Whispers of Bedlam Asylum (Sigmund Shaw Book 2) (16 page)

Bedlam Asylum was a government funded facility and the government would become well aware of the atrocities going on here once he got out,
Sigmund thought darkly.

He wanted to hug this girl, to comfort her from this dreadful experience, but he didn’t. Instead, Sigmund took the girl’s hand with a careful touch. He didn’t want to alarm her or give her reason to think that he would hurt her. Speaking softly and kindly, he said, “Please, come with me. Let’s find where you belong.”

The woman didn’t look at Sigmund, but also didn’t pull her hand away. Despite his gentle urging she stayed still, eyes roaming the room. When her gaze fell on the unconscious orderly, the man that was just attacking her and had evidently attacked her before, her eyes stopped moving. There was a brief moment of focus and then she fell to her knees next to Mr. Baker and started slamming her fists into his body. She made grunting sounds with each hit, teeth bared in pure fury.

Sigmund wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t blame the anger and retribution she was dealing to this man, but he wondered if she would ever stop. Her arms raised and fell repeatedly, hitting the orderly all over, his chest, his stomach, his face. After a particularly vicious hit to the groin, Sigmund pulled her off of him.

She struggled for a minute, her thin nightgown and hair damp from perspiration, but eventually calmed down. Sigmund brushed the hair from her face and saw that the fury was gone. She was back to a state of seeming ignorance. Again taking her hand, he was now able to guide her towards the door. Exiting the room, he led her to the women’s wing and wondered if he would need to pick the lock. He was happy to find that the double doors were open.

The other side was a hallway that was nearly identical to the men’s wing – at least, it looked similar in the darkness. At this point, Sigmund wasn’t sure where to take her. Looking at her, he said, “It’s time for sleep. Do you know where your bed is?”

The woman still didn’t look at him, but started walking down the hallway. He followed, curious if she knew where she was going, and about half way down, she turned to a door, opened it and walked inside. Sigmund stayed at the doorway and watched as her dark figure walked to an empty bed and laid down.

Back on the landing, Sigmund closed the women’s wing doors and then leaned his back against them. Adrenaline was starting to ebb from his system and the fatigue he had earlier came back with a vengeance. There was at least one more task he needed to perform. What would he do with Mr. Baker?

Back in the community room, the orderly was right where Sigmund had left him – unconscious on the floor. He regarded the man, no, not a man, this creature, this monster that preys on the helpless, and felt an increasing hatred for him. Blood now trickled out of Mr. Baker’s nose and bruises grew on his face from the pummeling he had received. Despite the pitiful appearance, part of Sigmund still wanted to hurt the man further, maybe even kill him. It was a sobering thought, one that made Sigmund question his own morality. Taking a life is no small matter. However, this man had been caught trying to rape a woman and had said he’d done it before. Surely any punishment would be deserved.

After a mighty internal struggle, Sigmund decided to let the orderly live and let the police handle him. In the shape Mr. Baker was in, he would be unable to attack anyone for a while and by then, Sigmund would be out of this place and would have him arrested. Somehow it didn’t feel like enough punishment, but it was a start.

Sigmund now needed to decide what to do with the unconscious body. Leaving him where he was would raise many alarms and might make his future nightly investigations more difficult. How could such a beating be explained? Then it hit him; there was a way.

Taking one of the ankles of the orderly, Sigmund dragged him towards the door. He wasn’t at all careful to dodge tables and chairs and enjoyed the bumps that the orderly took as he knocked into obstacles. Outside of the room, on the second floor landing, Sigmund dragged the body to the edge of the stairs. Pausing to listen, he was satisfied that no one was around. A quick search of the orderly’s pockets turned up exactly what Sigmund was looking for, a flask. Opening it, he took a whiff and scrunched his face in disgust. Sigmund was not a refined drinker, but this drink smelled like it was made in a bedpan. Cheaper than cheap. Before putting the cap back on, he poured a bit on the orderlies clothes, and then replaced the receptacle.

Grabbing the ankle again, he proceeded to drag the man down the stairs. A satisfying
thump
sounded after each step. At the bottom, Sigmund arranged the unconscious body to make it look like it had fallen down the stairs.

It wouldn’t take much to conclude that the man got drunk and had fallen down the steps. The bruises and blood would just be part of the evidence. If Sigmund had any good fortune, the orderly himself might not know anything different. Even if he did, Mr. Baker certainly wasn’t going to admit to attempted rape.

With that now taken care of, Sigmund turned his attention to where the man and the wheeled-chair had gone. He hadn’t heard the squeak in some time and couldn’t see an obvious way to go. There were a few doors, but which one? None gave evidence of any light behind them. Letting out a sigh, he decided that he had had enough risk for one night, he would have to take up his investigation tomorrow.

