A Madness So Discreet

by Mindy McGinnis

“Is it . . . ? Whoops-a-daisy,” Thornhollow said, righting Grace as she slumped in the chair.

Lmao is he serious? "Whoops-a-daisy"?

“And now, Grace, if you would please poke me in both eyes.” “I’m sorry?” “No need to apologize, you haven’t done it yet,” he said as he snapped his kit shut. “Now come here and have a go at me. If you need me to antagonize you a bit first, I can certainly do so.” Grace thought of Mrs. Clay. “I don’t believe that will be necessary,” she said, stepping toward him as he matter-of-factly held his own lids open. “No gouging. I simply need you to—CHRIST!” He wheeled away from her, hands up to his face. “Well done, well done,” he muttered, still covering his eyes with one hand as he leaned against the table. “I’ll be asking you to do worse things than that shortly, so it certainly bodes well that you’re willing.”

What in the world was that for?

“I rather enjoyed that,” she admitted to him as their driver touched the reins to the horses and the hoofbeats carried them into the night, thunder rolling to catch up to them. “I’m a bit surprised to hear it,” Thornhollow said, his face lost in the darkness. “I’d no doubt that you could look upon the horrific without flinching, but to actually enjoy it makes me wonder if perhaps I should truly shield poor ignorant men such as those we’re leaving behind us from you in the future.” “I’d not hurt them,” Grace said. “But men are always so—” she broke off, correcting herself. “Most men are always so proper in the presence of a lady. To hear men speak to other men as they would if I weren’t there was enlightening.” “And not to my gender’s credit, I’m sure,” Thornhollow said. “However, what you say is true and part of the reason why I agreed to take you with me from Boston in the first place. Your mind is quick, your attention to detail established, your memory infallible. But the bandages on your forehead—and the scars that will form—provide the perfect cover for all your assets. It’s established; you’re insane.” “And therefore I am not human,” Grace finished for him. “Precisely. Most people will assume you lack reason. They’re bound to say anything in front of you. Words that might pass when I’m out of earshot will be trapped by your meticulous mind. Within the bounds of the asylum you’re free to be more expressive, establish some relationships however you can without using yo...

“While medical science has come far and accomplished much, there is little we can do against the malignant beast of cancer. Falsteed has lost more than a few patients to the monster, and I’m afraid he developed a . . . bit of an obsession.” “I hardly think he can be called obsessive by wanting to treat the afflicted,” Grace said. “It is not treatment Falsteed delivers. When he was still a free man practicing his trade, Falsteed was known for searching out those who suffered from cancerous tumors. He performed surgeries for free, his only payment being that he kept the offending growth.” Grace shrugged. “Where is the crime in that?” “And then he ate them,” Thornhollow said.

Why Dr. Falsteed was in the asylum. Is it bad that I thought it would be something worse? I guess I've been exposed to too much.

If it was darkness you feared I would turn to while in his employ, fear not. The darkness has long lived inside me, sown if not by my nature then by nurture.

The meticulous nature of the planner can be misleading. If you have a killer who, say, drains the blood from all their victims, or removes the left hand consistently, the untrained want to say they are insane. But the definition of insanity—an inability to use rational thought—immediately precludes that they must, in fact, be sane.” “Not an easy thing for the average person to accept,” Grace said. “Most would want to believe that a fellow human being would have to be out of their mind to do such a thing.” “But they’re not. Far from it, in fact. Simply using the words sane and insane is a way for the population to draw a safe line through humanity, and then place themselves squarely on the side of the healthy.”

“So are we really that different? The healthy and the ill?” Grace asked. “I would argue there is no difference at all,” Thornhollow said. “To me the insane are simply people who have chosen not to participate in the world in the same manner as the majority, and there are days I wonder if they’ve got the right of it.” “You make it sound as if hardly anyone is insane with a definition as narrow as that.” “Quite the opposite; my definition is too broad. I think we’re all quite mad. Some of us are just more discreet about it.” “Surely there is such a thing as true insanity?” “There is,” Thornhollow said reluctantly, “but I would argue those cases are much fewer than most suspect. These walls exist for a reason, but there is no cause for there to be so many rooms inside.”

“The idea behind phrenology is that the brain is divided into certain parts, each part with a specific purpose. Within these parts are smaller areas that control certain functions that determine your personality.” He made smaller crosshatch marks within the sections. “So, for example, in a particularly brave person the part of the brain that handles courage would be overdeveloped. That section would be larger than others, pressing against the skull and reshaping it to create a subtle bump there. The theory is that a person trained in phrenology—as I am—would be able to feel the bumps and ridges of a person’s skull and intimate from them what their characteristics are.”

The pseudoscience of phrenology