Chapter Text
The January sun is dragging bright grey clouds behind it. It’s as if the snow’s fallen up and collected in neat piles against the sky. Sooty trees reach up to the heavens after them, paper-white snow settled into their every line, and so the trees look drawn with ink pen and their creases the negative space. On the boulevard leading to the asylum, the trees loom over the road, as if peering at themselves in a river. One would be forgiven for mistaking the black oaks for a ribcage, closing in on the spine of the road.
It’s not an asylum, not anymore, but everyone still calls it such. “Treatment facility” is too much of a mouthful, and it’s still the old asylum in people’s hearts. And the old asylum stands rigid in the cold at the end of the street, a lone soldier at attention. The road leads right into a parking lot that wraps around the little building and to the back of it, freshly painted and dark with snowmelt. It glitters like flowing water, reflects the asylum’s ancient exterior back at it. It was once red brick, but as time’s gone on it’s bleached out in the sun, and there was once a fire. Now the mortar’s blackened, and the bricks have gone ashy.
As I pull into the parking lot, I stare up at the little building before me. It was no big-city facility with all the bells and whistles, not like where I’d earned my titles. There, all the walls were sterile-ivory. The smell of disinfectant lingered through every hall, and the hum-buzz of the ceiling lights was a familiar, comforting tune. The asylum couldn’t be more austere. Its windows let no light out, powdery and absent like the eyes of dead fish. The doors gape and swallow up a few men in coats, who come up the steps quickly and keep their heads down. I glance down at the crumpled paper slip on the middle console, then up at the building. Yes, I confirm with myself, swallowing. This is the place.
I grab up my bag and the slip before stepping out, pulling my coat tighter around me when the breeze hits. The wind slashes at my face, clawing my nose and cheeks red. I bat ice from my eyes and march on, up the steps with my head down, into the maw of the beast.
The air’s different inside. Stagnant as pond water, in a way that you expect it to be swimming with larvae or sickness. I cough into my hand, lungs still burning cold. I take a look at the slip again for the room number and continue on, keeping my eyes on the floor. I have to remind myself why I’m here. A knock at my door. Steely men in dark suits. A request— one which sounded more like a command— and a job opportunity. Perhaps they chose me because I’m new to Eastridge, and they didn’t expect me to know who the Doctor was. Slimy bastards.
I love my job. I like helping people. That’s what I tell myself as I approach the door, glaring at the rather ostentatious plaque plastered on the dark wood. “DR. HERBERT LANKMANN - CHIEF OF SURGERY” is embossed in gold on a little black rectangle. I knock. I really do love my job— usually. And usually, I work with polite old ladies, or military veterans with endless stories, or victims of car crashes and house fires. Not a man like him.
“Come in.” A low, sober voice responds from behind the door. Each syllable is laced with a faint grinding sound reminiscent of gears turning, like a great big clock slowly counting down.
Perhaps “man” isn’t the most fitting term for him. I confirm that with myself the moment I step inside and meet his gaze, and I have to fight not to recoil. Red, pupilless eyes stare back like bright lighthouse beams, carving holes through me with surgical precision. A black opera hat rests on his brow, obscuring his features, but I can make out stringy black hair and the faint outlines of a mangled mouth. Thick black robes sit high on his neck and reach his ankles, leaving his hands exposed, metal phalanges glinting in the faint light and appearing for a moment like knives. I shudder, chasing the words out of my throat.
“You, uhm… You must be Dr. Lankmann. I’m—“
“I know who you are.” He waves a hand as he cuts me off. My brow furrows, yet he pays my irritation no mind and continues on.
“Dr. Morris. A physical therapist, yes?”
“…Yes,” I answer, albeit hesitantly. Something in my chest tightens.
“Then you’re here for the open position.”
I nod, pushing my glasses up my nose. His head tilts minutely to the right, barely noticeable aside from the click-click-click of gears adjusting. My lips press into a thin line.