Perhaps The Beast would be back or maybe Basil could explain some of this. One thing was certain, Sigmund would get to the bottom of things. His motivation was no longer just for his family, but now he had added motivation to help those who simply couldn’t help themselves – the poor souls of Bedlam.

21.

The man wheeled the unconscious patient through the dark corridors of the asylum basement. He admitted to himself a hint of selfishness in this choice, Roland Oxley – The Beast of Bedlam. The latest serum was ready, but The Beast was not a perfect candidate. Still, it was too interesting to pass up the opportunity to find out what effect would it have on this, this creature.

The original serum flowed through the man’s veins, heightening his scientific mind. It was strange how so many things, such as bloated morality, melted away in the face of pure science. Was it morality that justified this patient’s existence? Not only does he contribute nothing to society, he is a detrimental aspect of it. A vicious being that wants only to hurt others. No, morality is incorrect. This creature will not be missed. His sacrifice, which this no doubt will be, will once more bring an ounce of dignity, of usefulness, where none could otherwise be found – that is morality!

Loading the patient onto the basement lab table was difficult, but the man had taken no chances with such an unstable person. He had drugged The Beast into complete unconsciousness while in his cell. With the patient finally arranged on the table, the man strapped him down securely, removed the leather face mask, and cringed at the pathetic sight. The filthy clothes were in tatters, the skin underneath was bruised and stained, and the man’s mass of hair was a tangled mess. The smell nearly brought tears to one’s eyes.

Pushing the disgust aside, the man focused on his task. Filling his syringe with the newest version of the serum, he turned and injected it into The Beast’s carotid artery.

Now he waited. In his mind’s eye, he imagined the serum flowing up the patient’s artery, being distributed by the Willis Circle and finally flooding the brain, adjusting, altering, and hopefully healing this addled mind. The man talked a little to the patient, but was more keen on observing.

It took nearly twenty minutes until The Beast stirred. The man stood up and leaned in to look closely at the face. The body struggled and jolted, as one does in a dream but then the eyelids opened revealing two blue eyes staring back up.

“Hello, Roland,” the man said in greeting, wondering how far his serum had penetrated the madness.

The patient grunted and struggled harder and then said through clenched teeth, “Dominic.”

“What was that?” the man asked.

The Beast stared at the man and screamed the word, “DOMINIC!” Then, while struggling, he started yelling over and over, “I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him! Dominic! I’ll KILL HIM!”

The man examined the restraints to make sure they were holding and saw that they were. He asked, “Who is Dominic?”

The Beast didn’t respond, just kept struggling and yelling. Under normal circumstances, such yelling would raise alarms, but in Bedlam it was as normal a sound as there was.

The man continued to try to talk to the patient, asking questions, making comments, but there was no breaking through the clear anger for this ‘Dominic.’

Although there were some signs of improvement – understandable verbal communication – the patient was still in the grips of insanity. The man looked at The Beast and decided that there was not much to be gained by this experiment. He would need another subject. He cursed his poor choice of test subject and silently concluded that he would not make such an error again.

At this point, all that was left to do was wait for the eventual headache and death that followed.

After two hours the patient had calmed down, due to exhaustion, but was still alive. This was much longer than previous subjects and the man started to wonder if the experiment was perhaps not useless after all. He walked close to the patient and asked, “How are you feeling?”

The question started The Beast back to struggling and screaming.

An excitement started growing in the man as he wondered if he had finally made a breakthrough? His serum was not killing the subject! He again cursed his selfishness at choosing such a poor patient and now wondered how to handle the situation. Drug The Beast into unconsciousness once more and put him back in his room? What if he improved more? Would he talk about this experiment and give away the secret of the lab?

Despite the man’s fervor and righteous indignation, he knew full well that society in general would not approve of his approach. They were wrong, of course, but he couldn’t allow anything to stop him from achieving his goal, especially if this was truly a breakthrough. The irony of his solution being his possible downfall was not lost on him. If the serum worked and this patient continued to get better, it could mean the premature end of all he had worked towards. No, The Beast would need to be
released
.

Turning away from the subject, the man’s eyes scanned his lab table. He had not really prepared for this outcome, but knew that one of his chemicals would achieve the needed outcome. There, arsenic, that would do the job. Loading the syringe with a large and certainly lethal dose of the drug, he turned back to Roland Oxley, The Beast, strapped to the table. The man stepped closer and fought a sudden and unexpected hesitation. This would be the first time that he had directly taken a life. Death had been a by-product of his experiments, but this injection was no experiment, it was directly ending this creature.

