I follow Suseas up a stone stairwell with oil lamps mounted on the walls and a draft that carries the faint odor of damp towels that have been sitting in a corner for weeks. The stairs twirl upward, revealing a door at each loop.
We pass three doors before entering the intricate section. The marble floor in the waiting room transitions into white and black checkerboard tiles. She explains to me that halfway down the hallway, we will hit an intersection. The left hall leads to the dining area, the middle hall contains the treatment rooms, and to the right are the patients’ quarters; thirteen, to be exact.
“In the morning, you will be assigned a patient as your charge for the day and a schedule of the treatments they will undergo. Your job is to make sure they get fed, complete their treatments, and report their vitals before and after, as well as recording general notes about the visit. It sounds easy enough, but the treatments can be very long and agonizing for the patient. Each session has a purpose, sometimes religious and sometimes scientific. Our council members digest your reports and determine their next treatment, so it is vital that each conformist conduct a detailed investigation on their assigned patient.”
“What is your success rate?” I interrupt.
“Pardon?”
“Your success rate. How many of these patients are cured and make it back to their families and day-to-day lives?”
She blinks, and her lips part. “Oh, well, we have recorded countless improvements on vast behavioral issues, but their overall mental statuses always remain unchanged. The end goal really isn’t to cure them. Although there are priests that would disagree. The purpose is to keep them away from civilization. To protect the public from them. They are natural-born killers. They don’t have souls, most would argue.”
I pretend hooks are cutting into the sides of my face, holding my facial muscles still, the skin stretched. It’s harder than I thought to not let my body betray me.
“And what is your mortality rate?”
Her jaw comes out in annoyance. “We don’t keep track of that statistic, but there are some that perish in trials that are harsher than others.” She looks down at the floor, understanding that there isn’t any progress resulting from these practices. “But that’s really the point of this interview, to make sure you understand the costs.”
“Can you tell me about the different treatments?”
“Of course. Now, keep in mind that the purpose of the treatments is not to be cruel or for anyone’s entertainment. This has just been the way and law of the asylum for decades.”
I adjust my weight to my other leg. It sounds more like she’s trying to convince herself that what they’re doing here isn’t so bad—isn’t so evil.
“The beginning treatments for a new patient, depending on the severity of their case, would start with hydrotherapy. Many of the patients who are first admitted come in with manic-depressive psychosis. This treatment helps increase energy with a forty-eight degree temperature.”
I scoff. “Yes, I’m sure being blasted with ice-cold water would wake anyone up.” I bite the inside of my cheek. I’m not making a good impression. I can’t let my feelings about this place get the best of me.
She keeps going as if I hadn’t interrupted at all. “Chair binding is another treatment we use for those that have hyperactive personalities or religious nervousness. The straps are bound so tightly it slows down the circulation to relax them for about eight hours.”
Pause.
“There’s also simulated drowning, electroconvulsive therapy, chemically induced seizures, and as a last resort to the most uncontrollable of patients… Lobotomies are a surgical procedure on the brain that removes elements that corrupt their behavioral traits.” She sighs. Taps her fingers together in thought.
A quick glance at her watch. “Now that we’ve gone over some of the basics… I need to introduce you to some of the treatments in person. To most, they are extremely difficult to watch and even harder to inflict upon another human. This is merely to observe your reaction to ensure you have the stomach for this.”
A sharp, ice-cold chill runs up the back of my neck to my scalp, prickling over my hair follicles like the bristles of a hairbrush.
We don’t bother to tour the dining hall or the patient’s dormitories. She’s going to test me. I can imagine this is the part where most candidates fail the interview. Fortunately for me, Scarlett would explain to me in vivid detail what went on in these treatments. The first time I heard about the scalding bath therapy, I had violent nightmares about it for days and trembled uncontrollably while she told me exactly what she saw. After a couple of years being her trusted late-night companion to talk to, I grew a thick layer of skin that could fend off the sickly visions painted so delicately by Scarlett’s stories.
