble floor in the waiting room transitions into white and black checkerboard tiles. She explains to me that halfway down the hallway, we will hit an intersection. The left hall leads to the dining area, the middle hall contains the treatment rooms, and to the right are the patients’ quarters; thirteen, to be exact.
“In the morning, you will be assigned a patient as your charge for the day and a schedule of the treatments they will undergo. Your job is to make sure they get fed, complete their treatments, and report their vitals before and after, as well as recording general notes about the visit. It sounds easy enough, but the treatments can be very long and agonizing for the patient. Each session has a purpose, sometimes religious and sometimes scientific. Our council members digest your reports and determine their next treatment, so it is vital that each conformist conduct a detailed investigation on their assigned patient.”
“What is your success rate?” I interrupt.
“Pardon?”
“Your success rate. How many of these patients arecuredand make it back to their families and day-to-day lives?”
She blinks, and her lips part. “Oh, well, we have recorded countless improvements on vast behavioral issues, but their overall mental statuses always remain unchanged. The end goal really isn’t to cure them. Although there are priests that would disagree. The purpose is to keep them away from civilization. To protect the public from them. They are natural-born killers. They don’t have souls, most would argue.”
I pretend hooks are cutting into the sides of my face, holding my facial muscles still, the skin stretched. It’s harder than I thought to not let my body betray me.
“And what is your mortality rate?”
Her jaw comes out in annoyance. “We don’t keep track of that statistic, but there are some that perish in trials that are harsher than others.” She looks down at the floor, understanding that there isn’t any progress resulting from these practices. “But that’s really the point of this interview, to make sure you understand the costs.”
“Can you tell me about the different treatments?”
“Of course. Now, keep in mind that the purpose of the treatments is not to be cruel or for anyone’s entertainment. This has just been the way and law of the asylum for decades.”
I adjust my weight to my other leg. It sounds more like she’s trying to convince herself that what they’re doing here isn’t so bad—isn’t so evil.
“The beginning treatments for a new patient, depending on the severity of their case, would start with hydrotherapy. Many of the patients who are first admitted come in with manic-depressive psychosis. This treatment helps increase energy with a forty-eight degree temperature.”
I scoff. “Yes, I’m sure being blasted with ice-cold water would wake anyone up.” I bite the inside of my cheek. I’m not making a good impression. I can’t let my feelings about this place get the best of me.
She keeps going as if I hadn’t interrupted at all. “Chair binding is another treatment we use for those that have hyperactive personalities or religious nervousness. The straps are bound so tightly it slows down the circulation to relax them for about eight hours.”
Pause.
