The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls

by Emilie Autumn

Chloe and I didn’t sleep that night. We talked about everything from what kind of music I made to the Hollywood goth clubs that she used to frequent when she had been happy. I told her that I always ended up dancing on a table, and she told me that she always ended up taking off her shirt. At four o’clock, the nurses came. Chloe got out of bed, and so did I. She was shaking. I held her tightly and told her that I loved her. She told me she loved me too. Then, Chloe switched off; she put her head down, went limp, and let the nurses fold her into the wheelchair they had brought to take her away. Once Chloe was gone, I tore the corner of the previous day’s Asylum letter into the shape of a heart. Upon the heart, I wrote Chloe a note. I told her that, soon, when she got out of here, she was to go directly to the club we had talked about. There, I wrote, she would find me dancing on a table, and she’d better be prepared to take her shirt off. I never saw Chloe again.