Breaking Chains

Dr. Call Me Rogers

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(The doors opened. Snow flooded in.)

They rolled her in with her hands and feet tied down to the chair she sat in. A cheap wooden mouth bit was in her mouth and splinters coated in dried blood dug into her gums. (The doors closed.) Dark hair matted her bandage covered face and obscured any otherwise visible features. Underneath her thick layers of blankets was a cheap white gown; a considerable step down from her usually vibrant bouquets of silks and lace. Not that it mattered. (She was rolled down the endless corridor of stone and polished floors.)

Insane. Mad. Demented.

That’s what they called her. (Someone wailed desperately in the distance.) A sad, confused woman with an ill mind. They didn’t know that she knew and she didn’t say anything. It was better this way. Someday they may say something usefully. (Slam! A metallic door was closed and a phantom like girl was escorted past.) She wasn’t paying much attention to the young lady but even in her frazzled state she was a beauty. Something that was nothing more than a memory to her.

Unsightly. Deformed. Monstrous.

She wasn’t allowed a mirror and the bandages always stayed on.  They took turns changing her bandages and avoided their turn when it came. (The wheelchair swiveled round a corner and went down an identical corridor.) When time were really desperate they drew names at random. Occasionally a brave soul with a heart of gold would volunteer, but that brave soul would eventually have their name thrown in with the rest to gamble for a chance to avoid bandage duty. At first she was furious with their shameful behavior, then they gave her a mirror, and she was understanding. 

She was turned down another corridor. This one had monstrous windows that dominated the wall. It was snowing. 

Strange. Creepy. Disturbing.

She hardly talked. She use to talk and scream and argue and throw fits but they stopped listening and caring; so she stopped trying. When she did talk it was only ask something or to tell stories, terribly vivid stories that gave nightmares and caused stomached to turn. They were labeled as “stories” tall tales and products of an overactive imagination. That’s how they came to brand her as “insane.” It was the only explanation and it was well accepted; no one wanted to believe what she was saying was true.

Bothersome. Hindering. Irritating.

Actions spoke louder than words so she took action. (Two women in white passed.) She went to the police but they looked at her bandaged face and skeleton appearance and sent her back to the hospital. Everyday she wrote letters demanding justice and had them delivered by the staff and everyday she waited for a response that would never arrive. Every hour she asked if there was any change but the answer was always the same and soon the question fell on deaf ears. But she kept on writing and asking and the dreaded bandages had to be changed regularly.

A solution. Transfer. Better for her.

At last they had said something important. Crazies belong with other crazies, not with the physically ill. Instructions to send her to an asylum were given. She had enough money to pay for a long indefinite stay where she would be someone elses problem and they needed the space. That’s when the quiet young woman with a blank stare and bandages on her face, acted out. When they came to ship her off; she bite, screamed, scratched, drew blood, and fought as hard as a crippled woman could. (The wheelchair stopped.) She received a heavy sedative, tight skin chafing restraints, a long cold ride, and no answers. The only clue she had were the five words she overheard. (The door opened. The wheelchair moved. The door closed) White Haven, Hospital and Asylum. (The wheelchair stopped.)