The Asylum Confessions (The Asylum Confession Files, #1)

by Jack Steen

Never eat the food provided by a funeral home. Ever.

“Better be careful. The last person to make fun of my laugh died that night.”

I would stand in front of the corpses for hours, mesmerized by the death mask on their faces. Each told a different story and yet, in the end, they all said the same thing.

maybe working here fstops the compulsion that would otherwise place you in here as a prisoner.

Maybe I’m just an ordinary old man accused of horrendous acts. I’ve never admitted my guilt, have I, Jack?

My family was always fascinated with death. Not because of the morbid subject matter. Not because we fancied ourselves to be more than we were…but because we understood that in death, there is life.

Death isn't the end. It’s only the beginning.

The day he opened that door for me, my life changed in ways I could never have imagined.

Death Eaters are people like you and me. Society has always needed us, Jack. Always. Death Eaters are those who live among the dead, who help prepare others for what life entails following death.

My father was a Death Eater. It’s why people gravitated to him like they did. He took the darkness so they could walk in the light.

This story … it’s not an admission of guilt. It’s a story of acceptance. It’s a story of life beyond death. It’s a story I know you’ll understand, Jack. I know because you’re just like me. A Death Eater. We all find our own ways of coping. I found mine. You have yours.

it was like living in two large houses. Except one of the dwellings was full of dead people and happened to have a crematorium attached to it. But other than that…well, it was home.

In order to live, one must first die…wasn’t

So many times, I can remember him sitting at the kitchen table, his nose stuck in a book while shoveling the food into his mouth, never noticing what he ate or the amount of work it took to make those meals.

was probably twelve when I made my first real meal. Spaghetti with homemade meatballs.

My father was often busy and appreciated having a hot meal waiting for him on the table. It’s what a wife would do for her husband, isn’t it? What’s so wrong with a child doing the same? Sure, he taught me how to cook…what’s so wrong with that? Life skills, it’s what parents are supposed to teach their children, aren’t they?

I still remember that stew. Tongue, potatoes, carrots, and beans. Nothing fancy and yet perfect for the family. Their grandfather used to lead the church choir back in the day. The old man was known to belt out his favorite songs in the nursing home, I think.

Father liked to make meals relatable to the person and family, if you didn’t guess that all ready.

You think love is beneath me or beyond my capability? Just because they call me a psychopath doesn’t mean I’m incapable of love.

What’s that nursery rhyme…the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker? In my case it was the butcher, the baker, the body caretaker.

The closer death gets the more I think about how it all began. That’s when I learned what happiness tasted like. I crave that taste now.

My father had one freezer in the basement. I installed the second and the third. My father only ever used the meat from one source. I…expanded that a little.

I was eighteen when my father unlocked the door to the basement and invited me into his world. I was eighteen when my life was changed…forever.

The heart is like a capsule, locking in our essence. Did you know that, Jack? It’s who we are as a person. It’s loaded with protein and vitamins and for an organ that is constantly working, it’s surprisingly tender. I’ve often thought about what your heart would taste like. Would it be hard? Tough? Difficult to chew? No. I have a feeling your heart would melt-in-my-mouth after it’s been marinated with some garlic butter.

Humans were born hunters, with a thirst for red meat, regardless of its form.

Ancient hunters knew what it took to honor the dead. You didn’t leave anything to rot. Everything had a purpose.

Jack, your own ancestors practiced cannibalism, and a few centuries ago they used to think that partaking in human flesh, bone, blood and even urine would cure the most common ailments.

Hunters used to marinate the heart with salt and pepper, a little bit of vinegar and thyme, and then fry it over an open flame. My favorite is if you rub it with ground chile peppers and cumin and then skewer it with shards of onion and peppers. Or if you stuff it with bacon, garlic salt, onion, and celery… My point, cannibalism isn’t new.

Sorry, I can see you don’t share my passion for the preparation of food. A l...

I don’t have much time left. I know death is waiting with welcoming arms and I’m okay with that. But you, Jack? Are you ready?

Preacher and I often speculated what would be in the basement. He wanted it to be a man cave. I thought there might be some dead bodies buried beneath the floors. I was partially right. There were parts of dead bodies in that basement, but, they were in the freezer, not buried beneath the floor.

There you have it, Jack. My confession. For what it’s worth. Did I know about the frozen organs in the freezer beneath the floorboards of the home I grew up in? Was I aware that my father would harvest these organs and then fry, broil, sauté or bake said organs and feed to multiple grieving families? Yes. I knew.

You would think I’d be scared. Nervous. Frightened. Shocked. Horrified. Confused. Any normal person would be. I just smiled. Smiled as if I’d just been handed the world’s largest lollipop and told I could take all the time I wanted in sucking it. I was so hard, too. My father slapped my back and laughed as if he knew the effect this had on me. I dream of that day. I've replayed that moment in my head over and over and over. That was the day I really became a man.

He shared with me our history, introduced me to the life I’d been waiting for, like an unmet craving. Well, that craving has never gone away. It’s never left me. Even now, when I know my time is up, the craving is still there. It hurts, the desire, the drive, the need…and especially knowing there is nothing I can do to fulfill it. This is what hell is all about.

No, we never ate my mother’s organs. It was her one request to my father before she took her own life. He burned her body as requested and buried her in our garden, untouched, untasted, undefiled. Her words. Not mine. Not Father’s. Hers.

Each harvest is based on a person’s character, their life. Except for the first. The first is always the same. The heart. The heart is the essence of a person. It’s who they are at the core, without the dressings, without the masks, without the persona they feel they need to be.

It’s not hard to harvest the heart from a body, and it’s quite easy to trim; you just cut everything that doesn’t look like a muscle. You slice it open, trim all the light-colored spongy pieces you missed when trimming it, and then cook it as soon as possible.

A family member would be there in the beginning but then we would suggest they return home to rest and be with those who are living. The dead no longer need to be accompanied on their journey.

It’s always about the heart. That was something my father always stressed. Finding the love within and sharing it with others. Being there when they need support.

I’ll admit that the nefarious act thrilled me as well. Not just thrilled me but excited me. Filled me. Nothing else compared and I won’t apologize for that.

Note: Chef’s story is told and I’m watching him die with a smile on his face.

Oh, by the way, you don’t think I’m a nice guy, do you?

There’s no love lost between us, but I think I’m the better man.

An alcoholic never starts with the intention of being addicted. They took one sip. Go through one crisis. Realize things didn’t hurt as much when they drank. All it takes is one step. One step to destroy the perfect life or to create it.

And my fucking fault she died without hearing the words I love you from me one last time.

Back in the day, they grew most of the food and did the utmost to make sure people forgot about the Asylum’s existence unless absolutely necessary. In those days, the shit they used to do to inmates made Hitler look like a fucking tooth fairy.

When the first pain of birth started, I heard my baby ask if it was safe to come out. Daddy, he was on the front porch with a visitor. He told me it wasn’t safe to come down, to make a sound and so I told my baby that too. I think that’s why when she came out of my body, she was so quiet. She knew it wasn’t safe. My first baby. She’s the one I miss the most.

He held me as I found a large rock, larger than my fist, and with his knife, I etched a crude heart on its surface. He held me as we said a prayer for the baby that had died in the well. My first baby and I killed her when all I’d wanted to do was protect her.

He forgave me, you know? Forgave me for what I’d done to him. He said it wasn’t my fault that he died. It wasn’t my fault I killed him. I was only trying to protect my baby. Like any mother would.

How can love between two people be so evil?