I walk directly behind her to the middle hallway. She has a pep in her step, gliding over the tile as if there are tiny wheels on the bottoms of her shoes. The ceilings are ominously high, with rib vault arches and brass chandeliers hanging low overhead. The doors match the dark copper color of the lights, and they all have small windows at eye level. In the first door, I see small white tiles and five water jets coming from each wall. Inside is a naked woman being tossed around by the intense pressure of the cold water. Her screams are hoarse and choppy as her mouth fills with water.
Hydrotherapy.
In the second room to my left, an older man is strapped down to a table. His arms, head, and legs are bound with two white bulbs connected to his temples, and his body is convulsing and thrashing about. I don’t hear any sound coming from this room. Electroconvulsive therapy.
As we approach the third room, Suseas stops walking. “Simulated drowning. This treatment is particularly hard for newcomers to watch. Our basic instinct is to breathe to stay alive. Depriving someone of that makes it easy to curb their indecent tendencies and train their minds to obey behavioral correction. However, it is a long and exhausting process on both ends. We hold the patient’s head underwater for thirty seconds. Even though a human in good health can hold their breath on average of around two minutes, the panic and adrenaline rush causes a greater need of oxygen, and the fear of drowning is painful enough to bring about a very effective treatment.” Suseas touches the doorknob with the tips of her fingers, caressing it like the room itself holds a special place in her heart.
“Indeed, that does sound effective.” I hold my hands together to keep them from shaking.
“Take a deep breath. This might appear shocking at first, but after a few trials, we get used to it and eventually desensitize to it entirely.”
I do as she says and suck in a deep, choppy breath. She pulls a lever attached to the door and twists it clockwise until the door clicks and a burst of cold air comes out.
“The room temperature is set to fifty-three degrees Fahrenheit. It creates an even more uncomfortable setting for the wet patient,” she notes as we walk through the door. The chilled air sweeps over my face, identifying this room as the culprit for the stench of mildew and wet towels, also underlined with a concoction of saliva and sweat.
There is a bathtub in the center of the room. An older man crouches down on his knees, and Meridei sits on a stool with a clipboard in hand. The man’s white jumpsuit is stuck to his light-brown skin, saturated with cold water, dripping down the back of his neck and quivering arms. Metal clamps are connected to the long ends of the tub and locked around his neck, secured over the back of his head.
“May I remind you, Chekiss… You decide when this stops. I can imagine this is quite unbearable, with your sore lungs inflamed and the muscles in your neck tender to the touch. You can end the session right now with a single word.” The sneering, black-haired woman called Meridei rests her onyx eyes on him, unamused, unfazed by what she is about to do to him. I try to keep my breathing steady, focusing on making my inhalations and exhalations slow.
“This is Meridei. She’s worked as a conformist for about five and a half years now. She’s the most skilled at simulated drowning. She keeps her improv of questions and lectures smooth and to the point to make it easier on everyone.” Suseas smiles warmly at Meridei. Easier, huh? Is everyone here completely mad?
“Chekiss has been a patient in the intricate section for a very long time. He was admitted for murdering his wife and daughter. He is mute and will not cooperate with any of the conformists here. For the first year, we kept him on hydrotherapy and electroconvulsive therapy. Since that had no effect on him, we have decided to try this as we have come to the conclusion that his silence is by choice, and his uncooperative attitude—deliberate.”
I keep my eyes on Chekiss. His body remains still, his hands bound behind his back. He isn’t shaking from the cold or moaning from the pain. He is still, like the softness of waves before a storm.
“Miss Ambrose, can you sign this for me? It’s a nondisclosure agreement. You are not permitted to share with anyone what you see within this section today.”
That didn’t stop Scarlett.
I sign quickly, pressing down hard on the clipboard to keep my hand from trembling.
“Meridei, please continue.” Suseas waves her hand once. My stomach twists in three different directions. Meridei’s head drops down to her shiny black box. She pushes a button that lowers the anchor around his head into the cold water. He doesn’t resist or convulse. I expected the person undergoing this treatment to be outraged, flailing about uncontrollably. But Chekiss seems to have mentally prepared himself for this. He keeps his body relaxed while his head has been dunked in the water.
My hand clenches into a fist, my fingernails curling into the bed of my palms. A ripple of fight or flight pulses over me. I want to pull him free, and I want to do it now.
