Also available as a free PDF

Thank you for reading A Tale of Woe.

If you’d rather read on your phone, this book is also available as a free, phone-friendly PDF edition — yours to download, no strings, here:

A Tale of Woe

Book 1 of The Old State Hospital for Women

Published by Marshlight Press.

Copyright © 2026 M. A. Bell.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer quoting brief passages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental.

Intended for readers 18 and older. Contains depictions of institutional abuse, coercive control, and explicit sexual content.

Electronic edition, 2026.

Ebook ISBN: 979-8-9978853-0-4

Marshlight Press • mabellbooks.com

1 That’s How They Get You

1.1 This Was All a Mistake

Claire wondered why they had needed to put her into a hospital gown for this. It was all a mistake; all a misunderstanding. It would all be cleared up soon enough, once the Doctor had seen her. Maybe they would send her home, maybe they would hold her for a few days. 72 hours was what she’d always heard on TV.

So there was no need for the gown, she thought. There was also no need for the zip ties that the officer accompanying the paramedics had placed on her hands. “For your own protection,” he’d said. Protection from what? From who?

This was all a mistake that would be corrected soon, she hoped. Perhaps even in time to get back to work. This is what she thought as she sat in the waiting room, her hands tied, the gown’s thin fabric feeling strange and unfamiliar.

The hospital itself was strange and unfamiliar. The walls of the waiting room were utilitarian, painted cinder blocks. Like a high school cafeteria, she thought. She sat on one of those metal-legged, vinyl-cushioned benches that looked like three chairs fused together — the kind of furniture that existed only in waiting rooms and nowhere else. There were metal bars over the cross-hatched shatterproof glass windows. Fluorescent lights buzzed in the drop-ceiling overhead. The place was, in a word, institutional.

The hospital staff went about their business, paying Claire no mind. She detected some murmured voices from the direction of the triage desk. She could not hear words, just sounds. The tile floor was scuffed but very clean under her feet. Why didn’t they give me socks, she wondered, don’t you usually get socks in a place like this?

This was all a mistake, it will all be OK once I see the Doctor, she told herself, and waited.

At that moment, someone called her name to the desk.

Claire got up as elegantly as one could in her style of dress and state of helplessness, and walked up to the front desk slowly. A woman sat looking at a computer — presumably some kind of nurse. “Claire?” she confirmed without looking up.

“Yes.”

“What’s your date of birth?” the nurse asked. This was the universal medical question. Claire was used to being asked this repeatedly at every checkup, lab test, and occasional trip to the ER. Nobody ever seemed to remember it from the last time, no matter how many times she told them. In this unfamiliar environment it was almost comforting.

“September 23, 2000. I’m here because…”

“No need, I’ve got it all right here in the computer. You’re already in the system. We’ll get you to a room as soon as your doctor does your intake exam.”

Hesitatingly, Claire asked, “Room? I don’t think I need a room, I’m not going to be…”

“Don’t tell me,” said the woman, “talk to the Doctor about it.”

The nurse gestured at two large men, orderlies or assistants of some kind, very muscular, with tattoos, standing on either side of a pair of large metal doors. The men looked like football players, or bouncers. The same kind of guy probably had both of those jobs, at different times in his life. From tackling opponents to wrangling drunks, a natural progression. And some of them, she thought, ended up here. Seems a bit much, she thought, I certainly don’t need wrangling.

“She’s going to 423,” the nurse said to the orderlies, who nodded in acknowledgement. The nurse pressed a key card against a card reader on the wall. It was the kind of modern electronic fixture that always looked out of place in an old building like this.

The door beeped, and opened under its own power. Claire knew it was not the kind of door that she would be able to reopen, once she was on the other side of it. The orderlies flanked her and stood silently waiting to follow her through it.

One step at a time on the cold hard floor, she stepped through. With a pneumatic whoosh, the door closed behind her.

The hallway beyond the door looked even older, as if she had stepped through a portal from a DMV office into a historical site. The walls were now brick, and the windows looked like they might have once opened, before the hinges were painted over. There were rusty bars on the windows. Opposite to the windows, wooden doors lined the hallway. The doors had numbers on them, but nothing else to indicate what was in the room. They did not have windows, but wooden slats that looked like they once tilted open to allow light and air in. These too, of course, were long since painted over.

The orderlies led her to a room numbered 423, and opened the door. It was a non-descript little medical exam room. It looked like it had been repainted many times. The furnishings looked old but not as old as the building itself. There was a medicine cabinet, a metal exam table, and a mirror on the wall.

The men left her alone without saying anything and closed the door. The lights in this room also buzzed. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant. She sat down on the chair to try to wait for the doctor.

Her eyes drifted around the room, not really seeing anything until something caught her peripheral vision. A shape? A figure? Someone?

The mirror! Claire did not mean to look in the mirror, as she did not want to see her reflection. There it was anyway, before she had time to brace herself. Her own blue eyes stared back at her, bloodshot and filled with fear. Her brown hair was mussed and uneven from everything she’d been through. The baby-blue hospital gown hung on her casually, nearly falling off one shoulder. Her legs were bare and goose-pimpled in the clammy hospital air.

She saw the nervousness; the anxiety. She felt sorry for that girl in the mirror, before she even had time to realize it was herself.

---

A knock came at the door. Doctors always knocked before entering a room, but then came in anyway before you had time to answer. The door opened before Claire could even turn her head.

A man in his mid-30s entered the room, wearing a white lab coat over a crisp dress shirt and business slacks. The hard soles of his leather shoes clicked on the floor. This was not the kind of doctor who went around in scrubs all the time, to show the world that he was someone who got his hands dirty. This was not the kind of hospital where a doctor needed to make that kind of performance.

He had a serious, composed look on his face, and the five o’clock shadow of a man who shaved once a day in the early morning and considered that enough even though it wasn’t. His brown hair was cut short, neatly combed. He moved with a confidence that made him seem taller than he was.

He removed his glasses, which were apparently single-focal and not fit for close vision, and glanced over Claire’s chart with hard, piercing brown eyes. Then the eyes turned on Claire.

For a brief foolish second, something fluttered in Claire’s chest. She felt something like relief. Finally, here was someone who knew what he was doing. Someone who would see the mistake, the misunderstanding, the absurdity of all this.

Surely he would see what was going on.

“Name and date of birth, please,” he demanded. There it was, asking for the same info again and again.

“Claire Allman, September 23, 2000,” she answered.

“Do you know what today’s date is, Claire?” he asked.

Another routine question. His voice sounded as if he asked it a dozen times a day. There was no urgency, no recognition that she’d been dragged into something bizarre and terrifying. He wasn’t tired, or bored, or disinterested. He sounded professional enough. But there was no sympathy in it, no flicker of understanding for what she was going through. He was just too calm, she thought.

But the date? She knew the date! This was her chance — her chance to explain everything to this man who looked like someone with authority. Someone who could fix this, make everything normal again.

But something about him — the white coat, the neat stubble, the click of his shoes, the way his eyes seemed to take in everything at once — pressed down on her. She couldn’t get the words out.

She hesitated, then blurted, “December 20… no, I mean, December 4. 2023.”

The Doctor didn’t react. He simply wrote something on the chart.

“Are you pregnant, or think you might be pregnant?”

“No.”

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“Of… of course! I can explain everything. I’m not supposed to be here. They only called 9-1-1 as a precaution, it’s company policy.” As an H.R. generalist in the same office where her supervisor had made that call, Claire could have recited the policy chapter and verse.

“Let’s get started with your exam,” the Doctor said, as if she hadn’t spoken at all.

“What’s going on? What are you going to do with me?” she asked. Her voice was thin, shaking with fear.

“Claire.” He focused his eyes on hers. Calm. Stern. Unshakable. “Cooperate.”

She said nothing, lowering her eyes, avoiding his gaze like someone backing down from a confrontation before it even happened. He motioned toward the exam table and patted it once with his hand. “Sit here,” he said.

Silently, she moved from the chair to the table. The shift felt wrong. Chairs were normal life. You sat in them every day. The exam table was different. Cold paper. Metal edges. A place for patients.

It was difficult to get up onto the table with her hands still tied. Fortunately there was a small footstool, which partly made up for the inability to use her hands to pull herself up. Her bare legs brushed the crinkling paper as she climbed up. She wasn’t supposed to be on a table like this. She wasn’t supposed to be someone who belonged here.

The Doctor stepped closer, the chart tucked under one arm. “Look straight ahead,” he said.

She did as she was told. He lifted a small penlight and shone it briefly into each eye. “Good.” He added a note on the chart.

He moved to her side, took out a stethoscope, and fitted the earpieces into his ears. Then he leaned toward her.

He pressed the stethoscope to the bare skin of her upper back, at a spot where the gown already left her exposed. The metal was shockingly cold. “Breathe in.” She shuddered, silently, trying to hold herself together. Another note on the chart.

Without changing his stance, he shifted the stethoscope to her front, over her heart. She closed her eyes. She tried to will her heartbeat to slow, terrified he would write something down — something that would make all this worse. She didn’t know the word tachycardia, but she knew the feeling of her pulse racing when she was anxious. She was shaking. Another note.

He took her hands — still bound by the zip-ties — and lifted them slightly. He felt for her pulse and timed it with his wristwatch, for what seemed like a long time. Even through his latex gloves, the prolonged contact made her acutely aware of the warmth and firmness of his hands. Another pen-scratch on the chart.

He took out a chrome-plated reflex hammer with a rubber head. “Uncross your legs, Claire.” She hadn’t even realized she’d crossed them. She shifted and uncrossed them, her bare legs dangling off the edge of the table.

He placed his hand on her knee to steady her leg and tapped just below the kneecap. Her leg jerked; her bare foot twitched. He repeated the test on the other side, identical, then wrote another note. “Excellent,” was all he said.

Claire waited for more — perhaps a chance to explain herself — but he simply closed the chart with a soft snap.

“That will do,” he said.

She blinked. “That’s… that’s it?”

“For now.” He didn’t elaborate. “You’ll be taken to your room shortly.”

“Room? No, I — I don’t need a room. I shouldn’t even be here. There’s been a mistake, you can see that. If you just talk to somebody, just check something, you’ll see. Call my boss. Call my sister — Liz. You have her number, she’s my emergency contact… They’ll tell you, I don’t need to be here, I don’t need a room. I just want to go home. Please…”

Her voice cracked. She was close to breaking down. This man had been her last hope. He placed his hand on her back. It was the kind of gesture that some people might have called comforting.

