We supply the Doctor with a ready store of bodies—that is all. He may select one of his desired age, desired race, eye colour, build, and so forth, and then test whatever it is he is testing, a fact I despe rately wish I knew.
Or do I?
Asylum Letter No. XXXIX
Do you remember, Diary, the day I was first introduced to the Superintendent? I had spotted a coruscating object within his cabinet, behind the bottle of green liquid. Whilst I could not then identify the object, I have since learnt, and learnt well: The thing is a sort of fleam, but not at all like the rude varieties that Dr. Lymer is so very fond of. No indeed, this elegant weapon is designed to rest gently in the palm of the hand, the silver shaft engraved with intricate motifs encircling the Doctor’s monogram: ‘M.S.’.
Now for the interesting bit: When a hidden latch upon the end of the handle is triggered, a series of spring-loaded blades shoot out from the side, spreading open like a lady’s fan, and all in half a second. The Doctor may then select a blade from the assortment and tuck the others away. Numbering seven in total, each blade is different from the next. One is thin and double-edged, with a blunted tip like a shaving razor; another resembles the fleams I have known before, with a pointed chisel protruding from the blade. Still another twists into a winding screw at the tip, whilst another is curved like a hook at the end. This exquisite instrument appears to combine, in miniature, all of the necessaries for ordinary operations in a form that Dr. Stockill finds palatable, such is its vicious yet feminine delicacy (traits that we women combine so well).
This device has been applied to my flesh a dozen times now, for, though he seems sickened to do it, it is, apparently, necessary for the Doctor to cleave our flesh in order to deposit his chemical concoctions directly into our bloodstreams.
In flagrant contrast, Dr. Lymer delights in watching our blood flow—he makes no secret of it. In the demeanor of the visiting doctors, there is always a relish with which they perform their operations that is monstrous, yes, but there is something right in that: A mad man does a mad thing and he madly enjoys it. But not our celebrated Superintendent; I have never seen him show a speck of sorrow, nor of joy. I cannot read him, and this is what frightens me.
Asylum Letter No. XL
I have been called into Dr. Stockill’s private chamber yet again. It is peculiar . . . though we are all subjected to the chemical experiments he administers in his Laboratory upstairs, he seems to call me, and me alone, into his chamber downstairs—the very same in which I was first accosted by those darkling eyes nearly seven years past—only to inject me with a multitude of serums and speak to me in his impenetrably phlegmatic manner, as though my thoughts were worth anything, for, after all, I am a lunatic.
‘Tell me, Emily, with no last name, are you suffering here in the Asylum?’
‘I’m sorry, Doctor?’
‘It is a simple question which demands a simple answer: Are you suffering?’
‘Only as much as the rest, Doctor.’
‘And do you still think of death? Of taking your own life, I mean?’
‘I have not the luxury to think of it. We are well guarded, Doctor.’
‘Others have managed it.’
‘I am afraid to leave those that would remain.’
I wished I had not said that last.
‘Why should you care for them? They are the filth that paved the streets.’
‘Why should they care for me? I am no better. And yet they do.’
‘You would endure this suffering for the company of whores?’
‘I would, Doctor.’
Dr. Stockill is clearly seeking some information from me, and I am too daft to know what it is.
hospital entry 23: credibility
It is impossibly easy to get committed—getting out is the hard part.
Most of the inmates here either see Jesus or think they are Jesus.
And me?
Well, I only find letters from a parallel universe waiting for me in my notebook every morning—a universe that is becoming ever more indiscernible from my own. I am even beginning to forget whether my name is spelled with an “ie” or a “y.”
Worse, I feel a manic state rising within me, and each day I feel an ever greater desire to cut myself.
But isn’t cutting something that attention-starved teenagers do—an act that lies within that fuzzy gray area between a cry for help and a desperate attempt to look dangerous, and, therefore, cool? Yes, that’s what I thought too, until I found myself locked in the bathroom several times a day and most of the night, razorblade in hand. Which bathroom it was didn’t seem to matter to me—home, coffee shops, friend’s houses, they were all more than sufficient.
I have never taken a drug that wasn’t prescribed; I have never smoked a cigarette; I have never been addicted to anything except the sight of my own blood and the pain that comes with it.
What nobody seems to understand is that this behavior is not the cause of the illness—it is the result of it.
Now, I know that it is extremely commonplace to confuse the symptom with the disease. Perhaps it is the desire in people to look for the easiest, cleanest, least scary answer. Scotland Yard would call this lazy detective work, and I would agree, because I AM TELLING YOU ALL WHAT IS WRONG, AND YOU REFUSE TO ACCEPT IT!
I am more self-aware than it is healthy for anyone to be—the internal dialogue is deafening. I know precisely what is wrong with me, and I can explain it in brutal, unvarnished clarity if anyone cares to listen, but the fact is that, once you’ve been prescribed a psychiatric drug, you have lost all credibility, and this is before you’ve been committed, after which it’s all over for you. You no longer know what is wrong with yourself, what is good for yourself, or, rather, you do, but civilized society does not think so, and where is the power?