He scoffed at himself for such mundane concerns and stepped next to bed. Despite his inner bravado, the hand holding the syringe shook. His stomach felt ill and he could feel sweat on his brow.
Do it!
he yelled in his mind.
Do it!
Then out loud, “Do it!” The needle pierced The Beast’s skin and the man pushed the down on the plunger.

It was done.

22.

Sleep did not come easy for Charlotte since her admission to Bedlam. The cold was constant and the bed was hardly better than the floor. As bad as that was, the sounds were worse. Normally she would acclimate herself to the point of not noticing them, but in this place, each cry, each wail, even each laugh was born from mental misery. To turn them into background noise that was to be ignored would feel akin to a lack empathy and Charlotte could not allow that to happen. Perhaps they were no more than random noises made by a person who had no concept of happiness or sadness, but that in itself was sad. In many cases, Charlotte knew, the mournful sounds were the limited expressions of an inarticulate pain – inarticulate not for lack of desire, but for lack of ability. Her heart hurt for these individuals while she wondered about the fairness, or lack thereof, of the universe.

It was Friday morning which meant it was Charlotte’s fifth day in the asylum and she marveled at how quickly she had fallen into a routine. Wake, eat breakfast, and spend the rest of the day with Jena and Anne, reading, discussing books, the people around them, the staff, and their favorite pastime – discussing food.

Charlotte swung her legs out of bed and started to get dressed when she noticed the slim and austere figure of Mrs. Rathbone, the chief female orderly, standing in the doorway scanning the room. When Rathbone caught sight of Charlotte, she said, “Come with me, Miss Caine.” Never one to mince words.

Knowing better than to make her wait, Charlotte finished dressing quickly and walked to the doorway. At Mrs. Rathbone’s side, the usual black dress looking perfectly morbid, Charlotte asked, “Where are we going?”

“It is time for your evaluation with Dr. Madfyre,” Rathbone answered flatly and led them wordlessly down the stairs from the second floor landing to the ground level.

A nervousness started to creep up Charlotte’s spine. Had she been found out? If so, she at least knew that she already had more than enough information for her article. Still, she wanted to see it through and leave on her own terms. Anything less than that would feel unsatisfactory, like a stone was left unturned. However, she reminded herself, her actions should not have given herself away. This was likely, as Mrs. Rathbone said, just an evaluation.

On the ground floor, Rathbone led her near the room that Charlotte was first put in and burned by Mr. Pegg. She breathed a sigh of relief as they passed that room and headed to another one that had a plaque on it reading ‘Dr. Madfyre’. Mrs. Rathbone knocked curtly on the door.

Charlotte could hear a man’s voice from inside say, “Come.”

Rathbone looked at Charlotte and said, “The doctor will see you now.”

Charlotte watched as the Chief Orderly walked away, wondering what kept the woman so placid, so unaffected in a place like this.

“Come,” said the voice again from inside the office, a little louder this time.

Letting out a breath, Charlotte opened the door. This large room was starkly different from the first small, bare room she had been in. A wide, beautiful oak desk was the first thing her eyes focused on. Neat and organized with a few stacks of paper. Behind the desk, on the far wall, were built-in shelves, filled with all manner of books. Near the shelves was a pedestal that contained a marble bust of some thoughtful figure. The greater part of the room was set up as a sitting area with three leather couches and a coffee table. The floor was covered with an exquisite burgundy oriental rug and the tan walls were decorated with paintings of peaceful spring scenes. It was, by a wide margin, the nicest room she had been in since she entered the asylum. It felt strange and sadly out of place.

Sitting behind the desk was Dr. Madfyre himself, his heavy gaze upon her. She tried not to stare at his left eye, which was a mechanism of lenses, nor at the scars that tainted his otherwise normal face. His greying mustache and pointed goatee were precisely groomed while his hair was in perfect order. Charlotte had been used to being with other patients who had limited grooming abilities, so being in the presence of such a well-dressed man made her feel quite unpleasant. She tried to smooth down her red hair, but knew that there was little she could do to improve her appearance in any meaningful way.

Indicating an empty chair, Dr. Madfyre said, “Please sit down, Miss Caine.”

Charlotte took the offered seat and kept her eyes low. Part of her wanted to appear meek, but what helped keep her eyes averted was the fact that she was truly intimidated by this man. She could sense his gaze on her which was an increasingly familiar feeling here. The time ticked by without a word.
Please say something
, she thought, wishing he could read her mind, wishing that this silent interrogation would end.

Finally, mercifully, Dr. Madfyre asked, “Miss Caine, do you know why you are here at Bedlam?”

In a quiet voice she answered, “I heard music, sir. Music when there was not any.”

“Anything else?” His eye hardly blinked.

