‘Well! It’s about bloody time!’ said the rat.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said I.
‘Why, it’s taken me ages to get through that blasted wall. Extraordinary that such a poorly constructed building should have such a damned sturdy wall, isn’t it? It’s quite exhausted me. Did you know that this atrocity we dwell within was erected directly atop the city’s largest rubbish heap? No doubt we’ll all be buried alive someday . . .’
The rat had been sniffing the ground as he spoke, and now advanced towards me.
‘I say, you wouldn’t happen to have any crumbs, would you?’ he asked, sitting upright and rubbing his paws together in a gesture tragically hopeful.
I searched my pocket—really just a bit of my shift I had tied up—for any remnants of bread I might have tucked away.
‘All out, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’
‘Of course not, of course not, no matter, my child, no matter at all. Oh, heavens above and hell below, I haven’t introduced myself! Whatever would the Queen say, what would she say . . .’
The rat hopped up to my knee and stood tall upon his hind legs, clearing his furry little throat as though preparing to say something exceedingly important.
‘I, dear Lady, am Sir Edward, formerly prized pet of, and companion to, the young Queen Victoria, now Ambassador of the League of Asylum Plague Rats, and I am entirely at your service.’
He bowed his head, and continued on.
‘It is with the deepest gratitude for the kind consideration you showed to our dearly departed Percy, Head of the League’s ill-fated “Operation Pantry”, that I have come, on behalf of the League, to present you with a token of our appreciation and devotion.’
Sir Edward leapt down to the ground, shouting, ‘Onwards, Plague Rats!’
Upon his order, a small army of rodents marched out from beneath the bed. Upon their backs they shared the burden of a large metal spoon—larger than those we use in the Dining Hall. This spoon must have been taken from the kitchen.
‘And, halt!’ commanded Sir Edward.
He waved his paw towards the spoon.
‘For me?’ I was perplexed by the gift, yet I knew that I must respond appropriately to such a venerable company as had now congregated round me. ‘Well! I am honoured, though I do hope it won’t mind living within my miserable mattress, for I haven’t anywhere else . . .’
I took up the spoon and was presently overcome with a profound gratitude; tears rose to my eyes.
‘I am sorry,’ I said, ‘I don’t know what could be the matter with me.’
A small white rat with a black hood uttered a whimper in sympathy; the larger rat next to him delivered a playful slap to the back of his head.
‘I will use it well, and I do thank you all very much.’
With a parting bow, Sir Edward led his League back beneath my bed and towards the opening they had entered by, their tails gliding through the wall one by one. Before disappearing himself, Sir Edward turned back to me.
‘If you don’t mind, my Lady, I shall leave this tunnel open. I believe we may have need of each other in the coming days.’
‘Of course, Sir Edward. Oh! And I almost forgot to thank you . . . for the pencil, I mean.’
Asylum Letter No. XXIV
It is easy to be thrown into Quarantine—too easy. Refusing to take the medicine you know will make you ill; struggling against the Chasers as they drag you to the Hydrotherapy Chamber to be nearly drowned; daring to speak to Madam Mournington as she patrols the Ward before the lights go out, swinging her Ward Key upon its chain as if to taunt us with the very tool of our freedom; any disturbance in the Asylum’s procrustean peace can land a girl down in the dank, dark dungeon until someone remembers to let her out, which may not happen for days, or even weeks.
Having served her sentence for the soup rat incident, Jolie Rouge has returned from Quarantine at last to join us upstairs in Ward A, Cell Block 2. I often wake in the night to see her crouched upon the bed across from mine, her slight frame turned to face the bars in frozen anticipation, just as I had seen her during my first night in Quarantine. I cannot tell when she sleeps, for surely she must, and I have begun to wonder whether it is possible to sleep with one’s eyes open.
Though she has been kind to me, I must be truthful and say that Jolie Rouge frightens me a little. I do not think I am alone in this sentiment—I can see it in the eyes of the younger girls who flock round her as she stalks the Ward Hall during the day, circling the perimeter and frequently going to the small, barred window as though watching for someone. These girls admire her, for I think they do believe that she is looking out for them; everyone knows that Jolie keeps watch at night. Still, they are intimidated by her.
One morning, as we sat down to our soup in the Dining Hall, a talkative inmate of perhaps fourteen asked Jolie the reason for her commitment. The girl herself had only just arrived, and knew nothing of protocol. Jolie looked up from her bowl, her head rising proudly beneath its nest of matted hair.
‘I, you may as well know, am a pirate,’ said she, ‘and I was captured in battle.’
‘Oh! Oh my!’ gasped the girl.
Muffled laughter could be heard from two older girls at the far end of the table. Jolie took no notice. I remained quiet, desirous of hearing the tale quite as much as was the new inmate.
‘Did you sail in a real pirate ship?’ the girl eagerly asked. ‘The proper sort, with a great black flag?’
‘Of course I did,’ Jolie replied, clearly glad for the chance to share her story. ‘My ship—for it was my ship and I was its Captain—my ship was the prettiest ship to ever sail the high seas.’
‘But how were you captured?’
A shadow passed over Jolie’s pale face, and her eyes went dark.