“Claire,” he said calmly, “you are not in charge here.”

She looked straight ahead, said nothing.

“Stand up,” he ordered.

He waited as she sat still for a few seconds, with some residual defiance against doing what she was told simply because she was being told. He waited, as if he had all day to wait, and she stood up.

He opened the door, looked out into the hallway, and nodded at whoever was out there. In came a different female nurse, a middle-aged red-haired woman, and another one of the orderlies. They said nothing. Presumably they’d come to take her away, but now they too were waiting for whatever would happen next.

“Turn around.”

She turned around, facing the table, and leaned her hands on it slightly to steady herself. At least, she thought, they’d tied her hands in the front, so she could at least partially use them. She could see herself in the mirror again now. She looked paler. Her eyes were wide open. She looked down, to avoid staring into her own face too long.

“Let’s get something straight, Claire,” he intoned, his voice still oddly calm, calmer than his words would normally indicate, “I am in charge of your treatment here. I decide how long you stay, I will decide when you will leave. Your time here could be pleasant, or unpleasant, depending on your behavior.”

Claire said nothing. She was finished talking to this man. He was not going to help her. Was not interested in helping her. And she knew, somehow, that unlike the others he saw her. The others didn’t even notice her unease, her humiliation, her overwhelming wish to be somewhere else. He saw it, he just didn’t care. With just a few words from him, all of her hopes had been dashed. She had nothing to say to him.

“Not talking at all, are we?” he said, still with that eerie calm in his voice, “I do not normally do this to new patients on their first day, but you need to be shown that your behavior has consequences in this facility.”

Claire was frozen. What kind of consequences?

“Typically, you would be shown to your room now and provided with a change of clothing. Pajamas, robes, slippers, that sort of thing. You’re going to stay like this for a while. Additionally…”

Her heart sank. She did not like the word “additionally,” how much worse could it get?

“Additionally,” he continued, “You are not authorized to wear any outside garments. The gown is enough for you, until your behavior improves. Let’s get these off you now.” He looked at the nurse.

What? she thought, what the hell does that mean? What garments?… he doesn’t mean they’re going to…

“Hold still, sweetie,” the woman whispered in a thick Southern accent. She untied the lower of two pairs of strings on the back of Claire’s hospital gown, so that its two sides now kept her covered up only by gravity. She reached inside the gown, without fully opening it, and pulled Claire’s underwear down off of her hips.

Oh my god, I was right, they took my… I’m going to have to walk around this, with my…, Claire could not even finish the thought, it was so horrible.

Her panties fell to the floor around her feet. Gingerly, she stepped out of them and left them there, not sure what to do with them now.

“Show her to her room, Pam,” said the Doctor to the other two.

Claire, mortified, said nothing. She could not believe what was happening.

“Come on, honey,” said Pam, “this way.”

Claire followed her through the door, and suddenly realized the gown was still untied. There was nothing back there keeping it closed except gravity and good luck. Had they left it like this on purpose, or just forgotten to retie them? She was afraid to ask. How was she supposed to walk like this? Very slowly and carefully. She placed one bare foot in front of the other, and tried to move as stiffly as possible, keeping her back completely straight. If only, she thought, if only they’d tied my hands behind my back.

---

The hallway was long, with many more doors like the one she’d just been in. She followed the employees at some distance, due to her slower pace. They did not seem to mind; they did not stop and wait for her or scold her to speed up. They acted like this was normal. Was it normal here? What kind of place was this, where this might be normal?

They rounded a corner, turned right. For a few seconds, she couldn’t see them, and they couldn’t see her. How did they know she was even still following? She continued following them, she had nowhere else to go.

“Well, well,” said a male voice from the hallway behind her, “you must be new.”

She turned her head, and saw a man in greasy janitor’s overalls, carrying a mop and pushing a wheeled bucket. He looked to be in his forties, with a beard going gray in uneven patches. A grimy red bandana covered his hair — whatever hair he still had — the kind of thing that looked like it doubled as a rag when he needed one. He wore thick yellow cleaning gloves, the industrial kind, not the thin medical ones the Doctor used. Everything about him said maintenance, janitorial, the people who came in after hours to empty trash cans and mop floors.

At her office, people like this didn’t talk to her. They moved around her, silent and invisible, doing their work while she did hers on nights when she worked late. That was the unspoken arrangement. And yet here he was.

“You must’ve really done something to get your hands tied up like that on the first day! Usually Doc’s nicer to the new ones. He must have something special planned for you.”

Claire said nothing, and continued to walk. Slowly. Trusting her slow pace would keep the gown in place in spite of nothing physically holding it. How long was this man going to be back there, watching her walk? Now she really wanted to get around that corner, where the others had gone. But she dared not speed up.

Oh God, oh God, please let the gown stay shut, she thought.

“Name’s Bill, by the way,” the man continued, as if oblivious to her unease, “Ol’ Bill, the gals all call me. Don’t mind me, I’m friendly! It’s the other patients you need to look out for. They might get jealous once they see Doc has a new project going!”

Claire tried not to even think about these words. She continued to place one foot in front of the other. The gown stayed in place, she thought.

As she rounded the corner, Bill got in one last parting shot, “it’s gonna be nice having a new pair of cheeks peekin’ out around here!”

1.2 Accepting Reality

The slow march down the hallway continued, Claire walking even slower now that she’d had external confirmation that something was “peeking out” the slit of the back of the gown.

That guy saw me, she kept thinking, He saw my…, but again she couldn’t even bring herself to think the thought. She was too mortified, too humiliated. He was so… how can anyone talk to me like that? What did I do to deserve this?, she thought.

The nurse and the orderly came to a door at the end of the hallway, another metal door that required badge access to open. It opened into a room that was slightly less ancient in feel than the hallway had been. Unlike the hallway, the floor was carpeted. She instinctively curled her toes into it, but it did not give, it was worn and crushed from years of other people walking on it. Still, it was warm and welcome after the cold tile.

“This is the wing you’ll be staying in, sweetie,” said Pam, “it has everything you need — bedrooms, bathrooms, cafeteria, common areas…”

They were in a break room and sitting area with multiple chairs and tables and couches. There was an impossibly old TV, muted and tuned to some shopping channel. There was a large commercial coffee pot, that had clearly been sitting turned on for hours, filling the room with the smell of burnt coffee. The couches had a worn look, like thrift-store furniture. There was a shelf of books, all of which appeared to be heavily-used romance novels, and a rack of magazines, all of which were the kind of thing you normally see on supermarket checkout aisles, also years old and heavily used.

It looks like an Old Folks’ home in here, Claire thought, remembering the times years ago she’d visited her great-grandmother, They wouldn’t let her leave without supervision, either. It was for her own good, they said. She was 90 and she’d been in there for years and years. Oh God, I could be here until I’m 90…

There was a murmur of female voices. At the other end of the large room, too far away to hear clearly, Claire could see a group of other patients sitting around talking to a nurse. She felt a weight in her stomach. She wasn’t ready to sit in a group with a bunch of strangers. She wasn’t ready for anything.

“That’s the group therapy session, sweetie,” said the nurse guiding her, “you’ll be joining it soon. But first let’s continue the Grand Tour!”

They walked over to another area adjacent to the common room, Claire feeling somewhat relieved she did not have to join the group session just yet, but also wishing she could simply sit down. It contained a sort of counter, or desk, behind which another nurse was seated.

“This is our nurse’s station. This is where you can find one of us if you ever need anything, sweetie, day or night. This is also where you’ll get any outside prescribed medications, like allergy medicine and birth control, but only after they’ve been reviewed and approved by the Doctor. Any new psychiatric medications might be given here, depending on the prescription, or they might be administered directly by a nurse. All of that is in review right now.”

They walked down another hallway. Pam took Claire right up to the door of a room, with “217” in metal numbers on it. “This is going to be your room, honey.”

Pam opened the door, and Claire was taken aback by the state of the room and its furnishings. Even by the standards of this hospital, it looked like it had been lived in too much and cared for too little. There were six metal beds, not modern hospital beds, the old kind, thought Claire, the kind with metal rails, not plastic. There were six small wooden dressers, very scuffed and scratched. There was a small table with some chairs around it. The room was kept warm by ancient metal radiators along the wall. There were large windows, metal-barred of course.

“How many patients live in here?” Claire asked. She imagined the room crowded, filled with noise and chatter. And she had no idea what her roommates were going to be like. Were they like her, sent here for the wrong reasons, or did they belong in here? Was she going to feel safe sleeping in a room with five strangers?

“Just you and one other young lady, about your age,” said the nurse, “we have a lot of vacant spots in the hospital these days. There’s not as many girls that need to be here, as there used to be.”

I don’t need to be here, thought Claire. She sat down on the nearest bed, eager to get something solid under her. The mattress felt thin, more like a pallet than a bed. The metal rails were cold against her thigh. She could smell the rust.

“Don’t get comfortable yet,” said Pam, “I’ve got more places to show you.”

“When do I get issued clothes?” asked Claire, “to put in my dresser?”

“Oh, sweetie, you don’t get any until the Doctor says you can have them. Until then we’ll change you into a new clean gown whenever you need one. You’ll be allowed to have your hands free while you sleep, and for bathroom breaks — but until the Doctor says otherwise we have to put the cuffs back on after. Here, honey, let me see your hands.”

Claire held out her bound hands for the nurse to see. “Change these,” the nurse said to the orderly, “so she sees how it works.”

The orderly reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of scissors, and cut the tie on Claire’s wrists. Involuntarily, she shook her wrists, feeling the freedom. Then she remembered, like a person remembering a briefly-forgotten problem upon waking up from sleep, and her hands moved automatically around behind her back. Her fingers felt the fabric of the two sides of the gown and held them tight together, making sure it stayed closed. She fumbled for the strings, trying to find them and tie them while she had time. It’s like trying to tie your shoes behind your back, she thought, I don’t think I’m going to have time…

“That’s right baby, stretch out for a minute. But don’t get used to it,” said the nurse, “here hold them back out for us!”

The orderly produced not another pair of zip-ties, but a pair of stainless metal handcuffs, and put them on Claire’s wrists. In spite of the weight and the clanky metal, these were better than the ties, she realized. They allowed slightly more freedom of movement of the hands. Not enough to get her hands behind her back, though, as Claire soon discovered.

Claire was not surprised at all by this, at this point. She simply nodded and then hung her head, and followed the nurse back out the door.

