So paralyzed was I by the sight before me that I did not notice we had already driven past the first of the three spiked gates guarding access to the door beyond until I heard it crashing to a close behind us. A short drive onwards and we were at the second gate. I turned to see the barricades we had passed clanging shut, one after the other, by power of unseen hands or simply through habit, more accustomed were they to being closed than open.
The wind screamed round the carriage; the wheels rattled, and, as the third iron gate was looming before us, a bird, something like a raven yet a great deal larger, soared overhead, emitting a harsh, metallic shriek into the raging sky. It circled above the ever-approaching gate, sharp spikes gleaming in the pummeling rain.
Galloping onwards at a reckless pace, I heard the muffled squeals of what sounded like a swarm of insects, but, peering from the carriage window, I saw instead a great pack of rodents—sleek, furry bodies skimming the earth, leaping over one another, obsidian eyes sparkling. A quivering mass, they swam over the cobblestones like one creature—squid’s ink spilling into the sea and infecting it with deep black within seconds. How they were able to keep pace with the horses mystified me, and when the swarm dispersed and shot on ahead of us, the rats darted through the spokes of the carriage wheels and round the horses’ hammering hooves, yet were never trampled. Breathlessly, I watched them as they melted together again and slipped beneath the gate to the other side like a gush of dark water—the tide coming in.
It was all so ghastly . . . so sickeningly enthralling; my body convulsed in a trembling wave—a heady blend of horror and wild anticipation.
And then!
The final gate crashed to a close, and we reached the ultimate precipice at last.
The doors began to open.
There was an awful grinding of metal, a clashing of loosened chains, and, with the sky seeming to come down round us, it appeared: the Asylum.
From the Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls,
Emily (with a ‘y’)
The alarm is ringing for dinner, and I know it will soon be time to return my notebook. Folding the note, I tuck it into the top of my right stocking and walk down the hall toward the Dining Room. I’m late.
hospital entry 13: the forgotten floor
Why am I still here?
My seventy-two hours were up days ago. I’ve been told that I am to wait for something, though what that means exactly I do not know. Treatment, I suppose, someone to come and “counsel” me, to teach me some life techniques I can use to try and be happier. Perhaps the staff is waiting for me to look non-suicidal. Perhaps they are waiting for me to gain weight. Perhaps they are actually waiting for me to start acting crazy, because surely I couldn’t recover until I could admit that I was nuts in the first place, which, incidentally, I do—I just don’t act it out as the staff expects me to.
Or perhaps they just forgot about me, in the same way that the doctors at Planned Parenthood did just weeks before when they administered the excruciating pill that starts the abortion process then stuck me in a tiny closet and forgot about me for five hours before coming back to perform the actual operation—five hours which I passed convulsing in pain, needles stuck in my veins and taped to my arms, the fluids they are meant to convey having long run out, my innards burning me alive.
And, if I ask questions, one of the wardens will speak to me very slowly as though I were not only a child but also a mentally disabled one, which, I suppose, is exactly what I am.
The funny thing about mental hospitals is that they strip away any remaining reason you have to live, but deny you the means to do anything about it. It is fascinating to me that a suicide attempt, by default, legally lands you into the asylum, the psych ward, the loony bin, the nut house—call it what you will, it’s all the same. Perhaps you are crazy, perhaps you are not, but I do not believe that, in itself alone, attempting suicide proves anything at all about your mental state, save that, upon weighing the merits of living and dying, you found that one outweighed the other.
Is this crazy?
I see nothing insane about it at all.
Socially unacceptable to be sure, but not mad.
Asylum Letter No. II
Having something to write with at last, I hereby declare that I am, and have always been, of sound mind. In demonstration of this fact, I will tell my story and state my case—the case I shall never have the opportunity to present:
I was born to Irish parents in the part of London where only the poorest of the paupers make their homes. Having known no other way of living, I was far from unhappy; I had learnt to cook and sew, and spent most of my waking hours watching over my younger sisters. Sometimes I believe I have remembrances of my older sister, but I am not certain, for I was only an infant when she died. In any event, my parents never spoke of her, and, for fear of upsetting them, neither did I.
Late at night, I would amuse myself by picking out notes upon my absent grandfather’s weather-beaten violin, which was hung, together with its sadly warped and nearly hairless bow, upon the peeling wall in the room I shared with my sisters. My father had succumbed to the drink, a common tragedy in those parts where opium and alcohol offer the most uncomplicated escape from overcrowding and immense poverty, and he usually stayed out well into the morning, which was quite satisfactory to us all.
Being in the possession of a memory for music, and able to reproduce most melodies upon first hearing, I would teach myself to play the tunes I heard in the streets—mostly folk songs from the lands of our ancestors: Ireland, of course, but also Scotland, and even some from India, for we were all immigrants here.
