Writhe (Wellard Asylum)

by K.T. Maddan

“Here’s a secret, my dear fiancé,” I murmur, my voice sweet like honey. “I’ve been fucking Klaus for months. So, I suppose we’ve both been cheating . . . just with the same man. Isn’t that poetic?”

The court finds that the defendant, Eliza Marlowe, lacks the mental capacity to comprehend the nature of the proceedings against her, or to assist in her own defense. As such, the court declares her legally insane and unfit to stand trial at this time. The defendant will be remanded to the custody of Wellard Asylum for treatment until such time as she is deemed competent to proceed with legal adjudication.

Maybe I am just a problem—a Level 5 problem, neatly labeled and locked away.

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.”

A man stares at me from across the room. He’s so tall that he’s hunched over his canvas, but his eyes continue to glance over at me nervously. He’s so thin, his skin stretching over his bones, barely caging them in. His eyes are deep-set and dark, bottomless pits of nothingness. I blink a few times just to make sure I’m not looking at Slenderman, but his face is hauntingly real, painfully there. He has sickly, ghost-pale skin with lips that never part to speak but still twitch as the instructor goes over and talks to the person beside him. He’s mesmerizing. In the worst way.

It’s not about getting better, it’s about disappearing. We’re the unwanted, the broken things society doesn’t want to deal with.

“You lash out because you think it protects you. Because if you fight hard enough, maybe you won’t feel as powerless as you really are.”

She’s still awake, barely, her head tilted to the side, her lips parted slightly. Her breathing is slow, shallow. I wonder what she’s seeing. What she’s dreaming about. And for the first time, I wish I could ask.

The mind is a fragile thing. Even the strongest will bend under the right conditions.

No one gets food unless the doctor decides they’ve earned it. And I haven’t earned anything,

“Will I see you again?”

His screams are raw, high-pitched, feral. Like an animal being led to slaughter.

Eliza, on the other hand, is the opposite. Still. Contained. She is my perfect little doll. She stares at her book, fingers curled tight around the edges, but she isn’t reading. I know because I’ve been watching her—I always watch her. She hasn’t turned a page in ten minutes, she’s just pretending, trying to disappear inside of it. Trying to disappear from the world.