“Now, honey, you’ll be able to leave your room whenever you want, and go to the other patient-accessible areas. That includes the breakroom that we just saw, and the bathroom. Now for the bathroom you’re gonna have a towel, a bar of soap, a little bitty bottle of shampoo, a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, sanitary supplies, and a hair brush. It’s your responsibility to keep track of all these, and to hang your towel up to dry after use so it doesn’t get moldy. You get new towels on Tuesdays and Fridays…”

While Claire recoiled at the thought of moldy old towels, and also at the idea that she was going to even be here long enough to need all of this stuff, Pam led her into a large and very “institutional” bathroom. The whole room looked like the inside of a drained swimming pool, like it was designed to be flooded. The walls and floor were all made of the same tile. There were several toilets and showers, each mercifully in their own little stalls, just like at the gym, Claire thought, but there’s no lockers. Clearly someone in her position was not allowed to have anything that needed to be locked up or kept safe. Suddenly, she remembered, in all the commotion she did not know where any of her stuff was. Her phone, purse, wallet, money, identification, it was all missing. It was all taken from her in the ambulance, when they made her change outfits. She wondered if it was all sitting somewhere in the same laundry bag with her clothes. I’ll never see my phone again just like I’ll never see my panties again, she thought.

The room also had another feature that Claire had not seen in a gym, and which gave her a sinking feeling to behold: a row of old, metal, clawfoot bathtubs along one wall. These had both faucets and showerheads on flexible metal hoses. They had no curtains around them; anyone using them would be exposed and public for everyone to see. Claire shuddered. The tile felt very cold under her feet. She wondered who used these, and if they did so of their own will.

Next was the cafeteria. It looked exactly like the cafeteria of every school Claire had ever been to: Formica tables, stacks of plastic trays, the bustle of kitchen staff, the smell of hot food. The nurse announced, “this is where you will have three meals a day. A schedule of the meals and today’s menu is written here,” she gestured at a whiteboard on the wall, “make sure you do not miss meal time or you will have to wait for the next one.”

Claire was hungry but it did not seem to be meal time at the moment. Her ambulance had arrived at her job shortly before lunch, and now lunch was over — she’d missed it. She’d have to wait for dinner.

“And now,” the nurse announced almost excitedly, “it’s time to go meet the other girls!”

Claire had a look of silent dread on her face.

“Don’t you fret, sweetie,” reassured the nurse, “I’m turning you over to your group now. Nurse Laura will take it from here. But, if you need me, just ask for Nurse Pam. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow anyway, you’re one of my special patients. I take care of all my little babies.”

Claire took a good look at Pam. She looked about 60, her dark reddish hair was clearly not naturally that color anymore, and it nearly matched her burgundy scrubs. “Take care, honey,” said Pam as she and the silent orderly walked away. She patted Claire on the back. The touch was gentle, and that somehow made it worse. It reminded Claire of the gown, as if she needed a reminder.

She knows, thought Claire, she could have tied those strings. It must be written down on my chart not to do it. In spite of her empathy, Pam was clearly not someone who was going to bend any rules.

---

Cautiously, Claire approached the group. She felt like she’d just been dropped off for her first day of school. Eight women sat in a loose ring of chairs. Some slouched, some sat upright, all facing a nurse who stood at the edge of the circle in green scrubs, holding a clipboard. This nurse was younger than Pam — maybe forty, dark hair pulled back, sharp face. She didn’t smile.

She turned, and her eyes quickly looked over Claire — the gown, the handcuffs, the bare feet — and then she nodded as if Claire’s condition was something she expected. She gestured to an empty chair. “Have a seat, Claire.” Her voice was calm, clipped, professional, and disinterested.

Claire sat down, the carpet rough under her feet, the metal handcuffs clinking softly as she laid her hands in her lap.

The other patients glanced at her. The patients were wearing an assortment of pajamas, bathrobes, even scrubs like the ones the nurses wore. No one was wearing just a hospital gown. No one was barefoot. Everyone wore socks, bedroom slippers, or both. No one was in handcuffs.

One girl in particular caught her eye. She was pale, not unhealthily so, but like the natural paleness of someone who spends most of their time indoors, in dark places like basement bars and the public library. Her dark hair looked too black to be natural; clearly it was dyed. She wore a white terry-cloth bathrobe and matching slippers, and that seemed to be all. No pajamas were visible under it. The robe’s belt was tied in a single loose half-knot — a knot Claire wouldn’t have trusted for one second — and the girl plainly didn’t give it a thought. Claire couldn’t decide which she envied more: the robe, or the unconcern. She leaned back in her chair, in a posture that was both relaxed and defiant, taking up more space than the other women, like she was in her own living room and everyone else was the visitor.

She looked like she was waiting for something. Her legs were crossed, one slipper dangling precariously from her toes, as if she didn’t care whether it fell. How can anyone be that relaxed in here? Claire wondered. She looked about Claire’s age, maybe a little younger. Her expression was flat, but her eyes — the kind of grey-green eyes that looked a different shade under every kind of light — were alive and watchful. Briefly, those eyes turned on Claire. They took her in just like the nurse had, as if this mind also was analyzing her.

Laura turned to the black-haired stranger. “Misty, why don’t you continue what you were saying.”

The black-haired girl remained silent. A few of the other patients glanced at her. She didn’t look at Laura. “I wasn’t saying anything.”

Laura made a small note on her clipboard. “Avoidance. That’s alright. We can come back to you.”

Claire didn’t understand what had just happened, but all the other patients had turned to stare at Misty. Her slipper dropped on the carpet with a slight thud, where it lay a few seconds before her foot slipped back into it.

Who is she?, Claire wondered.

Laura moved on, her tone smooth and practiced. “Now, as I was saying, today we’re focusing on acceptance. Accepting where we are. Accepting the help we’re given. Accepting responsibility for our choices.”

Claire swallowed. The words felt like they were aimed at her even though Laura wasn’t looking at her. Without warning, Laura turned directly to Claire, “And now for our newest member. Is there anything you’d like to share with the group, Claire?”

Claire was like a deer in headlights. She folded her hands in her lap, the cuffs cold against her skin, and tried to shrink. She didn’t know the rules here yet, like everyone else presumably did. She didn’t know what she could say that wouldn’t make things even worse.

“I… ugh…”, she stammered.

“Start with the basics, Claire. Tell us who you are, your age, where you’re from, what’s been going on in your life. School. Work. And then tell us how you got here.” All of the other patients were now staring at her, except for the black-haired one, Misty, who seemed to be looking away, her mind somewhere else.

Claire suddenly found herself unable to look anyone in the eye, and spoke to her own feet:

“My… name is Claire M-Michelle Allman.” She rarely spoke her middle name, and hearing it out loud reminded her of her mother telling her that it was like a little magic spell to give her strength. She felt like she needed it. “I’m… 23. I work at… I work at… J. Dunbar and Company… Human Resources… I’m… I help people, I answer people’s questions about their benefits… I help people file claims for… for… mental health…”

With the words “mental health,” she felt tears filling her eyes, and buried her face in her hands. She knew they were all still looking at her.

Someone must have looked like they were about to say something, because Claire heard the Nurse say, “Give her space, ladies. Let her finish.”

When she could collect herself enough to speak, she continued, “I’m here because I made a mistake. It was my mistake, but it was a little one, and I don’t need to be here because of it! You must know someone who can… fix it? Get me out of here?!”

“Thank you, Claire,” said Laura as if Claire had not just asked her a direct and concrete question. “As you all can see, we all have a ways to go towards accepting reality as it is. We’re all going to be working on it together.”

1.3 You’re Not the Only One

Claire remained sitting in the breakroom after Laura had dismissed the group. All of the patients were “free to go,” to go back to their rooms or mill about the wing. As they shuffled off they could hear faint echoes across the room and down various hallways. She thought she could hear them talking about her.

“Did you see how scared she was? I wish Laura would be nicer to her, she doesn’t look like she could handle much…,” said a voice.

“Shh. She’ll hear you!” said another.

The voices faded away, until the only sound left was the buzz of the lights overhead in the drop-ceiling and the occasional metallic clank of the radiators.

There was no planned activity until dinner. Claire didn’t know what to do, so she just stayed where she was. She thought about going to her own room, but this would involve extra walking, and walking meant worrying about the gown. It was better to stay here. She sat in her chair, staring at her hands in the metal cuffs, and contemplating her situation.

In spite of her state of exposure — bare feet, bare legs, the gown hardly covering her thighs, short sleeves, the open back — she was not cold. Quite the contrary, she was if anything feeling a bit too warm. Like many old buildings with steam radiators, every room was either too hot or too cold, and this one was too hot. You could smell the heat. Claire had perspired more than usual during the ordeal of the group session, and the gown now clung to her sweaty skin in ways that made Claire even more concerned about how it might act if she stood up. Another reason to stay put.

While she was thinking about this, someone spoke her name. “Claire?”

She looked up. It was the girl from the therapy group. The dark haired one, in the white bathrobe. This outfit actually made a lot of sense in this room today. This person wasn’t dressed like this for no reason, she knew this place well, and she was dressed for the “climate” in here.

Claire took a second to respond. “It’s Misty, right?”

“That’s what they call me,” responded the other, “I prefer to go by Mystique, or Myst for short. And trust me, I can hear if you don’t say it with a ‘y’.” Claire chuckled at this joke, out of politeness.

Myst came and sat down near Claire, not in a chair but on the floor, taking off her slippers and crossing her legs like she was sitting around a campfire. This afforded her a closer position to Claire than even the nearest chair did. Claire looked down at her. She was all knees and elbows, like a spider-monkey. The robe accommodated all this movement, somehow. Claire wondered if she had anything on under it.

“So, new girl,” Myst asked with great curiosity but no detectable contempt, “I want to know. What did you do on your first day, to end up like this? Everybody comes in the front door in zip-ties and a hospital gown. The gown tells me you must be what they call a Special Project, I know because I’m one too. But the cuffs, those are probably punishment for something…”

“If we’re both the same kind of patient,” Claire asked, “why did they let you have a robe and slippers? Can I get a robe and slippers?”

“Every project is different,” explained Myst, her voice softened, “it just means we don’t get treated like everybody else. It doesn’t mean we get treated like each other.”

“Oh,” said Claire, her hope evaporating. She was off on the wrong foot already. She was already being singled out.

“Now, how’d you get those cuffs?” Myst’s curiosity was unsated. But Claire detected something else in her voice: not morbid curiosity, not pity, but empathy.

