Page 93 of No Asylum Here

I came to on a stiff mattress, white light from a flicking fluorescent bulb blinding me.

Every muscle in my body relaxed knowing I was out of the darkness. The ease working through my body was short-lived when it occurred to me where I was.

I was back at St. Bartholomew’s, on a gurney in a hospital gown, strapped down with heavy leather straps by my wrists and ankles.

An orderly wheeled me down a long corridor. Walking alongside my gurney transport was the fuzzy silhouette of Malcolm Rook II.

Fucking great.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Rook beamed. His sunny disposition had my stomach flipping. I’d known him long enough now to understand he wasn’t happy at all. The smile in his peppy cadence was fake as fuck. Meant to disarm me, so whatever he had planned as my punishment for killing him would hurt that much more.

“You were found way out on the outer edges of the property. Gave us quite the scare.”

“I’m sure I did,” I said, spitting sarcasm. As soon as the words had left my mouth, I realized there was something restrictive over my jaw.

Oh, shit.

They’d secured one of those leather muzzles reserved for black file patients onto my face. Just like Mal’s.

“Well, aren’t we lucky, Dr. Beckett. You’ve woken up just in time to meet the other patients.”

“Other patients?”

“Oh yes,” he answered with a slimy drawl, cackling at the unguarded confusion on my face. “We’re having a little welcome ceremony for our newest resident.”

My throat closed at the giddy bend his voice took. I ventured a guess at who this new mystery resident was. “You’re having me committed?”

“Of course. You’re a danger to us all. I like my staff to have a wicked bite, but you can’t be trusted not to bite the hand that feeds you. So, you’re going to be locked up like the mad animal you are.”

I figured he was taking me to the main ward, where general pop was located. What I didn’t expect was the room they wheeled me into. I hadn’t even known this was here.

The chamber was giant, with a sunken floor at the center, surrounded by wooden seats.

My stomach bottomed out as they pushed my gurney into the middle, finding myself the focal point of an operation theater. I should have guessed St. Bart’s had one.

Medical surgery was popularized during the Victorian era, the same era Mal’s grandfather had the building converted into a psychiatric hospital. People were fascinated by the grim skepticism of it all, and doctors would perform painful and often unnecessary surgeries on asylum patients. Usually without anesthesia.

My lungs squeezed, making me short of breath as the audience came into view. Packed into every seat were the patients of St. Bartholomew’s. The smell was awful, and the noise booming as they chatted with one another. Others simply screamed. Many didn’t seem to understand where they were or what was happening. Those who did have the wherewithal to know what was going on stared down at me with hunger.

Everyone quieted as the boss came to stand alongside my gurney, raising his hands in silence. His team of orderlies filtered in behind us and stationed themselves in a circle around the operating stage, separating us from the audience. The team of grunts flanked him.

“Everyone, meet your newest cellmate. Patient One Hundred and One.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Tuesday

No. No. No.

This couldn’t be happening. And yet, I knew I wasn’t dreaming. Oh no, this was very real.

I strained my neck to get a better look at the theater of patients, sitting where doctors used to sit. And here was a doctor, at the center of the surgery theater—the script flipped.

Everyone present was mostly men—many of them dangerous, violent men, starving men who gazed upon me like I was a meal being rolled in on a room service cart instead of a helpless woman.

“It’s been some time since we’ve gathered everyone here. But this is a special occasion, deserving of a stage, wouldn’t you say, Dr. Beckett?” It was me Rook addressed, though he projected his voice so everyone could hear. “With your license and position stripped, you are now the property of St. Bartholomew’s. You will be given the same rights and privileges as our residents of Wards One and Two.”

“So basically no right,” I seethed. “Why? Because I killed you? Big fucking whoop. You’re immortal.”