Meridei watches her clock, counting the thirty seconds.
Out of pure empathy, my breath catches in my throat, and I hold it.
Twenty-five seconds go by, and his hands tighten. His body goes rigid, and he begins to flail. Chekiss’s knees knock against the wet floor hard. My lungs are set ablaze for him, burning and tightening like a severe muscle cramp.
Three more seconds.
A grunt gurgles from under the water as his frail body manages to loosen a few screws on the clamps from the thrashing. Meridei clicks a button, and the anchor is arched back up, dragging his upper body from the pool of ice water. He gasps for air through raspy windpipes. Coughing from small, but not fatal, intakes of water.
Meridei presses the button again, and he’s lowered back in the death tank. This time, he doesn’t have it in him to hold his breath as long. He’s tired from the last round, but he keeps still once more.
I wait for her to push the button impatiently. My heart vibrating like a power drill, and the muscles over my stomach hardening like a plate of armor. This time, he only lasts fifteen seconds before he begins convulsing again. His body bangs around against the tub and the metal restraints. Thirty seconds. He’s up gasping even harder for air.
I keep my hands pressed flat against my sides. I can’t show any signs of weakness. Even though I am writhing inside to knock Meridei off of her stool and release this man from bondage. I can’t help him, and it’s killing me inside. But that’s okay, as long as I don’t show it on the outside.
“Again,” Meridei says.
Again?! Look at him! He’s already suffering!
A jolt of heat reaches my face, prickling my forehead, and singeing the meat behind my eyes. How am I supposed to watch this every day?
The anchor lowers him down, and I hear a grunt to hold his breath. He lasts five seconds this time before the thrashing begins. I catch myself holding my breath because I can feel Suseas’s eyes sinking into me like the teeth of a python. This time Meridei lets him up after twenty seconds when it looks like he is about to intake water. He coughs violently over the side of the tub, saliva hanging from his mouth in long gooey strings.
“Tell me about your wife, Chekiss.”
Silence.
Her finger clamps down on the button. He shouts roughly before going under. Ten seconds this time before she lets him up.
“What was your mother’s name?” Her voice is louder to override his panting.
“Did you have siblings?”
More panting.
I can’t take this.
My heart is going to explode, swelling up before pressing against my rib cage and bursting within me.
He’s back under again. This time she leaves him under the full thirty seconds. Just when I think he won’t make it this time, he does. He’s an older man, but I can tell he’s a fighter by these last few rounds underwater. And if he really can speak like they predict, then he is far more stubborn than I am. I applaud him for this.
She pulls him back out violently, his body hanging like a limp noodle. His eyes are bulging and bloodshot; nostrils flaring, and his gaping mouth is howling like a dying animal.
“Why did you hurt your daughter?” Meridei presses another question. As predicted, he doesn’t answer.
This goes on for close to an hour. I fight the pressure building in the back of my throat—the swirling knot of nausea pulsing in my gut.
After it becomes clear that he won’t survive another round, Meridei hops off her stool, setting her clipboard down, and unlocks him from the machine. His quivering body falls limply to the floor. Blood drips from his nose. I fight the need to pick him up from the floor and tell him everything is going to be okay. Tell him that I’m going to get him out of here.
But Suseas’s eyes are fixated on my expressions, my stiff body language.
Meridei stands in front of Chekiss’s body while two guards lift him from the ground. As they turn to face the door, he looks up at me. Although his eyes are brimmed with tears and tiny red veins, they are a brilliant shade of green—like the slimy green algae gathered at the bottom of a pond. They’re peaceful, harmless eyes, despite the reason he’s here and the terrible treatment he just survived.
Suseas turns to face me with a satisfied smirk. “I’m impressed. Almost every girl I have brought into this room has left in tears.” She pauses, examining my empty face. “I could show you the other treatment rooms, but I think that would be a waste of time.”
“Why’s that?” Almost done. Almost done.
“Because it takes a special type of human to be able to watch something like this without flinching,” she states plainly.
You mean a sadist? A monster? Good to know.
“I’d like you to meet a couple of the other patients. Shall we?”