“Well, he said I wasn’t being cooperative. Said I needed to be shown who’s in charge.”

“Who said?”

“That doctor,” said Claire, “the one with the brown hair, and stubble. You know him?” she carefully avoided mentioning anything about his piercing eyes, or how his touch felt.

“Oh, I know all about him,” said Myst knowingly.

“Anything I need to know?” asked Claire.

“In due time, Claire. In due time. You’ve got a lot to learn about this place. You should lie down. Come on, I’ll walk you to our room.”

“Our room?”

“Yeah didn’t Pam tell you? They put us odd ones together. We’re gonna be roomies!” Myst sounded girlish, almost excited.

Claire was relieved that her roommate, if she had to have one, was at least going to be someone she felt like she could talk to. Someone who wouldn’t talk down to her.

“Myst,” she said nervously, “can you… can you help me tie my gown closed in the back? The strings have been untied since I got here, it keeps coming open…”

“Did you ask the nurses to tie them?”

“I… uh… tried, but I couldn’t. Nobody was listening to me about anything else, why would they listen to me about that? And it’s so embarrassing, I didn’t even want to have to talk about it…”

“You’re talking to me about it.”

“Yeah, but you, you’re like… a person.”

“Alright let’s get these tied,” said Myst, rising to her feet and leaning in, “here Claire, don’t get up, just turn sideways a little… there.”

Claire couldn’t believe it. Someone had just done the one thing for her that she’d been trying to get done for hours.

“Oh Myst, thank you…”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure I’ll end up owing you plenty of favors. Let’s get you down for a quick rest before dinner.”

“You sound more like a doctor or a nurse than the ones here,” laughed Claire as she got up and started to walk, and realized she didn’t need to worry about the gown now.

“I’ll be a therapist eventually, if I ever get out of here,” said Myst, “I was in my senior year at State, studying psychology. You know, back in the outside world.”

“Oh. State. That explains everything!” Claire joked. State University was her own alma mater’s in-state rival in basically every sport. Claire had spent four years cracking jokes at the expense of that school and its students, and it was a hard habit to break. It felt good to have something to joke about.

“Oh I see what your deal is,” said Myst with a smile, “you’re one of those stuck up rich girls from down at the U!”

“Hey, I’m not rich! I got a scholarship! I was a straight-A student once…”

“Oh yeah, I know your type. You’re one of those little goody-goody girls. Y’all gave me hell in high school,” the playful jests continued as they walked down the hallway. There was no malice in these remarks, just blowing off steam that seemed like it’d been boiling for a while.

“You said y’all! I thought I heard a southern accent! You’re not from around here.”

“You got me, I’m not! I’m a southern belle turned rebel. A runaway debutante. And you’re a good girl gone bad, don’t we make a pair,” Myst briefly dropped all pretense and let her natural drawl come through.

“That’s wild how you can turn that on and off,” said Claire.

“You have to. People make judgements, assumptions, when they hear that accent. Expect you to act a certain way,” as she said this they arrived in the room. Myst sat down on one of the beds. “This is my bed here, and that’s my dresser there,” pointing a toe at the nearest dresser, almost reaching it, Claire thought. “Take any other bed you want.”

Claire sat down on the bed directly across from Myst.

“Oh,” said Myst, “you really want to be that close? You seem like someone that needs your space.”

“Normally I am,” said Claire, staring at the floor and her own feet, “but here I feel like I might need someone to talk to when I’m trying to go to sleep. Not right now, though, I’m exhausted,” she covered herself with the threadbare blanket and turned away from the window which was the room’s only source of light as the ceiling lights were already off.

Myst lay down on her own bed, and stared silently up at the ceiling.

“How long have you been here?” asked Claire.

“Oh… about 9 months. Seems like a lot longer. I’ve been in and out of hospitals since I was 14, and none of them were as much of a shithole as this. Not even the ones that I thought were bad when I was in ’em.”

“Why? I mean, why were you in the hospital…”

“Oh, various reasons. Anxiety. Panic attacks. Always thinking people were out to get me. At one point I ran away from home, lived on the street…”

“Is that how you ended up here?”

“Nah,” Myst sighed, “I actually got stabilized. They put me on meds that worked, I got back to school, got back to life, went to State, decided to become, you know, a therapist so I could help other people too, and then…”

“And then what, Myst?”

“It’s a story for another time, Claire, you’re not ready to hear it yet.”

“I understand,” said Claire, “I don’t expect you to open up to a stranger on the first day.”

“I’m not protecting me, Claire, I’m protecting you.”

“Protecting me from what? From who?”

“Don’t worry about it Claire, just get some sleep. I’ve got some business to attend to while you doze.”

---

“Claire, Claire, wake up,” said Myst, “it’s time to eat. You don’t want to miss dinner.”

“Oh, already? I was out like a light!”

The cafeteria was a cacophony of clattering plastic trays, clinking silverware, and people milling about. Just like high school, thought Claire.

She wondered how she was going to eat with her hands still handcuffed.

The cafeteria worker saw her, and said, “Oh I see we have someone special with us today! Here, honey, we have this for you,” and handed Claire a paper bag instead of a tray.

Myst, meanwhile, received a tray with the normal evening meal, which in this case was a cube of meatloaf, a scoop of clearly instant mashed potatoes (no gravy available), obviously canned peas-and-carrots, and a dinner roll that had been slightly burned while heating it up.

Both of them were also given little paper cartons of milk.

They sat down at a table where no one else was sitting. While struggling to keep the clanking of her metal handcuffs to a minimum, Claire opened her bag, and found it contained a sandwich wrapped in wax paper, a small plastic bag of potato chips, and a chocolate chip cookie. Do they think I’m six?, Claire wondered. The sandwich, when opened, turned out to be bologna and American cheese on white bread.

Myst noticed Claire’s expression and said, “Oh it’s not you, this is just what they feed everybody that’s handcuffed, or if they don’t trust you to use utensils, or hold a tray.” It was not encouraging that this situation was common enough for them to have a special menu for it. “Eat,” said Myst, “it’ll make you feel better.”

Claire lifted the sandwich with both hands, and took a bite. The bologna smelled and tasted of childhood. There was no mayo or mustard to moisten the dry sandwich bread. The bread stuck to the roof of her mouth as she chewed. She wasn’t sure how much of this she was going to be able to stomach, but the taste of food — any food — reminded her how hungry she was, so she continued to eat.

Feeling a growing thirst, she picked up the little milk carton and contemplated it. It was exactly as she remembered, with the little cartoon cow and everything. She fumbled with it, trying to open it. The handcuffs clinked loudly.

Myst leaned forward, holding up her own carton, demonstrating, and muttered softly. “Pinch the corners. Not the middle, make the seams pop…” as she opened the spout.

Claire mimicked the motion, awkwardly, wrists bound close together. The carton resisted — then, suddenly, the seam gave a soft crack and opened.

“Oh!” Claire said, surprised. “It worked.”

“Told you,” Myst said, leaning back with a small, satisfied smile. “You did it.”

“Thanks,” said Claire, who was never more happy to drink 2% milk in her life.

---

Back in the breakroom, most of the other patients clustered around the TV, which had been set to the HGTV channel by a staff member who took the remote control away with her when she left.

Claire sat further from the TV, not looking at it, and tried to keep herself calm by reading an issue of People magazine from 2019. It wasn’t working. She set the magazine down and stared blankly in the general direction of the screen. A couple in a city that wasn’t identified, but you could tell was probably San Francisco, toured a renovated Victorian rowhouse that was probably worth more money than Claire would ever make in her life.

Myst sat on the couch next to Claire, legs crossed, dangling her slipper again and silently watching.

“Let’s do something,” she said, “let’s see if any of these still have anything in them,” pointing to a shelf of boardgame boxes next to the books.

“I don’t feel like playing,” muttered Claire.

“Come on, it’ll help you relax.”

None of the games were playable. The Monopoly box had no money in it. The Chess and Checkers box was missing a bishop, two rooks, six pawns, and only had five red and seven black checkers. The box that appeared to be a deck of cards contained no cards, but a folded up piece of paper. Claire unfolded it, and sighed when she saw someone had written, “Don’t forget — you’re here forever” on it.

They returned to the TV. The husband was sold on the house but the wife wanted something single-story because she didn’t think a house with stairs would be safe for any future child they may have. “If he makes her live in that house,” Myst muttered, “I bet she kicks him down the stairs.”

---

Later, they sat in their room, staring at the ceiling and talking idly.

With a click, the lights in the room turned off, as if someone down the hall had thrown a switch that turned off the lights in all of the rooms at once.

Claire didn’t realize she’d already gotten used to the buzzing lights in this building until the room fell silent. Now all she could hear was the sound of shuffling footsteps out in the hallway, and the occasional clanking of the radiator.

“10 PM,” said Myst. There was no clock in the room, or anywhere else Claire had seen, so she knew Myst actually told the time by these lights going out.

“Lights out, girls,” said a gruff female voice from the door. It was the night shift nurse. Claire could not really make out what she looked like from her silhouette in the door. She sounded like someone who’d been smoking cigarettes for 20 years. She stepped into the room and revealed herself to be a short, stocky, middle aged woman, with short cropped gray hair that had probably once been red, wearing short sleeved scrubs that revealed muscular forearms and tattoos. She wrote something on a clipboard. She looked at Claire, as if sizing her up, and said, “I see you’re our new one. I’m Jess, and I’ll get you through the night. Let me know if you need anything. Oh yeah, I almost forgot! Give me your hands…”

Jess removed a ring of keys from her pocket, and removed the cuffs from Claire’s wrists. “Thank you,” she nearly sobbed, it felt so good to get them off, even though she knew they’d be back on in the morning.

Jess left as abruptly as she’d entered.

“Myst, am I ever going to get out of here?” Claire asked softly, holding back tears.

“Sure you will. We all will.” And Myst drifted off to sleep.

Claire lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling while Myst slept. Just when it seemed like she was drifting off, Jess barged into the room again, glanced briefly at both patients, and wrote on her clipboard again. “Go to sleep, sweetie,” she said to Claire in a voice that was half whisper, half cough. Myst didn’t wake up. Claire wondered how anyone could sleep in this place.

---

“Rise and shine, ladies,” said another voice. This time it was Pam again. The new morning sun’s first red rays were slanting in through the window bars. Claire guessed it was about 7:00 AM.

Myst sat up in bed, hair disheveled, eyes blinking to get used to the light, and stared at Pam with the annoyance of the unwillingly awakened. “Let’s get it over with, Nurse,” she grumbled.