“How much do you know?” His voice lowers. At this volume, he almost sounds human.
“As much as I need to.”
“Then you’re aware of the incident.”
I was. It was all over the news when it happened: Dr. Clyde Lankmann, esteemed psychologist, found dead in his home after being mauled by a “wild animal” that had gotten into his estate. His son sustained severe injuries, and was kept in the hospital for nearly two years in recovery. They thought he’d never speak or walk again. I saw his picture in the paper at the time, and I remember thinking he wouldn’t make it. And here he was, sitting in front of me. Dauntless. A walking time capsule.
“I am. You made a miraculous recovery.” I try to be at least a little empathetic, if not simply polite. “Though I don’t understand why you’d need me if you’ve already healed.”
“Healed,” he scoffs. “Presumptuous of you.”
Slowly, he stands. He has the posture of something much bigger, looming over me even though he’s hardly a few inches taller. Each minute twitch is accompanied by that ticking sound, gears turning against each other, locking in and out of place in quick succession. It sounds like a toy being wound up too quickly. He straightens up, rolls back his shoulders, and folds his hands politely in front of himself.
“It’s been quite a few years since the incident. But the recovery was worse. I had to learn to speak again, and then to stand, walk, write. All of it, done over from scratch. It was the most pitiful I’ve ever been.”
His voice grates, fingers twitching. I don’t like that word, “pitiful.” My patients tend to tack it on themselves in self-loathing. It’s unfortunate, how many people think they need to adopt some form of asceticism after being brutalized. Recovery is not a tragedy, nor something to repent for— it’s a victory. Proof of survival. As much as I want to say so, I hold my tongue. He keeps on.
“As humiliating as it is, it is still… difficult, to live like I used to.” He averts his gaze as he speaks, and I can feel his eyes boring holes into the shelf behind me. “I’m no engineer. I don’t know this body as thoroughly as I’d like to. I don’t know its limits. I need all the assistance I can get.”
He looks off to his side, at the plaques on his wall. His MD, a PhD in Neuroscience, a Masters in Clinical Psychology, and a few smaller ones I can only assume are awards. I know he’s not looking at them to admire them.
“…More specifically, I need an aide.”
His hands and jaw clench simultaneously. My brows raise before I can control them, as I notice his face shift hues. The ugly, sickly yellow has been painted with a burnt-orange band across his face, from one cheek to the other and over the bridge of his nose. I’ve seen that look before, in athletes who can no longer run, in poets whose hands now shake when they hold the pen. I don’t want to feel sympathy for a man like him. I do anyways.
“You expect me to work here?” I ask, internally wincing. My tone came out harsh. Thankfully, he seems undisturbed.
“Oh, no,” he responds with a wave, glances back at me, and his face returns to its usual shade. “You’d just get in my way, and I have enough eyes on me as is. I’d have you in the estate.”
“…What?” I blink. I don’t notice the word escapes me until he laughs, shoulders shaking with it. His hands come up closer to his chest, fingers intertwined.
“My house, Morris.” I can hear the smirk in his voice. His patronization makes me bite my tongue.
“I- I heard you,“ I mutter, forcing myself to remain civil, “I just… You want outpatient assistance? In your own home? My apartment to here is already quite the commute, and from what I know, your estate is across town. That’s not reasonable.”
“You wouldn’t be driving. I have empty rooms.”
He says it so casually, so carelessly, that my jaw nearly drops. It’s as if it’s nothing to him. In retrospect, it probably is. The Lankmann estate is so grand, so massive, that you’d get lost even with a map. And with only one man living there, even one as solitary as Lankmann, it’s bound to get lonely. What’s one room?
Yet at the moment, it’s jarring. I chuckle incredulously, waiting for him to laugh along, in hopes it’s just some joke. He doesn’t. My laughter fades, replaced by a tiny, nervous smile.
“…You’re serious.”