“Yes, sir. Although I was outside of Waterloo Station, I thought I was at a ball and tried to dance with passing strangers.”

“Has this happened to you before?”

“No, sir, never.”

“And since that day?”

“No, sir. I’ve heard no music other than the piano playing by Priscilla, which everyone can hear.” Charlotte saw a subtle twitch at the mention of Priscilla and watched as Dr. Madfyre rubbed the scars on his face.

Moving his hand from his cheek to his goateed chin, he again stared at her. It felt different from the first examination, it was like he was figuring her out.
This must be what an arithmetic problem feels like under the scrutiny of a student
, mused Charlotte. Musings aside, the stare quickly became uncomfortable and she started to fidget with her hands in her lap.

After a minute or so, which felt much longer, Dr. Madfyre said, “I feel you have a deep hurt, Miss Caine.” Charlotte immediately thought of her late husband and wondered if this doctor did know who she was. Without a response from her, Madfyre continued, “You see, humans are built to defend themselves. If someone was to throw a rock at you, you would instinctively put your hands up to protect from being hit. Get too close to a hot stove and we pull away quickly. That protection is of a physical nature, but our minds can react similarly with
emotional
dangers.”

Charlotte understood the physical part, but was not sure what he meant by referring to protection from emotional danger. She listened closely as he went on to say, “If we suffer a deep emotional pain in our life, our mind may choose to protect us by creating an alternate reality – someplace nice, safe. This is a desperate maneuver, not at all common, but seems to have happened in your case. Tell me, Miss Caine, have you suffered any great emotional pain?”

Charlotte was not expecting this line of questioning at all.
Wasn’t acting insane enough?
She had not prepared herself for this kind of reasoning and had no protection for the emotions that were now welling up. Thoughts of her husband and the pain of his loss were assaulting her. Tears started to well in her eyes and she nodded in answer to his question.

“Take your time, Miss Caine,” he said in a flat voice, as if this was just an expected delay, like waiting for a train. He handed her a handkerchief which she took to dab her eyes.

Dr. Madfyre asked again, “Tell me, what pain have you endured?”

She looked at the doctor with her red eyes and wondered how she should continue. Not wanting to be discovered as a fraud patient was still in the back of her mind, but her main thoughts were about opening up her emotions to this man. Perhaps this was a good thing. She eventually decided on the truth of her pain. It was not an uncommon story and should give away nothing as to her actual identity.

“My husband died the night of the Grimkraken Battle.”

“Was he a soldier?”

“No,” she said as tears started to flow down her face, “He was on the ground trying to help with the fires. He went into a building to save a child and never came out.” Charlotte was now crying fully. She had avoided talking about her husband for quite some time and now to speak plainly about him was proving very difficult. Her hurt was much stronger than she realized. Such a thin callous it must have been that covered the wound to be pained again so easily.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Madfyre said with perhaps a touch of sincerity. “But this explains very much as to your condition. The pain of losing your husband seems to have finally caught up to you and your mind created an alternate reality to protect you from such hurt.”

Charlotte had to remind herself that the alternate reality was merely a ruse to get admitted, but the pain was not. There was nothing make-believe about the sorrow for her husband. As she calmed herself down, she asked with trembling lips, “How do I get better?”

“I think with time and perhaps some calming medicines, you can be helped. Escaping the pain may feel good, but it will not assist your healing. We need to keep you in
this
reality to face the hurt straight on.”

She nodded subtly in agreement. Old feelings of despair and melancholy were growing in the pit of her stomach, while a familiar cold darkness was spreading through her mind. These were the emotions that she had in the aftermath of her husband’s death. How hard she had battled these depressive thoughts. She had fought with every ounce of her soul and believed the battle was won by her, a victory over the depression. But it wasn’t a victory after all – that was clear now. The feelings were back and they were as strong as ever. A viciousness of thought and a battering of defeat was possessing her spirit. Oh, how she missed Edmund.

The haunting questions came back: Why him? Why her? Would she ever be happy again?

The rapidness of all these dark emotions completely destroyed her meager and woefully unprepared defenses. Charlotte wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to become smaller, more self-contained. It was a physical reaction to her emotional state. Her entire world was crashing in on her like a collapsing star and she didn’t know what, if anything, would emerge.

“Come,” Dr. Madfyre said. “Let me take you back upstairs. I think we are done for now.”

She again nodded quietly and then followed him in a near mindless trance. The short journey up the steps and to the her wing was a brief unconscious passing of space and time. He left her at the double doors and she wordlessly went to her room and straight to her bed. She curled up on the uncomfortable mattress, pulled the threadbare blanket over her, and withdrew. She had no use for anything or anyone. The simple state of being alive was overwhelming. Consciousness hurt.

Where was the emotional protection from this?