“We’ll do your morning routine in a minute, Misty,” Pam said. Claire could see Myst tense up slightly at the mention of her name. Pam continued, “first, though, I’ve got a surprise for you, Claire.”

Claire, who’d already realized that a “surprise” in this place was unlikely to be anything good, said nothing.

Pam continued “I don’t have to put the cuffs back on you today!”

Claire was shocked. How? What had changed? She dared not ask. But she had to. She screwed up her courage.

“Am… am I going home?” she said meekly.

“Oh baby,” Pam said with what sounded almost like genuine sympathy, “that’s for the Doctor to figure out. All I know is your hands stay free until further notice.”

Claire realized that Myst was looking at her with something that looked like pride, accomplishment. Myst looked away when she realized Claire was staring at her. Did she have something to do with this?, Claire wondered.

Pam continued, “I do have one thing I’ve got to do. Stand up for me, sweetie.”

Claire carefully got out of bed. The gown was still tied in the back, but even tied it was more revealing than she was comfortable maneuvering in. She stood nervously, facing Pam.

Pam took a pair of scissors out of her pocket.

“Turn around for me, baby,” said Pam.

Claire didn’t know what else to do, so she turned around.

“Hold still now, let mama get it with the scissors…”

A snap, a click, and Claire realized that Pam had just used the scissors to cut the strings on the back of the gown. Her hands, thankfully freed, automatically raced back behind her to clasp it shut.

“W… what? Why?” she stammered.

“Doctor’s orders, baby,” Pam said, “I don’t make the rules. All I know is from now on whenever I give you a fresh one to put on, I’m supposed to do this to it.”

Claire said nothing. She realized that she’d merely traded one indignity for another. Now instead of her hands being imprisoned by the cuffs, they were going to be constantly busy minding the back of the gown.

“Ok, Misty, it’s time to get your medicine,” Pam said, “Let’s go, sugar.” Myst got out of bed and threw on her robe over the pair of blue striped pajamas she’d slept in. She followed Pam out the door like a sullen teenager.

“Claire,” Pam called back as they left, “you’re free to roam about. You can go to the breakroom for morning TV time, until breakfast.”

Breakfast, thought Claire, my hands are free! I’ll be able to eat real food, as she stood there next to the bed, her hands still tightly clutching the back of the gown. Her hands! They… they’re going to expect me to carry a tray now.

1.4 It Will Take as Long as it Takes

Claire did not dare to leave the room without Myst. She sat on the bed and waited for her to return, staring at her own feet. It was impossible to tell how long she waited, since she had no means of telling the time.

Am I allowed to just sit here like this? Could I just stay here all day if I wanted to?, she asked herself.

She lay back on the bed and tried to relax. Not go back to sleep, just relax. It did not help.

She tried staring out the window. Through the bars it opened onto a bleak courtyard, dead in the winter chill. It gave her no comfort to look at it. There was snow on the ground and ice on the park benches. She shivered in her thin gown, as if she could feel the cold in spite of the heat from the clanking radiator.

Finally, Myst returned, followed by Pam. Myst had a blank and slightly dazed look on her face, and she looked like she’d been sweating. Claire looked at Pam expectantly, as she assumed it was now her turn for whatever had just happened. Pam recognized her expression, and said, “Oh sweetie, your prescription isn’t written yet. I’m sure I’ll have something for you tomorrow.”

Claire didn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned. Maybe they weren’t starting her on any new drugs yet because they still weren’t sure how long they were going to be keeping her. Maybe it wouldn’t be long. On the other hand, whatever red tape was holding up the Doctor from deciding what medications she should be on, was also going to slow down any decisions.

“Enjoy breakfast, darlins’,” said Pam as she left the room.

Myst, having seemingly collected herself already, closed the door. She said, “we’ll go in a minute, Claire, let me get changed,” and took off her robe and threw it on the bed. Before Claire could say anything, Myst had stripped off her pajama top and dropped her pants to the floor, standing there in plain white cotton underwear as casually as if she were alone. Odd, thought Claire, all that pale skin and not a single tattoo. She seems like someone who’d have one. Claire also thought she saw a band-aid, partially covered by the panties.

“What?” asked Myst, “I hope you aren’t scandalized by seeing me in my unmentionables. We’re roomies, Claire. Had to get those PJs off, they’re really cranking up the steam this morning. And, so you know, my meds make me feel hot sometimes,” as she put the robe back on.

“At least you have underwear,” Claire joked, referring to her own state.

“Not done yet!” Myst turned away, did something inside the robe with her hands, and her bra came out and landed on the floor. A shake, and her panties dropped out of the bottom of the robe. Then — Claire would later swear she saw it — Myst picked up both, one at a time, with her toe, and flipped them into the laundry hamper in the corner.

“You… walk around like, that?” Claire asked, incredulous that Myst would do this on purpose.

“Cooler this way, airflow!” said Myst as she stepped back into her slippers. Claire was amazed at her unconcern. “Let’s go!”

Myst opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, then turned back to wait for Claire to follow her.

Claire got up slowly, carefully, clasping the back of the gown closed with both hands. One bare foot at a time, she entered the hall. She could feel the draft on the backs of her thighs as a reminder that she wasn’t dressed so much as wrapped.

Myst slowed her naturally brisk walk to match Claire’s pace. She stayed with Claire, keeping an eye on her, watching her pass each turn in the hall, like a sheep dog, or a mother duck watching a duckling waddle across a dangerous road.

They turned a corner, and there was “Old” Bill, fiddling with the attachments on a vacuum cleaner.

“Mornin’, sweetcheeks! Gettin’ used to how they do things around here?” he said, grinning with obvious pleasure.

That man, how can he talk to me like that? Claire thought. But there’s no one to stop him. Nobody cares.

“Bill,” Myst said, not even slowing down, “I swear to God, if you hassle her again I’m gonna kick you in the nuts.”

“Like to see you try!” said Bill.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Myst muttered quietly to Claire, slightly bragging. “He’s all talk. Leave him to me if you need to.”

For the first time, Claire felt like someone in this place was genuinely looking out for her. The doctor didn’t care, the nurses didn’t care. But Myst would protect her.

At the food line, Claire carefully picked up a plastic tray with one hand, while continuing to clasp the gown in the back. Down the line she pushed it, as the staff slopped scoopfuls of food onto it. The foods on the menu included scrambled eggs, oatmeal, hashbrowns, and little breakfast sausages. Like Liz used to make, Claire thought to herself. None of it looked particularly gourmet, the eggs were almost certainly powdered, and the sausages were clearly burnt, but Claire was so eager for her first hot meal in over 24 hours that she nodded enthusiastically to each cafeteria worker. Finally, a glass of orange juice.

Claire briefly forgot what was about to happen next. But only briefly. She’d reached the end of the line, now she would have to carry this tray to her table. She dared not let go of the back of the gown even for one second. Slowly, gingerly, she picked up the tray with just her right hand, while her left kept to its place behind her back. The tray was heavy, much heavier than before it had become fully laden with food. Why did I take so much?, she asked herself.

She walked even slower, one step at a time, holding the heavy tray as steady as she could. The juice glass rattled. She didn’t want to spill it. Everything was plastic, of course, so there would be no broken glass, no shattered dishes. But the embarrassment of spilling it was hard to think about. Everyone would see her. They might not even let her have another tray…

Just then Myst reappeared, sliding in beside her like she’d been watching the whole time. Without asking, she lifted the tray out of Claire’s trembling hand.

“Here,” she said quietly. “I’ve got it.”

Claire let out a breath. “Thank you,” she whispered, softly and automatically.

Myst set the tray across the table from her own and nodded toward the seat. Claire sat. The powdered eggs were lukewarm and rubbery, but they were the best thing she’d tasted in days.

---

After breakfast, Claire followed Myst back into the hallway. She was starting to trust her implicitly but cautiously. She’s the only person in this place that seems to care what happens to me. But why? Why does she care?, Claire wondered.

“What happens now?” Claire asked as she trundled along slowly.

“Shower time,” said Myst, “then morning activities.”

“What kind of activities?”

“Oh you know, art, music, that sorta stuff. It’s my favorite time of the day. They let me use crayons!” Claire couldn’t tell if Myst was being sarcastic.

“Where are we going now, to our room?” She was slowly mapping the place in her head. A part of her wondered if she could find her room now without being shown.

“Yeah, to get our shower stuff.”

---

In the bathroom shower stall, Claire turned the “hot” knob all the way clockwise, and waited for the water to heat up before adding in the cold. That’s how the showers had worked in her freshman dorm, she thought. You had to really pump the hot at first to get it going.

She waited, and waited. The water became very slightly lukewarm rather than freezing, and stayed that way. Finally, she called over the stall to Myst, “when does it heat up?”

“It doesn’t! You think they trust us with actually hot water? Girls would be burning themselves alive, is what they’d tell you if you asked.”

Claire shuddered at the thought of this, and then shuddered again at the thought of that tepid water washing all over her. But she felt filthy after spending one night in this place, so she stepped in against her better judgement. Her whole nervous system recoiled in shock. It was like jumping into a swimming pool in the early morning, or the beach when it’s too cold to swim but you wade in a little anyway. She washed as quickly as possible, noting the smell of the soap. It smelled… medicinal. Clearly designed to fight infection rather than soothe the skin.

“What is this stuff?” she called out.

“You know in that movie where the kid says ‘fuck’ and they wash his mouth out with soap? I think it’s that,” said Myst.

Claire pushed the plastic shower curtain aside and reached for her towel. She lifted it to her face and took a small, habitual whiff. It wasn’t mold or mildew — just nothing. A blankness. The absence of the sweet, homey fragrance she was used to. Even that, she realized, was denied here.

Claire wrapped the towel around herself and paused. “Hey… this thing covers me better than the clothes they give me here. Maybe I can just wear this.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Myst said, tying her robe closed. “I’m not in your same situation now, but I’ve been in it before. You’ll put that gown on, or they’ll put it on you. Ask me how I know.”

Claire did not like the sound of that at all. She also did not think “situation” was a strong enough word for what she was in.

---

Activity time today involved going to the art room. The walls were decorated with patient drawings, all done in crayon. Like we’re in kindergarten. One more thing here that is just like that, she thought.

“Here,” said Myst, pointing at one drawing, “here’s a few of mine!”