In numbers.
I am only one, and I am crazy.
Oh, and I’m also a girl, which is never a plus in any situation. Children are children; lunatics are children; women are children. This is, after all, why markets and pharmacies stock the feminine products right next to the baby products. Think I’m reading too much into this? Well, fuck you. We know nothing about anything, least of all ourselves and our bodies.
I am beginning to understand what might make a mental patient smash a guitar against a nurse’s booth.
Asylum Letter No. XLI
It is now three weeks since we were honoured by the presence of one Dr. Ramage, whose defining characteristics include a crossed eye, a weak chin, and a religious fanaticism bordering on mania.
At the start of Dr. Ramage’s visit, he had been allowed to inspect each inmate’s commitment form, and had determined to do the Lord’s work by removing the uterus of every girl who had attempted suicide—an ambitious undertaking that he was fortunately unable to carry out in full before his stay was up.
However! I should like to request a parade in my honour, for I have now the sole distinction of being the first inmate of the Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls to live longer than ten days after the surgical removal of her uterus. It was stolen from my body via abdominal incision, and was as painful as you may imagine it would be, yet I regret to say that I’ve endured worse.
Sir Edward has collected for me an assortment of lovely papers to write upon as a get well gift, and, if I am to suffer from the fatal infection that my predecessors have, I am committed to my writing until the end, and I have decided that my last written word shall be degringolade, for no other reason than that I have always thought it quite a silly one, and have been saving it up for a very special occasion.
Will I miss it, my little uterus? I suppose I shall, as, once I realised what I was in for, I christened her Victoria, in tribute to our fair institution’s namesake, and promised to remember her always.
I should add that I have been warned of Dr. Ramage’s intention to return next month, and that, should he
find me still melancholy (as though I could exist in any other state), he will be forced to conclude that the cause of my insanity was not in fact my uterus (too late), but is instead a demon that, due to my inherent female weakness, has taken up residence in my bloodstream. In that scenario, the cure could only be arrived at by thrice daily bleedings and a religious ceremony performed for the purpose of exorcising the devil.
Before I quit this theme, Diary, and fall face down into my bit of hay, permit me to write a brief discourse upon the subject of Dr. Ramage’s bedside manner, or the distinct lack thereof:
The Doctor felt quite passionately about inflicting as much pain as possible during the operation. As I begged for gentleness in the name of all that was merciful, he explained to me quite calmly that childbirth is painful only because God intended it should be so as a punishment to all women (the falling of Eve and such), and so, obviously, pain connected with any female part related to the process of childbirth, which would include all of them, should be endured to its fullest, with no attempt made towards its alleviation in any way.
Wholly convinced by such a watertight argument, I lay back and listened as Dr. Ramage fumed over the theories published recently by a fellow called Darwin. It seems they are to do with evolution, and, besides the idea that all species advance and develop through a sort of ‘weeding out’ of the inferior specimens so that the strong may survive and reproduce, this Darwin’s theories propose, to the great vexation of all good Christians, that we are not in fact descended from Adam and Eve, but from monkeys instead.
It was all I could do to stop myself telling the good Doctor that, whilst women may indeed have evolved from monkeys, men have not evolved at all.
Asylum Letter No. XLII
There has been talk amongst the Chasers that we are to welcome a new addition to the Asylum staff. He is rumoured to be a surgeon, news that is welcomed by none of us.
The new doctor has come. We are all dreadfully curious to learn more of our latest caregiver. He arrived in a hansom cab this morning, causing quite a clatter as an inordinate number of trunks and cases were carried into the Asylum and up the stairs to the old Operating Theatre—a great, circular hall in the center of the institution, which has long lay in disuse.
Under a former superintendent, the Theatre had been the silent witness of countless dissections performed by the Asylum surgeons of yesteryear for both the education of visiting students and the entertainment of inquisitive aristocrats. Dr. Stockill had no desire to teach, and we had not a legitimate surgeon of our own (though Dr. Lymer does his very best to cut us open at every opportunity), and, thus, the Theatre had been shut up. Now, our new arrival’s possessions are being carried in, and I wonder what the next act will be . . .
MADAM MOURNINGTON LETTER NO. 1
To: Augusta Mournington
The Mourning Room Tea House
Coventry
From: Prudence Mournington-Stockill
The Asylum F.W.V.G.
London
My Dear Augusta,
I fear I am not well, and, at my age, one never fears, but knows.
There are things here to trouble my poor mind . . . dark, dirty things.
I have begun to have trouble sleeping again, such as I have not suffered since my Violet died all these years ago.
The Asylum has newly appointed a surgeon called Greavesly, and I have newly appointed a strong dislike for him, though I dare not oppose Monty upon such matters, and keep silent, attending to my duties as mistress of these wicked girls as I always do.