Now and again, my father would permit me to follow him to the tavern, where, standing upon a table, I would play to the drunken delight of the raucous men and their painted ladies. The more boisterous of the company would sing along to the jolly drinking songs, whilst the older men would weep silently as I played the slow and mournful ballads of the homelands they would never see again. But as marked as the effect of my music upon this varied audience, the effect upon my self was thrice as exquisite, for to share the fruit of my fingers was to share a bit of my small soul and eased a pain I carried with me always—the pain of a heart born into this world ready stocked with more love than I imagined I would ever be allowed to give.
One night, as the snow piled up against the frosted panes, a man in a tall grey hat entered the tavern as I was engaged in playing one of those haunting ballads of old. I quit my song as he selected a corner to stand in; the company stared at the intruder, all except my father who was quite in his cups (the degree to which was in no small part my very own fault, for his payment for my performance was a loose tap when he wanted). The stranger requested, in a language more refined than any I had yet heard, that I continue, and so I did, afeared to disobey. As my final note faded, the man did not applaud as the others did, and I felt I must have played very poorly to the distinguished ear of such a grand gentleman.
Wrapping my violin in its bit of red cloth, I held it tightly to my chest as I went to sit upon my little stool behind the bar, thoroughly shamed. The man with the tall grey hat walked towards me, and, despite the fire and the heat of crowded bodies, I felt cold.
‘Your hair, little one . . . I’ve seen this colour before . . .’ he said, taking one of my red curls between his fingers. ‘To whom do you belong?’
I did not understand his meaning.
‘Who amongst this company is your father, my girl?’
My voice sounded strange to my own ears as I answered.
‘Him sitting with that lady in the corner . . . Sir.’
Without reply, the man moved towards the table I had pointed to. Approaching my father, the stranger spoke to him in a low timbre; I could not make out his words. For a moment, I thought my father seemed to recognize the man, but I must have been wrong for they did not shake hands. A few more words were excha
nged, and my father nodded his head; the man turned and left the tavern with a flourish of his long grey coat.
As we trudged homewards some hours past, my father did not speak to me, but then he usually did not; I cannot say why it seemed strange at this time more than any other, and yet, it did.
Later, as I lay in bed with my sisters, I heard my parents on the other side of the parchment-thin wall. My stomach tightened; their nocturnal fighting was a common enough occurrence, but I had never hardened my nerves to it, much as I had tried. Unable to shut out the noise, I listened as I always did. Tonight was different—there were no raised voices; they spoke in hushed tones, and I could only divine hints of their conversation.
‘He has promised a sum such as we could live on for a year or more,’ said my father.
‘Not if you drink it away this time, we couldn’t. But, be that what it is, there are too many of us. Tell him . . . tell him we accept,’ said my mother.
The next morning, the man with the tall grey hat knocked upon our door. Through my cracked window, I had seen him stepping lightly through the filthy snow as though it melted a clean path at his command, and was overcome yet again with that singular chill I had felt as he approached me the night before. I hid in my room, but, upon hearing the jingle of coins, I understood everything.
My mother came to find me and told me to follow; she did not look into my eyes. I took my beloved instrument from its nail and wrapped it in the red cloth; I knew, as much as I have ever known anything, that I would not have the opportunity to come back for it.
‘You have, again, made a very wise decision,’ said the man to my parents. ‘She will be well cared for, and will, as before, receive the very finest education in music, and in all things befitting a young lady.’
As my mother left the room, my father gave a low and clumsy bow, something I had never seen him do. The man in the tall grey hat took me away, and nobody said goodbye. I was five years old.
From the Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls,
Emily (with a ‘y’)
Asylum Letter No. III
Upon arriving at the Unfortunate Girls’ Musical Conservatoire, I was given my first proper dress, and a new violin. Though it did not have the soul of my grandfather’s, it was a worthy instrument indeed, and must have been quite expensive.
The man who had taken me from my family was, in fact, the Headmaster of the Conservatoire. When he was not traveling to recruit new pupils, our Headmaster entertained his guests—always richly attired gentlemen—guiding them on tours of the facilities and hosting recitals wherein we would play for the strangers he invited.
During the years that followed, I was educated alongside close upon one hundred girls of varying age, all seemingly orphans or castaways like myself, and I came to know a great deal about a great many things, but mostly about music. Though none of us were particularly fond of the restrictive nature of our existence within the Conservatoire, we took our lessons and became rather fine young ladies with a mastery of our chosen instruments that most men upon the world’s stages could hardly compare with.
We were exceedingly privileged girls, or so we were frequently told, for, though the studies were grueling and left time for little else, the greatest reward imaginable awaited us: We were promised that, if we all worked very, very hard, we would grow up to become celebrated musicians, performing in golden theatres and crystal palaces for kings and queens. It was this dream that we clung to through the slaps upon the hand from our Music Masters when we played out of tune, the austere coldness of the Headmaster and Mistress, and the complete absence of both love and life outside, for which we were starved.