Claire was amazed. Myst had somehow managed to create, using only a few crayons, what looked almost like publishable art in a comic book style. Claire didn’t read comics much but her sister Liz certainly did, and these looked exactly like the covers of the older ones, the worn out old yellowed ones from before she was born. The drawings were not, of course, of superheroes. But the style was unmistakable. She stared at a self-portrait of Myst. It’s beautiful, Claire thought.

“You look like… what’s her name, Superman’s girlfriend!” Claire exclaimed.

“Lois Lane,” said Myst, “and now if only he’d come and rescue me from this awful predicament.”

That’s it! That’s more like it, Claire thought. She was not in a situation, she was in a predicament.

The next Myst drawing was of two girls that Claire recognized from group therapy, but didn’t know by name yet. One looked really young, and had hair that was clearly about the same shade of brown as Claire’s, but streaked with orange dye. The other looked about the same age as Claire and Myst and had hair that was so blonde, it was almost white. Myst had captured all this perfectly.

“Oh, them… they’re…”

“Nikki and Anna,” said Myst, “sometimes the other girls in here pose for me. Those two are ok.”

“This was done in the hospital? They’re not even dressed like patients,” Claire noted. Nikki was wearing baggy jeans and a t-shirt that seemed to have something written on it in Japanese or Chinese or Korean, presumably not actual letters but just the hint of them. Anna looked like she was trying to revive 00’s style in a way that was half Catholic-school cheerleader, half punk princess, a look that said “I’m in a band.” Myst had conveyed this perfectly.

“Oh, I know,” said Myst, “I pictured them in what they’d be wearing if they weren’t in here.”

“But what about you?” Claire asked, nodding at the self-portrait. Myst had drawn herself in a hospital gown.

“That’s different,” Myst said. “When it’s me, it’s more like… a diary.”

“Myst… all of you seem to have such nice hair, how do you keep it up? They only give you one hairbrush and that funny smelling shampoo…”

“Oh, yeah. Pam must’ve forgotten to tell you. There’s a salon in here. One of the very few little perks of the outside world. They also do toes!” said Myst, directing attention to her clipped and painted nails showing out of the end of her open-toed slipper.

That’s odd, thought Claire, they make us dress so horrible but they let us keep our hair and nails and makeup going like it’s the outside world? For what? For who?!

“Ladies,” a nurse’s assistant announced, “quit dawdling and grab some crayons!”

Claire couldn’t think of anything to draw on her piece of white paper. She just doodled little hearts and flowers, to pass the time.

After they’d been drawing for a while, Myst nudged Claire gently and said, “Hey Claire! This one is me, done like Nikki and Anna.”

It was a drawing, all in black crayon, of Myst sitting alone on a stoop in front of a brick building. Almost alone — she was accompanied by a large dog, probably a pit bull. Myst was wearing a black camisole, black miniskirt, black fishnet stockings on her white legs, and black combat boots. Her eyes looked intense. A single cross, her only jewelry, hung on a pendant around her neck.

“Is that your dog?”

“Yeah, that’s Shadow. We met on the street, when I ran away. He guarded me at night while I was sleeping in storefront doorways and hidden under park-benches. He’s still down south with my parents, I was always gonna bring him to live with me when I could manage to find a bigger place, but well, this happened. He’s 10 years old now. Hopefully I’ll get out of here while there’s still a couple of years left with him.”

“Oh, Myst,” Claire’s heart for the first time felt a crack for Myst, saw her newfound guardian as someone who experienced pain and loss, “I’m so sorry, I can tell you miss him. My sister, Liz, had an old dog, Biscuit, that lived to be 13! I miss that old beagle, still…” Claire cried a little, then cheered up to ask, “and is that what you wore when you were on the street?”

“Oh hell no! That’s how I’m gonna look when I get outta here!”

---

At that moment, Pam poked her head into the door. “Claire, sweetie, come with me.”

“I’m going home!” Claire whispered to Myst, hopefully.

As she followed Pam out the door, Claire repeated, “I’m going home?” forlornly.

“Oh darlin’ it’s none of my business when they send you home! But you have a phone call.”

Pam escorted Claire to the nurse’s station, and handed her a corded desk telephone receiver. Claire had semi-expected a phone in a conference room, like the ones at work. Somewhere you could close the door! Or at least a desk or table, or a chair to sit on. No, she was going to have to stand at the nurse’s station in the common area, one hand holding the phone headset to her ear, the other holding her gown closed in the back.

I need to stop being surprised about stuff like this, she thought.

It was Liz!

“Liz! Where have you been? Why did you take so long to call me? I’ve been in here all night, nobody will tell me anything, I don’t know why I’m here, I don’t know how long I’m going to be here…”

“Claire,” said the voice on the other end, “I called as soon as I found out! Do you have any idea how glad I am to hear your voice, to hear that you’re ok?”

“Please Liz, tell them I don’t belong here! Tell them I can go home…”

“Claire, of course I’ve told them that. But there’s a lot of red tape for them to go through. I can’t get any answers either, other than that you’re still being evaluated.”

“Liz, I need answers!”

“Claire, you’ll be the first to know when I have any. Until then I just need you to get plenty of rest, follow your Doctor’s instructions, and don’t be afraid, ok? I need you to do that for me. Can you do that?”

“Oh… Liz…,” Claire was starting to break down. Tears were welling in her eyes.

“Claire, promise me. Promise you’re going to rest! For me.”

“Alright,” said Claire, briefly collecting herself, “for you.”

“Ok, sweetie, I’ll be in there to visit you as soon as they’ll let me!”

“Ok.”

“Goodbye, Claire.”

“Goodbye, Liz.”

As soon as she hung the phone up, Claire began crying again, “I want to go home!” choking on her tears.

Pam said, “Claire, darlin, let’s get you to your room and let you get some rest. You should just sleep in the rest of the mornin’”

“Pam! Please! Let me go! Let me out of here, I want to go home!” Claire sobbed.

“Boys!” Pam called. Two absurdly muscular male orderlies appeared on cue. Claire wasn’t even sure if it was the same two she’d seen the previous day.

“Escort this young lady to room 217,” said Pam in a businesslike voice, “and make sure she arrives safe and doesn’t get lost.”

“Claire,” Pam said very softly, almost whispering, “if you don’t go with these gentlemen, they’re big enough to pick you up and carry you there. I’m just trying to spare you the trouble.”

Too distraught to respond to Pam, Claire silently started walking in the general direction the orderlies were directing her. She did not say a single word to the men leading her. She walked the hallway dejectedly, one bare foot at a time, not noting any passers by. They were almost at her room. They were at the threshold of her room, when she heard footsteps approaching. Purposeful, confident footsteps that somehow sounded almost like someone walking on a hard floor instead of this old threadbare carpet.

“Claire?” said a voice. It was a voice she knew, but not one she expected to hear, or particularly wanted to hear. It was him, the Doctor. The man who actually decided if she stayed or if she went. She had to compose herself. She had to look like someone who did not need to be here. Has he already seen me crying? Is it too late? Her stomach dropped. If he’d seen her crying, it was over. Nobody listens to crying girls. She snapped to attention, stood straight and faced him, both hands clasped together behind her at the back of her gown, her toes pointing inward.

“Y-yes,” she answered as calmly as possible. For a heartbeat she thought he might say something that would help. Something that would make sense of all this.

“I see you are under quite a bit of stress. Don’t worry, Claire, I’m going to make sure you are well accommodated here. Tomorrow we’ll start a new course of medications for you, based on our observations of what you need,” he scratched something on a clipboard with his pen. He was wearing the bluest shirt she’d ever seen, Claire noticed, under his white labcoat.

What I need is to not be here, she thought, but did not say.

“Be gentle with this one, gentlemen,” he said to the orderlies, “she seems fragile.”

The instant all of the others had gone, Claire threw herself down on her bed, face down, and buried her face in her hands.

“What’s eatin’ you, sugar-britches? Or should I say, lack thereof…,” said a male voice. It was Bill, peeking in the open door. No one had thought to close it. To her horror she remembered. She was lying face down on the bed, with her hands at her face. Her mind raced. The door! My gown! Everyone can see my… Oh God… everyone can see me like this!, unable to even say to herself what she was really thinking.

Without acknowledging Bill at all, she got up out of bed, pulled up the covers, got back in bed, pulled the sheet all the way up over her face, and resumed crying. With no one to shush her, no one to calm her down, nothing left to lose, she sobbed uncontrollably. She turned over again and buried her face in the pillow to muffle the screams. She’d lost whatever faint hope she was still clinging to, of a quick and easy end to all this. This was going to take as long as it was going to take. And nobody was ever going to tell her anything.

She drifted off to an uneasy sleep, until she was awakened by Pam just before lunch.

Staring at her Salisbury steak, Claire caught herself thinking that she’d been in the hospital a very long time, before it occurred to her she’d actually been there almost exactly one day. She didn’t bother mentioning this to Myst.

1.5 Poor Little Thing

Afternoon was, again, time for group therapy. Claire and Myst sat with the other residents of their ward, while Laura called on each patient in turn.

She turned to the youngest one, who looked to be only about 18. She was wearing a drab gray robe over a hospital gown covered with dull, muted purple polka dots. She had hospital-issue socks on her feet, the color of brown mud. Her brown hair was streaked with orange highlights that looked like she’d done them herself in a dorm-room sink. She looked anxious, agitated.

“Nicollette,” said Laura, “why don’t you tell us how you are doing?”

“It’s Nikki,” the girl corrected. “And I don’t know why I need to be here. You know I’m only here because I keep fainting, and losing my balance and falling down. I have medical problems, I don’t have a mental illness. Why would I need this?”

Laura ignored the very reasonable question.

“Ladies,” she addressed the crowd not the individual, “can anyone name the problem with Nicollette’s outburst just now?”

A voice said, “it’s too much like right.”

Everyone turned to see who said it. It was a girl with very light bleach blonde hair, wearing striped pajamas and slippers.

“We do not need that kind of attitude, Anna,” snapped Laura.

Claire recognized both Nikki and Anna from Myst’s drawings. Claire thought that Anna looked like a blonde version of Myst. And she had the same protective streak, the willingness to go to bat for someone else, like she just did for Nikki. Oh poor Nikki! So young to be trapped in this place, for what sounds like even less of a reason than mine, Claire thought.

Beside her, Myst uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, fidgeting the way she always did when Laura had the floor. One slipper had already escaped; she flicked the other into the air, caught it, and slid it back on. Claire was learning to read her: the more Laura talked, the less still Myst’s feet got. Laura shot her a warning glance, then resumed.