I need quiet—more quiet—and perhaps a rest.
But Monty . . . could I leave him alone?
Surely not, the funny lamb . . . he cannot seem to go a day without me.
Is it not a wonderful thing to be needed?
Your affectionate sister,
Prudence
Asylum Letter No. XLIII
The Asylum’s latest addition is indeed a surgeon, and his name is Dr. Gower Greavesly, which is a perfectly hideous name if you ask me, fit only for a gravedigger or an undertaker. Or a surgeon.
I have just now returned from my first examination by this Dr. Greavesly, and am none the better for it.
A Chaser had escorted me to the Theatre, in the center of which stands a large wooden slab. This is the operating table. Lining the circumference of the Theatre are tiers of balconies providing a disgracefully clear view of the performance taking place upon the floor below to all spectators.
Grey and ghastly figures watched me from the balconies, but I have become accustomed to the ghosts. No, what frightened me was the thought of those very real people who used to fill these galleries, and who may soon do so again, waiting with gruesome delight for the victim below to be dissected—the best show in town. The vision sent chills through me, and I chided myself for being susceptible to chills at this point.
On smaller tables scattered about the room lie rows of surgical instruments, set out seemingly for the sole purpose of display. The tools are far more threatening than Dr. Lymer’s blades and bleeding machines, for these new blades are not crafted to cut through mere flesh, but to sever bone as well.
There are saws with jagged teeth, long knives that seem to belong more to a slaughterhouse than a hospital, pincers, pliers, and metal drills with bloodstained handles.
Along the shelves lining the Theatre walls are specimen jars in sundry sizes containing organs submerged in a pale pink fluid; at first glance I identified a brain, a heart, something that I believed to be a kidney, a human fœtus, and an entire arm. There are several empty jars as well—whom are they waiting for, I wonder?
Nails jutting from the wall hold three aprons, stiff with gore. Gazing upwards, I spotted several rusty hooks attached to heavy chains hanging from the vaulted ceiling. The surgeon has made quick work of decorating, hasn’t he? But three aprons . . . that means he has brought assistants. Not good.
Dr. Greavesly was waiting for me, and I will give you, Diary, my first impression of him:
The surgeon is neither young nor old. He is of a sinuous build, lean of limb, but with surprising strength, a stealthy gait, and a feline spirit coiled like a spring. Of a twitching temperament, he turns often to sedative substances—both opium and spirits during my first appointment alone—in order to steady his hands which display long fingernails trapping filth beneath as though he had been digging in the dirt. He sports a prodigious quantity of red, wild hair, though not as red as mine. With an animalistic nature more feral than tame, I suppose he is what a clever one might call ‘mercurial’, and I imagine that his heart beats rapidly all the time.
My examination had been brief, but thorough. My shift was torn away, and I stood in my stockings before the surgeon as he passed his nervous hands over me, showing particular attention to my abdomen. I knew what he was looking for, and what he will never find again.
MADAM MOURNINGTON LETTER NO. 2
To: Augusta Mournington
The Mourning Room Tea House
Coventry
From: Prudence Mournington-Stockill
The Asylum F.W.V.G.
London
My Dear Augusta,
I fear a dark day ahead.
I dream that my infant daughter is alive before me. She is wearing the wretched costume of our ungrateful lunatics—the tiny stockings fit perfectly to her bonny toes. She plays with a peach and laughs, her darling smile just as I remember it, but then she shows me the fruit and I see that it is rotten, the pit crawling with worms.
I wake in a panic, my head swimming in that unmistakable scent that surrounded my Violet when the angels took her, yet before that precious ability to detect all odor was burned from me entirely. It was a sweet perfume, this last I ever experienced—like almonds or cherries—and I believe it to have been the scent of the angels, but in my dreams it is choking me.
I wonder if you would let me com
e and visit for a little while? Perhaps I simply need a rest, and some quiet.
Your affectionate sister,
Prudence
Asylum Letter No. XLIV
We are told that Dr. Greavesly has been brought to the Asylum to enact reforms, and he appears to be wasting no time.
The surgeon has spent the past fortnight examining inmates and cataloguing us into a red leather-bound book of considerable proportions. I have not seen what he writes, but I do know that he does not document our names, instead referring to us only by our cell numbers (I’ve become accustomed to having no last name, but this is ridiculous). Those of us who share a cell are differentiated by the addition of a letter following our cell number. Thus, my home address is:
The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls
Ward B, Cell Block W14
Patient A
My name is simply W14A.
Veronica is W14B, and the Captain, who has been housed in our cell since returning from Quarantine, is W14C.
And, lest we should ever forget, the surgeon’s assistants have permanently branded our upper right arms with these classifying codes by means of a simple needle and black ink.
With hundreds of inmates now tattooed like criminals, we are easy to identify, and no one need bother us with a proper name ever again.
People have names, and we are not people.
We are bodies.