There were joys, however. Each afternoon at four o’clock, we would pause our practice and assemble in the Drawing Room for tea. Though we were modestly brought up, and firmly trained to watch our figures so that we could compress our developing waists into mercilessly boned corsets (we were made even to sleep in these wretched devices, can you imagine?), our cook was a kindly old creature who delighted us with buttered crumpets, sugared scones, and cherry-studded cakes when our masters’ eyes were directed elsewhere.
And then, there was the tea. My near-forgotten mother had often steeped leaves by the same name, but the resulting brew was pale and flavourless in comparison. The foreign distilment I now enjoyed was dark, rich, and tasted of elegance and civility; I knew no greater pleasure than pouring my drop of milk into a delicate china cup so thin as to be nearly transparent, then infusing the liquid with steaming amber and watching the two disparate elements blend into the dusky brown that soothed the lonely soul and calmed the shattered nerves following a particularly trying lesson with the Music Master.
Whilst we all shared a common pedigree, having been taken abruptly from poor families who badly needed the money that was offered them in exchange for their daughters, one amongst my fellow pupils quickly became my constant companion, and this was Sachiko.
A cellist, Sachiko was from the Orient, though she did not know exactly wherein as she had been sold at such a tender age that she could not remember; for reasons unknown to us, the staff took great pains to conceal details of our histories prior to admission.
Sachiko was always up for a sneak-about at nights, thieving bits of cake left out in the Drawing Room, then tugging me along to the attic where the portraits were kept. As often as we dared, we would leaf through the albums bursting with painted miniatures of hundreds, possibly even thousands, of girls, supposing these beauties to be former pupils—though some seemed awfully young to have completed their studies—gone on to grace the concert halls of a world we had only been told of. Together we passed many a blithesome hour sighing over the magnificent gowns, the exquisitely arranged hair, and imagining the glamorous lives these young ladies must now be enjoying, all the while dreaming of the day when we could join them.
Much to our mutual delight, Sachiko and I were assigned to share sleeping quarters in my fifth year at the Conservatoire. Late at night, when we had talked our voices dry, she would produce the bits of cake and lumps of sugar she had managed to pilfer, and we would lick our sticky fingers and play Mozart duets as quietly as we could until the sun came up. Though our incessant giggling often earned us reprimand, alerting the Headmistress to our being quite awake when we ought not to be, I would never have changed a moment of our time together. Alone, we were timid and nervous things, but, together, we blossomed.
One bleak February night as the bare branches scraped at our chamber windows, Sachiko revealed the flask of sherry she had pinched from her Music Master’s study as he was retrieving a volume of Bach Sonatas from the Library. We were quivering with all the excitement of that which is forbidden—we had never tasted sherry, you see. We crept from our beds and scurried on tiptoe down the hall, past the Headmistress’s quarters where a sliver of gold bleeding from beneath the door indicated that she had not yet retired, and up the steep and narrow staircase leading to the attic.
Once settled, Sachiko uncorked the sherry and bravely swigged it straight from the flask, pulling a wretched face as she swallowed. Impressed, I grasped the flask from her hand and sipped it myself; a bout of coughing ensued, but another taste of the liquor seemed to be the remedy. A few swills later and we were again turning through the portraits, comparing the ladies’ charms, and I daresay being a bit louder about it than we ought.
Spotting a new volume, we lifted the velvet cover and soon began to recognize students we had known well, and who had only recently left the school. It was strange to see them dressed so richly, and displaying their bare shoulders and arms, but we supposed that all great ladies of London must favour such fashions.
Reaching the final page, we were struck silent. The very last portrait was of Sachiko. There was no mistaking it—her name was printed above the painting. Though she was draped in a kimono she had never herself worn, and posed upon an entirely unfamiliar settee, the likeness was perfect.
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br /> I quietly closed the book and put it back where I had found it. Leaving behind the remainder of the sherry, we descended the stairs and found our way back to our room without a word between us.
Sachiko crawled into her little bed and turned towards the wall. I blew out the candle, then got into the bed beside her.
We both wept that night; contrary to all logic, we had assumed that we would be leaving the Conservatoire at the same time.
From the Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls,
Emily (with a ‘y’)
Asylum Letter No. IV
And so it came—the following day, a foggy Sunday in the February of my seventeenth year: the worst day of my life.
Sachiko and I had risen and dressed cheerfully enough, neither of us mentioning what had taken place the night before. It was as though we shared an understanding that, if we did not speak of it, it might blot itself from our history.
Then, shortly after breakfast, Sachiko was escorted into the Headmaster’s study, and I knew in my heart what was coming. I waited outside the door for her to emerge, and, when she did, her face was streaming with tears and she could not speak. She fell into my arms, and I did my best to comfort her, vowing that I would practice twice as hard so that I could follow her, and that, soon, we would be the darlings of Europe, performing our Mozart duets for royalty.
As she packed her few belongings, I made Sachiko promise to write at her very first opportunity, for I would not rest until I had assurances of her well-being. Of course, I also desired to know what lay ahead for myself.