Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Sanctuary

This one could have been better, but it was at least semi-well-received on /x/. December 2008.

May 14 1873
The new patient seems to be taking well to her surroundings. She still bites at the leather hand-cuffs and wails about her lost cat, but often new patients will bemoan the loss of something familiar for a period upon entering this prison. As for myself, I have finally repaired my violin, the only material possession they allowed me upon admittance. I have not played in years, and my fingers are stiff, but I shall make an effort to play again. Whether it is to soothe myself or the other patients is something even I do not know.

May 17 1873
Her name is Claire, the new one. I spoke to her through the window in my door to-day. She said she comes from Louisiana, and that she had run all the way to Delaware to try and escape what she called “the edges.” I do not know what “the edges” are, as the poor girl became so distraught at the mention of them that she did not continue with her story, but began weeping and whispering to herself. I could not hear what she was saying.

May 24 1873
She says she sees them now, here and there, when she is being led about by the nurses. Her case is a fascinating one, indeed. When she is not sobbing quietly to herself (for she has quit her habit of loudly mourning her apparently lost cat), she combs her long, silky brown hair. Would that I had hair like hers; it has been months since I tore my own out. My violin is not in tune, and alas! they will not grant me a tuning-fork, so I must make do with what my ears can tell me.

May 25 1873
Whispers among the nurses seem to tell of one of the orderlies disappearing for hours, only to reappear with his body wrought with wounds that did not cease their bleeding. Claire insists that “the edges” have begun claiming victims, and begs profusely to be put somewhere safe, where they cannot get to her. The nurses refuse her requests, of course. The nurses all but ignore us, such a shame. I asked to be spared some milk to-day, as I thought it necessary to my recovery from such a state as this one, but I was denied.

May 28 1873
Claire awoke with bruises and cuts covering her pale frame this morning, though I witnessed not a single person enter her chamber the night before. Peculiar as it sounds, the nurses believe that she had done it to herself, and though I cannot push my own mind to believe that poor Claire would do such a thing, it seems the only recourse to assume she somehow escaped her hand-cuffs and injured herself. Poor girl. My fingers are becoming less and less stiff.

June 3 1873
I have not seen a nurse in two days. Claire and I both are beginning to feel the effects of hunger and thirst set in. I have saved some bread from time to time, but I cannot get it to Claire's chamber. We are too far apart, and all I can do is play my strings to try to keep her calm. I am hungry.

June 4 1873
In the night I swear I heard something walking in the hall outside my chamber, but it was too dark to see anything. Claire must have heard it too, for she began screaming and kicking, reciting pieces from the Testament in a frenzied voice, and crying. Perhaps whoever it was had looked in on her, because this morning she would not speak, save for those familiar words of hers, “the edges...” I played for her until my fingers hurt.

Since I wrote my entry in the morning, much has come to pass. I spied a man in a Victorian-style cape glide past the window in my door only an hour or so ago. I did not see his face, but his shoulders were broad, and so I think he was a man. He made no sound as he moved, save for the same foot-step sound I heard last night. Claire whimpered and cried to herself, but tried to keep quiet, I presume. I am hungry; I have had nothing to eat in three days, and at times I feel light-headed and lose consciousness for minutes at a time. It is disconcerting. I wonder if Claire and I will be all right.

June 5 1873
This morning my chamber door was open. I had neither seen nor heard a thing in my restless, thirsty sleep last night, but somehow it was open before me. I was weak from hunger and thirst, but managed to open Claire's door as well, and we made for the kitchen. I had seen it once, while I was being led through the halls to what the nurses so generously termed “treatment,” but what I will not recount here, as it still disturbs me. When we arrived, we hadn't seen a soul, and there was not a one in the kitchen, either. Most of the fresh food was spoiled, but there were preserved foods in jars, upon which we fed ourselves. Claire's eyes were wide, and bloodshot, as if she had not slept for fear of something the whole night. Now we two sit together in the pantry, with the door pulled tightly shut, because just minutes ago Claire grabbed my arm and dragged me here to hide from the edges. I asked her if that man I had seen with the cloak was one of them, and she replied, with trembling and terror-stricken eyes, “yes.”

June 6 1873
While we slept, one of them took Claire. I awoke to find the door open and Claire missing. Perhaps it was not them, and perhaps she wandered off by herself. I played for some time, hoping she would return, but I neither heard nor saw anything. I am becoming lonely. I played some more, for myself this time.

June 9 1873
The doors to the outside are locked, and the windows seem to have been boarded up cleanly. I have walked the halls numerous times in the last days, and nary had I thought I heard something, when turned the corner to be faced with an empty hallway again. There is plenty of preserved food, and water, but I wonder about the nurses, and about the other patients, and about Claire, and about myself. I worry at times that perhaps this is a dream, that I am indeed as infirm as the doctors had declared. My fingers are cut from the strings, and my poor violin is smeared with blood. I had ought to clean it off.

June 20 1873
At least I believe it is the 20th. I cannot tell any more. I awoke with a start last night to see Claire rushing down a hallway and around a corner, but upon pursuit I found I could not discover her again. I had hoped vainly that she was indeed returned, but alas. I am beginning to run out of places to look, and the halls are becoming stale and brown. I have not hungered in a day, either. I dare not look into the glass, for my form was pale and gaunt the last time I did so. I do not wish to see myself as such. I will continue to play, in hopes that Claire or someone will hear, even though my fingers bleed when I touch the strings.

June 30 1873
Though I have plenty of food, I do not eat. Plenty of water, and I do not drink. I am without the urge to do so any more, it seems, since it finally happened. I say “finally,” though I do not know who was waiting for it. It just came about that I no longer felt pain, no longer felt cold, nor hunger, nor thirst. All I feel is loneliness. Will someone come and free me from here?

September 13 1873
I do not remember much of what has passed since my ink ran dry some months ago. It was only recently that I found another inkwell in a reception desk I had not thoroughly searched before. Yet still this misery of solitude drags onward. I have not seen a soul in so long.


Newspaper article from June 10 1873

Reports of foul play have surfaced concerning Portsmouth Asylum's baffling case of what was originally called mass murder. It seems that all the victims, both asylum workers and patients, were killed using a knife-like implement, though no weapon was found, nor were there any suspects in this rampage murder-spree. Of note were two patients who, having somehow escaped the killer in the first onslaught, perished some days later completely drained of blood. One was found in the pantry clutching a violin, and one in the basement treatment area. What puzzles detective so much was that the whole asylum was locked from the inside, and not a single route of escape was found. Rumours have begun to circulate about ghosts, but investigators are still pressing for some sort of logical conclusion.
That in mind, some investigators claim to have heard sobbing coming from the basement, and violin music from the pantry, long after all the bodies had been cleared away, and no logical source of the sound can be explained.

No comments:

Post a Comment