“How about you next, Claire,” said Laura as if she could tell Claire was thinking about something. “You’ve been here for 24 hours, Claire, have you had time to think about your situation?”

Claire just stared at Laura, not sure what to say.

“Claire, we can’t help you if you don’t open up. What’s bothering you?”

“Just…,” Claire really wanted to repeat everything she’d been telling everyone since the previous afternoon, but she realized it would do her no good.

“I get it. Too uncomfortable to open up. Too scary. We’ve got something to work on! Maybe, today, start with something positive. What are you thankful for?”

“I… uh…,” Claire tried to think of something good and the only thing she could think of was how Myst treated her, but she also did not want to call Myst out in a way that would single Myst out for more trouble. “I’m thankful for my fellow patients. When I got here I felt so alone…”

She couldn’t go on. She hung her head, trying not to cry.

Myst slouched deeper in her chair, her bare foot now propped on her knee. The robe slipped off one shoulder. She didn’t bother to fix it. She glowered at Laura.

A patient knelt beside Claire before she even realized the woman had gotten out of her own chair. “You’re not alone,” she said, holding Claire’s hand. “I’ve been you. I know what this is like.” The woman did, indeed, look very much like Claire, or what Claire imagined herself looking like in about five years. “I’m Nancy. I’ve been here forever. You can talk to me any time you want.”

“You can also talk to me,” said a pale, freckled woman who looked to be in her thirties — and also looking like she hadn’t slept in a week. “Marija. Doctor Marija.”

“You’re a doctor? Here?”

“No, sweetie. I’m a pediatrician. I’m a patient here.”

Claire wondered how such a person ended up a patient here. She imagined Anna saying it was because Marija “cared too much.”

“Pobrecita!” said another woman leaning in, about the same age as Marija, “I’m Elena. If there’s anything I can do…”

“Pobre— what?”

Elena said softly, almost whispering, “it means poor little thing.”

Claire felt very accurately labeled.

“Ladies! Return to your seats! The welcome wagon can operate in your free time, we have others to get to.”

Myst shifted again, now sitting sideways with both legs draped over the arm of her chair, one foot kicking idly at the air, the robe barely hanging on. It’s a performance, Claire realized, every inch of it, and it’s aimed at Laura.

“Misty! Can you please sit up properly? We are trying to have a meeting here!”

Claire glanced at Myst as she straightened. They exchanged a quick grin. Claire nearly laughed.

And then — a shift came over the room.

As she looked at Myst, she saw her as she’d been in the crayon drawing: dressed all in black, confident, beautiful. The camisole, the miniskirt, the fishnets, the polished boots. The silver cross around her neck catching the fluorescent light.

Claire looked around the room.

Her eyes landed on Nikki — and for a moment she couldn’t remember the hospital girl she’d seen a minute ago. That version was gone. In her place sat the Nikki from Myst’s sketchbook. Claire blinked. The hospital version didn’t return. Myst’s version was the real one.

Anna, too — she looked like she’d stepped out of a video, ready to record a tutorial on early-00s style.

“Myst,” Claire whispered, “you need to draw them too.” She gestured toward Nancy, Elena, and Marija.

---

It was the second morning Claire had awakened in the hospital, after another nearly sleepless night.

As on the previous day, Pam came in the morning to collect Myst and take her away for her medications. Once again, Myst returned looking dazed and sweaty. Every day here is going to be the same as yesterday, Claire thought.

“Claire,” said Pam, “it’s your turn sweetie.”

“I’ll be right here when you get back, sweetie,” said Myst, with a sarcastic emphasis on the final word that made Claire grin. Pam gave Myst a sideways glance and then turned to go.

Claire followed Pam out the door. Pam led her down the hallway, through the common area, past the nurses’ station, and to the door that separated this ward from the rest of the hospital. Pam swiped her ID and the door opened. Claire followed her through it back into the world she’d seen on her first day here.

Gone was the worn out old carpet, replaced by cold tile. Gone were the institutional cinder-block walls, replaced by ancient, medieval stone and brick. She had returned to the part of the hospital that felt like an old castle, or monastery. This was recognizably the section where the Doctor had conducted her exam when she arrived. This was, apparently, where everything “medical” happened. Including, it seemed, the medications she was about to receive.

Pam led her into one of the small exam rooms off of the hallway, and closed the door behind them. The door had a keycard reader on the inside of the room. Claire knew what this meant — she would not be able to leave this room without Pam.

On a table in the room was a large envelope, the kind that offices use. On it was a sticker that read, “Special Projects / Patient #170422 / Class P-1 / Specification B.” Claire did not know what any of this meant. It also contained a series of letters and numbers she couldn’t understand at all, and a barcode.

Pam opened it. First she took out a medical bracelet.

“Here sweetie, let’s get this on you. This one has your new information on it.”

Claire had been wearing the same plastic patient’s bracelet since the ambulance, that had her name, DOB, blood type, etc., on it. Pam took out a pair of scissors and snipped it off, it fell to the floor. She placed the new bracelet on Claire’s wrist with a snap.

Claire looked at the label. It had no name, nothing recognizable, just the same cryptic information as was printed on the envelope’s sticker.

“But,” she dared, “it doesn’t have my name on it.”

“Oh sweetie, you’re in our system now! We all know who you are. Now let’s get started. Sit on the table, please, Claire. I’m gonna start by checking your vitals.”

Claire sat on the table. Pam took out a stethoscope, and placed its diaphragm over Claire’s heart, listened for a few seconds…

“Breathe for me, baby,” Claire obeyed.

Pam moved the scope around to Claire’s back, and placed the cold metal on her bare skin where the gown was open. Claire flinched.

“It’s ok sweetie, now give me another deep breath… good. Now let’s get your blood pressure…”

She placed a blood pressure cuff on Claire’s arm, and inflated it. Claire always hated this part of a doctor visit. She was always afraid the test was going to show a high blood pressure, resulting in even more tests to investigate it. She held her breath, tried to calm herself as much as possible. She tried to clear her mind, rid herself of anxiety. She was never sure it was going to work.

Pam stopped to write some numbers down on a clipboard. She didn’t tell Claire what the numbers were or what they meant.

Pam then took out a thermometer, and laid it on the table. A glass thermometer, the kind Claire had only seen in pictures. She opened a jar of something greasy.

Is that lube?!, Claire wondered. What is going on? What is she doing?

Pam began to rub the greasy substance onto the thermometer.

“Pam…,” Claire mustered up all of her courage to ask, “what are you doing?”

“Oh honey,” Pam said, “I’m gonna have to explain. You young’uns don’t know about these things anymore. This is a rectal thermometer.”

Oh God oh God does that mean…

“A rectal thermometer?” her voice was shaking.

“Yes, sweetie, and I’m going to need you to stand up and turn around. It doesn’t go in your mouth, it goes…”

Oh no oh no don’t say it…

“… in your bottom. Now get up and turn around for me.”

Claire sat motionless, frozen. This was a new line. A new threshold. She’d been through a lot, but now, now this woman was going to insert this thing into… she could not even make herself think it! The closest thing she could say was…

“Back there?!!” Claire said in a loud whisper, as if she was ashamed someone would hear it.

“Yes, Claire, back there. In your rectum.”

“W-why? Don’t you have a normal thermometer? Don’t you…,” she was nearly in tears yet again.

“Doctor’s Orders, baby,” said Pam with resignation, “I don’t decide these things. Now quit stalling. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”

“What’s the hard way?”

“I call the boys in and they hold you down while I do this.”

The only thing that could possibly make this worse would be having multiple people witness it. Claire thought she was going to faint, but she got up, turned around, and faced the exam table, resting her hands on it.

“Bend over forward, sweetie, put your elbows down on the table.”

Claire obeyed.

“Now I’m gonna grease you up a little bit too,” said Pam. She parted Claire’s cheeks and rubbed a small amount of lube on her, back there.

This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening

“Relax, baby, while the thermometer goes in,” said Pam as she slid the thermometer in.

Claire’s mind was blank. This was an unimaginable occurrence, a fear that had been lurking in her subconscious, never to be vocalized. And now, here it was. It was real, and there was nothing she could do. It was in her. It was in her back there, where nothing was ever supposed to go. It was too much to be real, so for a moment at least, it wasn’t. Nothing was.

“That’s right, honey, hold still for me. You’re being such a good girl,” Pam reassured her. “Now I just have to hold this in for a couple of minutes…”

Claire said nothing. Claire could say nothing. She didn’t really hear Pam. She wasn’t really there.

Silence. For a merciful moment, all was silence.

Then it was out. Claire would swear she heard it make a sound when it came out of her.

Suddenly she could breathe. She was back in the room, and capable of speech again.

“C-can I go now?”

“No sweetie, now that I took your vitals, it’s time for your medicine.”

Claire turned her head to look at Pam. Pam opened another jar, and took something out of it. The pill, if it was a pill, looked impossibly large. How can I swallow that? Claire thought. I can’t possibly, it’s too big I’ll choke I’ll…

Her thought stopped. What if it wasn’t a pill?

“Lean over the table again, baby,” said Pam warmly, “this is a suppository!”

What Claire’s mind had stopped short of thinking, was yet again the case. She leaned her head forward, tried to forget what she’d just seen.

“Here it comes,” said Pam, as she slowly inserted the suppository. It was every bit as big as it had looked. Claire winced, and made a very slight utterance, the softest detectable squeak.

“Now this first one is for anxiety. It’ll calm you down, make you feel relaxed, make you not so jumpy and on-edge all the time…,” Pam said as she held it in place with her finger until it dissolved. It was gone. Unlike the thermometer, it was never going to come back out. It had been absorbed by her body.

“Ok I’ll give you a second before the next one, let that one sink in,” said Pam.

Claire said nothing.

“Ok, baby, here comes the second one. This one is an anti-depressant, to improve your mood.”

But I’m not…

Before Claire could finish the thought, the suppository was in her, and she could not think about anything at all until it too was gone, swallowed up. Finally, it was all dissolved. Claire remained in position, breathing, having difficulty believing that everything that had just happened was real.

Eventually she asked, with exhaustion, “is that all?”

“Yes, that was the last one. For today. But I’m gonna have to ask you: you haven’t had a bowel movement yet in the hospital, have you?”

Claire was too mortified to say anything. This was not a topic she was willing to discuss, not even now.

“I didn’t think so. From now on I need you to tell me whenever you do, so I can put it down in your chart. Otherwise we may have to do something about it.”