‘We were under attack, and the enemy slew my First Mate before I could stop them. They came in the night as I was sleeping, which is not a fair way to fight, but they were not honourable pirates like I am. A pirate captain needs her First Mate . . . you know that, don’t you?’
‘Oh yes, yes I do!’ said the girl.
At the other end of the table, the giggling continued, interrupted now and then by mocking squeals of ‘Ahoi! Ahoi!’
Again, Jolie did not respond.
‘But didn’t you fight them back with your sword?’ asked the incredulous newcomer, who obviously believed every word.
‘I certainly did!’ exclaimed Jolie, in a sudden burst of indignation. ‘And you may believe that the enemy did not sail away unscathed.’
From amongst the group rose a tall girl with her hair in long, loose braids.
‘Well then, Miss Rouge, why don’t you tell us exactly what you did? We’re all dying to know.’
Jolie turned to face her antagonist with perfect calm.
‘I carved a man’s eye out.’
There was a collective silence; the girl looked away, sitting down again without a word.
Heaven knows the wards are full of storytellers—some mad with delusion, others merely boasters, and still others concocting fables simply for entertainment. Yet, despite her fragile build, and delicate, faerie-like features, there was something in Jolie’s voice that compelled the girls to wonder whether it all might be true.
On the afternoon of that same day, I observed Jolie sitting alone before the barred window in the communal Ward Hall. She stared out onto the grounds behind the Asylum; vultures circled at our eye level, for we were considerably high up. A swarm of rats followed me as I wove my way through the sea of despondent souls—bodies and filth covering the floor. I arrived at the window. Jolie would not look at me, yet I could see that her crystal-blue eyes glistened with all the tears she was holding back. I longed to touch her . . . to comfort her in some way . . . but I did not dare.
‘I believe you,’ I said.
Jolie Rouge remained silent, showing no sign that she had even heard my words, and so I moved to return to my corner. I had retreated only a few steps when, without turning her head, Jolie finally spoke.
‘Thank you.’
hospital entry 19: measuring the distance
There is something that I realized about society long before I was committed, and it is this: People are rabidly fascinated by tales of life inside of a mental institution. This interest is a phenomenon that stretches back hundreds of years, as evidenced by the numerous observer reports of lunatic asylums throughout the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries all the way up to the plethora (what a word) of books written about these institutions and the lives led inside of them even now, not to mention the movies depicting it all.
Why is this?
I believe it is because an asylum is a parallel universe with its own rules and social structure, and is therefore different and interesting, but also because people want to know if they could ever end up here as well. It is the same reason why people are so disturbingly obsessed with celebrities—their relationships, their ups and downs, their eating disorders . . . Am I like them? people wonder, half revolted by the idea that they could be, half wishing that they were.
People aren’t just reading—they’re measuring the distance.
If I ever get out of here, I wonder if I will write about it. And, if I do, will I disclose all? Am I brave enough?
Oh, who am I bloody kidding? I’ll tell people more than they ever wanted to know. I’ll never shut up. Perhaps the doctors know this. Perhaps that is why I am still here.
Asylum Letter No. XXV
Whilst Madam Mournington is essential to the maintenance of the Asylum’s façade, our mistress’s most vital role is that of guardian and sole operator of the Asylum’s Ward Key. She has the key about her always, swinging it upon the silver chain dangling from the chatelaine pinned ever at her waist. The Ward Key fits every lock within the institution, but is most jealously guarded for its access to the prison-barred landing of the Lunatic Wards.
Past the bars, the Ward Hall shoots off in opposite directions, one door leading East to Ward A, the other West to Ward B. The separate wards are locked as well, and open by the turn of this same key. Madame Mournington permits no copies to be made, not even for the Chasers entrusted to guard us during the day, and so she is required to appear early every morning so that we may be led to the Dining Hall, and late every night as we are locked away again.
I can see that Madam Mournington takes great pride in this duty; she is necessary to the institution, and I believe that this awareness of being needed is the only thing that fulfills her, for, as far as I can tell, she is a lonely old woman who has but little else.
As for our Superintendent, he displays the strangest behaviour I have ever seen in a man of his age. Whilst he appears utterly inhuman to all, when he is with his mother, he is a different man. He grovels for her praise and attention like a child, or a dog. He is eager that she should be in attendance at the institution as consistently as possible, almost as though he is afraid that, should she leave, she might not return.
Asylum Letter No. XXVI
With each new addition to the Asylum, our knowledge of what is happening in the outside world grows.
It is most fascinating, Diary, to see what sort of creatures are committed to our care. Girls in the flower of youth, young brides, mothers, ladies with formidable educations, writers, poets, artists, accomplished musicians, even girls from the so-called ‘lower professions’—music hall performers, dancers, and an exorbitant number of prostitutes—grace our decaying institution, and I am not surprised to find captivating characters and worthy friends amongst all of our ranks.
There is a voluptuous beauty called Veronica who occupies the bed next to mine in Ward A. Veronica had begun her career as a dance hall girl, but had later developed her own act, or so she says. A gifted raconteur, Veronica delights in telling us of her life upon the stage, her tales faithfully peppered with racy anecdotes entirely unsuitable for younger ears.
