*All rights reserved. Do not steal...please.*
(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.)
Her blankets were stipped from her and the cold frigid air of the room invaded the inside of her dress and skin. Every soft exhale turned into a puff of smoke and every inhale froze her lungs.
“This is the patient?” a voice asked. It was male, elderly, and distinguished. The sound of talking was a sharp contrast to the silence that had surrounded her for two cold days of travel and isolation.
“Yes,” her escort responded.
“She doesn't look like much.”
“Careful, she nearly removed one of my orderlies fingers; bit it clean to the bone.”
“Ah, I see. That explains why my patient is in restraints.” He paused to assess her. “Take the bit off,” he decided.
“You sure, she’s a biter.”
“Well then, I’ll just have to take that risk, won’t I.” The block of wood was loosed and removed from her mouth with a trail of spit falling from it. Her mouth remained wide open for a few confused seconds as it tried to remember how to close. Once it closed her tongue instantly flickered out to lubricate her lips and mouth with a fresh layer of much needed saliva.
There was a creak of cloth as the newcomer bent down to get a better view of her low hung head. He was trying to get a better look at her face; however, layers of hair and bandage prevented him from accomplishing his goal.
“I’m your doctor, call me Roger. I am a psychologist, do you know what that is?” She gave no indication of having heard him. “Do you know why you are here?” She continued to stare at her lap. “Do you know where you are?” She blinked once. “Do you know who you are?” Yes, but she would never tell. The man stood up.
“Is the patient mute?” he asked. ‘Patient’ She didn’t like the way he used the word. He used it the same way he would use ‘chair’ or ‘hat’ as a thing to be owned, not as a living person.
“I wish,” her escort said. “She know’s curses that would make a sailor blush but she’ll only talk if the mood strikes her and it’s always about the same thing.” They talked as if she was deaf. The location and people change but it’s always the same thing. Oh well, it didn’t matter. Eventually they say something useful.
“She’s probably just tired from the trip,” Dr. Call Me Roger said.
She wasn’t really. Most of the time she had just slept.
“Set the patient up with one of the nurses to be settled in.” That annoying word again, ‘patient,’ it might as well have been ‘object.’
“Patient,” she hissed. The word had come out involuntarily. Talking was something she didn’t like to do. Her voice was raspy, like a heavy smokers, and sounded hollow from lack of use. It was like listening to a corpse talk.
Her escort and her doctor froze at the sound of her speaking.
“What did she say?” her doctor asked.
“It’s probably nothing, she’s always spouting nonsense.” She felt a cold hand brushing hair from her face but didn’t react to the touch. A long slender finger appeared upright in her line of vision. It moved from left to right and her eyes followed it automatically before snapping back down to examine her lap. The finger receded and two hand’s that pinched at air were on either side of her ears. (Snap!....Snap!) She flinched slightly at the dull popping sound made by the doctor’s hands as they snapped on either side of her.
“The patient is responsive to outside stimuli. Which means she’s probably just ignoring us.” She felt one of her hands being unstrapped.
“I wouldn't do that if I was you,” her escort warned.
“If she tries anything I’ll just deny her food and water rations for a day. We train early here; patients have to learn what is acceptable behavior and what is not.” Her hand, cold from the icy weather outside, was taken in his equally freezing hands, though he had been inside all day. He lifted it by the wrist like a limp mop.
“What are you-” Her hand was brought down sharply on her cheek. It didn’t hurt much but her cheeks were frostbitten and sensitive and she didn’t appreciate her own had being used as a weapon against herself. A slight frown grew beneath the bandages on her face. He raised her hand again; this time she expected it and fought against the puppeteering. He tried to bring her hand down on her again but found it immobile. The doctor fought against her and tried again to move her hand but it was as stiff as a statue.
“Dr. Call Me Roger,” she hissed under her breath.
“What did you call me?”
“You should listen to your lackey.” Her hand shot out and grabbed his hand tighter than the shackles she wore. Her mouth opened to reveal a jawline of bloody teeth that hungered for it’s next victims-Dr. Call Me Roger’s hand. Her teeth reached the doctor’s aged skin and-
Slam!
A hand was around her neck and cutting off her oxygen. It wasn’t a firm hold; it was outright strangling. She writhed in her chair and gasped for air, catching only small wisps with ever attempt. He held her neck up against the back of the chair so her head was forced upwards and her eyes straight ahead at him. Her escort secured her hand but his grip did not leave.
“I warned you she was a biter!” Dr. Call Me Roger’s ignored the escort. He was staring dead on at his patient and she at him.
The good doctor was a handsomely aged man and mostly unaffected by the wrinkles that plagued men of his age. His hair was grey, almost silver, and neatly combed back. A pair of icy blue eyes sat like cold tundra’s on his face, emotionless and deadly.
“Now, now, it’s very rude to harm a physician, especially their hands. Naughty child,” he chided. His white elegant right hand was held up for her too see. “This what you wanted? It’s a good thing I’m left handed, not right, or I’d have lost a finger. It would appears that you are more conscious of your surroundings than I initially thought.” He loosed his hand enough to allow her a lung full of air before tightening back down. “Are you ready to answer my questions now?”
She nodded. His grip loosened enough for her to breath better.
“Good, now you know what a psychologist is, right?”
She nodded. They were brain doctors.
“Do you know where you are.”
She nodded. White Haven, Hospital and Asylum.
“You are fully aware of who your are, correct?”
She nodded again.
“What is your name?” She tensed her burning muscles and stretched her neck from side to side. They would be sore but her vocals had taken no further damage.
“Smm...man..ha..” she said hoarsely.
“Could you repeat that, please?” She gulped and stretched her neck muscles again.
“Sa...man..tha,” she said more clearly. This time it was at least audible enough to understand-Samantha.
“Well then, Samantha, welcome to White Haven.”
Why hello there readers! Fancy meeting you here. Do you come here often? (Bad joke, I know...) Please vote and comment. In case you get lost, the vote button is that thing in the upper right corner and the comment section is just below.
Post Script, if you like this then you'll definetly like my other story 'Serenity.' You will laugh, cry, cringe, and throw stuff across the room. I've made a lot of people cry (so they say) and one girl spit out a mouthful of tea-I'm very proud about that.