The doctor doesn’t respond verbally, just nodding. I don’t notice how hard I’m clutching the strap of my bag until it starts to hurt, thin leather digging into my palms, leaving white lines in the skin. Unsteadily, I continue my questioning.
“And… what’s the pay like?”
That gets a huff out of him, vaguely reminiscent of humor.
“A thousand, weekly. And don’t worry about rent.”
As hesitant as I am, I can’t help but consider it. Sure, I’d have to move out— pack up my life into boxes, resettle somewhere new, with a roommate no less unfamiliar— but the promise of money tempts me. My little flat across town isn’t something I’m particularly attached to, anyways, just somewhere to sleep at night. A free, cozy place to live, and all I have to do is make sure the old man doesn’t trip over himself? It sounds easy.
Maybe a little too easy. But the pay’s outweighing my concerns. My head tilts slightly, and a smirk finds its way to my face.
“When would I start?”
“Monday,” He hums in return, seemingly satisfied with my answer. “You’ll have until then to pack, or reconsider. I’ll send for someone to drive you by noon. In the meantime, get your affairs in order. You’re dismissed.”
The nonchalance with which he sends me off is dissuading, but all I can stomach to do is nod and walk out. I keep my head up this time around. No one looks my way. Strange people pass by without a sound, faces wrapped up like mummies, eyes obscured by cloudy goggles. They walk alone, or sometimes side by side, and yet never behind one another. Moving, flesh-built walls.
I turn a corner. One of them is dragging a young man down the hall. The man kicks, screams, writhes. His thin gown is stained through with blood, dried mahogany-red into the fabric from his shoulder down across his chest. My breath catches. They turn down a hall and disappear, but I can still hear the screaming; wordless, feral screeches, spliced by the occasional yelp. The sounds of something fighting for its life. My feet betray me, and I stop walking, rooted to the floor.
I’ve dealt with unruly patients before, especially elderly ones. They forget where they are, or who they’re with, and they turn to violence because they don’t know what to do with their fear. Their rage isn’t really rage. They don’t yell or thrash out of meanness. Their fear simply presents as aggression.
I did not see that in this man. This patient, held fast by his arm, wasn’t acting insane or irrational. His emotions were not being misconstrued by his own mind. That was terror. Life-or-death, fight-or-flight. The kind that shuts off rationale, turns a person into a beast. The kind that hides in wait in the brain stem, coiled tight in preparation to strike. Snarling, wild-eyed terror.
Bile rises in my throat. I resume walking, quicker now, beelining for the door. I do not hear how the screams get more frantic. I do not hear the closing of some great door, reverberating through the walls like a heartbeat. I do not hear the music, violins weeping in shrill cacophony, the breaths of a piano stuttering, laughing. I do not hear it.
Suddenly, I am outside again. It is quiet. The wind bats at me like a cat with a barn mouse, relentless. The air is clean again, stabs into my lungs and scrapes out the vile smog, forces out a coughing fit. I stagger down the steps with my face in my arm, squinting against the wind. Spat out by the beast.
I don’t remember much of the drive home. It’s a monochrome blur, trees smearing like ink as they pass out the window. Snowflakes hit the windshield like bullets— one, two, one, two, tiny white birds that splatter with clear, cool blood and slide unceremoniously down. I don’t turn on the radio. My mind is full enough, full of ringing, of sound, of music. Deafening. My stomach churns.
I arrive home mindlessly. Walk the stairs, step inside, lock the door behind me. I pack in silence. Why? I could scorn the offer— I should scorn it— and yet, I keep packing. The music, the screams, drive my brain and body to hurry. The thoughts of the men who were at my door, the way that poor patient was dragged away, the doctor’s disgustingly casual nature, all run through my brain in rapid succession. If I do not go, there is no guarantee I won’t simply be killed. Have I already seen too much? Did he intend for that?
I have my life packed up within the hour. Two suitcases and a small bag. Until Monday, I suppose there is nothing else to do but wait. Twiddle my thumbs. Watch the clock tick—
Tick—
Tick down.