Whilst perhaps eccentric, Veronica possesses only two legitimate oddities that I can perceive, the first being her absolute belief that she has been pardoned and will be sent home the following day. It is tragic indeed to see her delude herself so, yet, when the following day finally arrives, she seems to have no recollection of having said the very same thing the day before, and goes on to say it again.
I have come to realize that it is precisely this delusion that enables Veronica to exist from one day to the next with her ebullient disposition intact. Notoriously calling out to the Chasers as they patrol the corridor outside of our cells, she taunts them into giving her things she wants—usually a bit of food, or a newspaper in which she follows the playbills—in exchange for particular ‘favours’. Her shouts of, ‘Who wants to kiss me?’ echo throughout Ward A thrice daily, at the very least.
And this leads us to Veronica’s second oddity: She seems always to be in the act of taking off her clothes, and makes quite a show of it, as though she were still upon the stage before the limelight and a voracious audience. I do in fact believe that she is most at ease in a state of nudity, for, even with knotted hair, and covered in bruises and cuts, she never stops the show, and I hope she never will.
Whilst each inmate has her own reason for being here, and her own exceptional story to tell, there are common elements that bind us all together.
Some are born mad, some achieve madness, and some have madness thrust upon ‘em.
Had Shakespeare paid us a visit, he might forgive me my bastardization of his brilliant line, but greatness and madness are bedfellows in the brains of so many excellent souls that my version may be more apt than my humility will allow me to own.
It is true that many of the girls here have loosened the reins upon their wits, some having been born disturbed, yet most having become so through years of suffering, caught in that vain struggle to survive a harsh and unjust society that grants them few of the rights given to men, and even less of the respect. Despite our differences in class, station, and relative degree of sanity, most of us are united by the fact that we do not belong here.
Asylum Letter No. XXVII
‘How, then,’ faithful Diary, ‘does a girl come to be imprisoned with no trial and no cause?’ you surely ask. It is tragically simple really—all that is in fact required is the word of a man who wants her out of the way.
In short, any male figure in a female’s life has the God-given right to have her committed and forever branded as a lunatic, with no proof save his own good word. What’s more, the unfortunate female can legally be released only into the hands of the man who first had her committed. Naturally, it follows that not a single one of us who pass through the Asylum gates will ever stand upon the other side of them again.
If a visitor to our institution were allowed to see its inmates rather than its actors, he would no doubt be shocked by our conditions and the torture we suffer daily, and would also be surprised by our general youth; most girls who are admitted when they are young will not live to become old, and the few who do are locked up with the deformed in a dark corner of Ward B where they are forgotten until they simply rot away. This is the dismal destiny of we who are strong enough to endure the torture, and we all know it. And yet we breathe.
Besides falsehood and treachery, there are reasons enough why any female may be thought insane by the medical community, her family, and society in general. Opposing an arranged marriage, for example; expressing ambivalence towards the non-negotiable prospect of motherhood; being melancholy after giving birth (or being melancholy at all); lacking enthusiasm for religion; evidencing a particular fondness for her fellow females; being too high-spirited, too low-spirited, mildly disagreeable or simply ‘moody’—any behaviour thought aberrant by the impossibly narrow standards of our day is attributed to the inherent weakness and waywardness of
the female gender.
But, sisters, never fear! There are many methods by which female ‘insanity’ can be treated: A girl who engages in intimate relations before she is married, even if such relations are entirely against her will, is branded ‘promiscuous’, and is thus insane (insanity being the direct cause of promiscuity in women). And yet, a common treatment administered to our girls suffering from fits of what our good doctors have termed ‘hysterics’ is, in fact, forced intercourse. Is there not some irony in this? It is thought that the supposed hysteria emanates from the young lady’s reproductive organs having nothing useful to do, and, by putting these idle organs to good use, the problem shall be solved and the lady restored to sanity, which would seem perfectly rational if it were not so utterly absurd.
Dr. Stockill will have nothing to do with this practice as he seems to loathe our very flesh, but Dr. Lymer is all too eager to perform his duties in such cases, as are his assistants whom he allows to aid him in every capacity, all foul-mouthed brutes who smell of filth. Even advances upon our persons by the Chasers are hardly frowned upon. It should thus come as no surprise to you that no condition is better represented in the Asylum than that of hysteria. The number of us diagnosed with the disease is truly staggering—it is an epidemic, they say, sweeping the country like the plague, and every female is at risk, for her hysterical condition could easily lead her to ‘unclean’ actions.
But, hark! There is something that can be done to cure the mental invalid whilst making society a safer, better, more wholesome place for everyone: As a means of eliminating even the remote possibility of female physical pleasure, which hysteria would invariably increase the appetite for, and the existence of which threatens the entire order of civilization, clitoridectomies are routinely performed upon girls who are thought particularly disturbed, girls labeled as ‘immoral’ (though, most often, they have done nothing to earn this title), or who have, for lack of other means by which to earn their bread, turned to, or were forced into, prostitution (I myself had been forced into it, had I not?).