Oh no. Oh no no no…, thought Claire, Pam had said “from now on.” Claire knew what that meant. This was now a routine. This was going to be a daily occurrence. This thought was too much to entertain. Claire did not entertain it.

---

Myst was waiting in the bedroom for Claire’s return, sitting on the bed. Claire walked in the door, threw herself down on the bed next to Myst, buried her face in Myst’s shoulder, and cried.

“Oh Myst… I can’t… I can’t even talk about it… it was too…”

“Shh…,” said Myst, softly stroking Claire’s hair, “don’t talk, Claire Bear. It’ll all be ok.”

1.6 That’s How They Get You

Claire had now been in the hospital for one week. Every day for the past five days, Pam had escorted Claire into the examination room, and performed the unthinkable. The unspeakable. Claire did not talk while it was happening, and she did not talk about it after it was over either. She preferred to think of it as little as possible. This proved surprisingly difficult. She found she could be in the middle of talking or thinking about something else, and all of a sudden find herself remembering… that. It had happened the day before, it had happened this morning, and it was going to happen again tomorrow. The thought of it was always just out of view, hanging out in the periphery of her mind.

She had just returned to the room, where Myst welcomed her back with a silent hug, as if Myst somehow knew that something unspeakable had just happened.

“Myst,” Claire asked, “what exactly happens when they take you to get your daily meds? Like, how do they give them to you?”

Myst looked like someone had just asked her a question she’d been dreading having to answer, but knew it was coming eventually.

“Well, Pam takes me over there to the exam room, and gives me a shot, here…”

Myst pulled up her robe, and pulled down her panties, to show a band-aid on her right butt-cheek.

“Oh…,” Claire was shocked, not by Myst’s casual self-exposure (she was used to that by now), but by what this meant. Myst was not getting the same treatment she was. Myst was not getting drugs by suppository, and probably also wasn’t getting rectal temperatures either. None of this made sense to Claire.

“That is not what they do to me,” she explained.

“I didn’t think so,” said Myst, “they have several different ways of getting to you here, and needles are mine. Claire, have you ever wondered why I don’t have any tattoos?”

“No I never thought about it,” Claire lied out of politeness.

“Oh, come on! I look like someone who should have tats, and yet I don’t. You wanna know why?” Myst’s eyes widened, as she sat back down, and began dangling her slipper the way she always did.

“Why?”

“Because I’m afraid of needles. Totally freaked out. Tattoo needles, shot needles, blood tests, IVs, doesn’t matter. When I first got here to this hospital, every time they said they were going to inject me with something, I ran screaming. They used to have to send the goons after me to catch me and hold me down while they injected me. I used to fight them, hard. They’d always win, but I gave as good as I got!”

“But why? I mean, why do they do that to you? Don’t they have pills?”

“Well, yeah. The meds I’m on, I always was on pills before I got here. They do this on purpose, because they know I hate it. That’s what they do here, Claire.”

“Oh, no…”

“That’s right. That’s what this place does. That’s what being a special project patient means. They figure out, or guess, what’s the thing that really drives you up the wall, and then they do it to you. Every day.”

“Why? Why would they do that? Who does that help?”

“They’re not trying to help us, Claire, they’re trying to control us, and use us, and play with us. We’re toys. Playthings.”

“Oh God,” Claire muttered, barely able to think the thought.

“Now let me guess what they’re doing to get to you. Based on the dress code they already imposed on you — what with the gown and all — I’m gonna guess they give you suppositories. Rectal temps. You know, stuff that goes in your butt.”

“Oh Myst, don’t talk about it please, I don’t want to think about it,” Claire was shaking.

“That’s kind of the point, though. They know you don’t want to think about it. They like taking all the things you’d rather not think about, and shoving them in your face. Or, in your case, shoving them someplace else.”

“But… how did they know?”

“I’m sure they’ve got a bunch of theories that pseudo-scientifically explain it.”

“And you knew, Myst, how did you know?”

“Oh Claire… let me count the ways,” Myst continued, excited. Claire could tell Myst was excited because her foot was twitching faster. “Well let’s see… the first day you got here, the first time I saw you, when you sat down? You… you didn’t sit all the way back. It was like, you didn’t even want the chair touching your — touching you back there.”

“I… didn’t notice myself doing that.”

“Most people don’t notice that kind of thing. You have to train yourself to see it. And here’s more — whenever Pam walks in to take you, you go stiff as a board — not like you’re scared, even though you are — but more like you’re embarrassed. And when the Doctor…”

“Don’t talk about him!” Claire interjected.

“And the gown? It bothers you way more than it would most people. Most people, yeah, they would think it was embarrassing. Who wouldn’t? I did, when I had to wear one, when I first got here. But that’s most people, just at first. And then they’d think it was funny. And then… they’d get used to it and not even notice it. But not you.”

“Oh… well, I…”

“And every time you come back from the exam room?”

Claire had started to try to say something, but Myst was talking fast, like Claire’d had a split second in which to speak, and she missed it.

“You — oh sorry — you, uh…mmm…,” Myst twirled her finger in circles, as if trying to restart a car that had run off the road, “You — you don’t talk! And you don’t look at anybody in the eyes, and you walk different. You walk like somebody who’s trying not to think about their own body. And that’s why you’re in the gown, Claire. This place only keeps people in gowns who really don’t want to be in them. I’ve seen it all before.”

“Really?”

“There’s parts of you that you don’t want anyone to see, or know about, and you don’t even want to think about. Maybe you don’t even know you’re thinking about it, right now, most of the time. But it’s always at the back of your mind, nagging at you, and you don’t even know how hard you’re working to keep it out of your conscious mind. The, uhm, tax you’re paying. I can see it, and so can they.”

“You’re right. I’m scared, Myst! What does all that mean?” Claire asked.

“It means they know. They’ve found it. They’ve found the one thing you’d want more than anything to keep hidden from them, and engineered it just so, so you can’t ever forget it, because it’s peeking out of the back of your gown every time you stand up!”

Claire was silent for a minute, then spoke softly but firmly, “Please do not mention this gown.”

---

It was afternoon socialization time. Most of the patients were watching TV. Claire was not interested, and sat on a couch away from everyone else, not even facing the TV. Instead she was watching a curious gathering off in its own corner of the commons room.

Nikki was sitting in an armchair in the corner. A nurse escorted a group of three or four strangers — outsiders — people dressed in street clothes! — towards her. It was the first time in a week that Claire had seen people that were not dressed either as patients, or nurses, or… Doctors.

The Doctor! That man appeared in her imagination again. She was aware that he was planning to examine her again soon. She did not want to think about it. She pushed him out and concentrated on the strangers. Visitors! she thought, Nikki’s friends came to see her!

The visitors were two girls and two guys, all of whom looked like college students. They looked pretty much like the sort of people you would imagine Nikki to hang out with. One of the girls had short hair that was dyed blue. She was somewhat heavyset, and was wearing some kind of Dungeons and Dragons t-shirt. The other girl was thin, angular, tan with very black hair, and looked like she was dressed to go hiking. Claire could not guess her exact ethnicity. She looked very intelligent. She hugged Nikki. Claire could hear female voices expressing sympathy.

And then there were the guys. One of them was short, shorter than the girls, with red hair and beard. He looked like a little leprechaun, Claire thought. He was dressed in some kind of video game t-shirt, and jeans that didn’t fit very well. The other guy was lanky, tall but slouching, dark haired, bearded. Wearing a flannel shirt that looked like it had seen better days, some kind of heavy metal t-shirt that Claire couldn’t tell if it had words on it or just some kind of design made out of lightning and dead branches, jeans the color of the green beans that they served in the cafeteria at the hospital, and skateboarder shoes that appeared on the very point of falling apart. He was wearing a beanie. Claire wondered if he wore it indoors because he was already going bald.

They talked to Nikki for a while, but Claire couldn’t understand their conversation. She could hear Nikki’s tone, she could tell Nikki was complaining, venting. And why shouldn’t she?, Claire thought, she’d been stuck here for reasons even more stupid than me. Gradually the taller guy turned away from the group, apparently tired of listening to Nikki rant. He walked away from them. He started walking…

Oh God no!, thought Claire, he’s coming this way

She sat perfectly still, perfectly straight, and stared at the floor, and at her two bare feet. She tried to will the boy away, with all of her mental concentration. Go somewhere else! Anywhere else! Just don’t…

It was too late. The boy was now sitting at the extreme end of the couch. The same couch Claire was sitting on. He was looking at her. She couldn’t look back. She couldn’t breathe.

How can I talk to him, when I’m… like this, she looked at the thin blue fabric of her gown, he can see what I’m wearing. How does he possibly think I’d want to talk? Here, now, when I’m…

He interrupted her thoughts with, “You must be Claire. Nikki said they had a new girl here named Claire.”

Claire said nothing. She continued to stare at her feet.

“You seem cool,” continued the guy, “I’m Jacob. But my friends call me The Gent” (or at least that’s what it sounded like he said)

You’re not being very gentlemanly, Claire wanted to say, but did not.

After an awkward silence, “you know like the guitar sound? Djent, djent, djent…,” he continued, playing air guitar.

Further silence. Claire couldn’t even look at him, but she assumed he was looking her all over. He was looking at her blue hospital gown, at her hands folded on her lap, at her bare knees, at her bare feet. She tried to dig her bare toes into the carpet to hide them. It didn’t work. The carpet was as threadbare as the couch.

At that exact moment, Myst walked over. “Uh. I leave you alone for five minutes, and this happens?” she said to Claire, who continued to say nothing.

Myst turned to The Gent, and said, “be careful trying to pick up chicks in an insane asylum! some of us are a little crazy!”

The young man was taken aback, “uhm… uh… we were just talking…”

“No,” Myst said with a finality like Claire had never heard before.

The boy left without saying anything, and went back to join Nikki. Claire saw the blue-haired girl give him a very disappointed look, and the taller girl spoke to him. She could not hear her but her face looked displeased. Even Nikki looked annoyed at him. The leprechaun guy just sort of looked awkward.

“Thank you,” muttered Claire, turning her attention to Myst.

“Claire Bear,” said Myst, “you can say no to people.”

“I wanted to, I couldn’t. I couldn’t talk to him or even look at him, not even to tell him to go away,” Claire explained.

“I know,” said Myst with sympathy, “it’s hard. That’s why I’m here to say it for you, for now, but you’re going to need to learn.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Claire, you need to, because there’s people here at this hospital that do not have your best interests in mind.”

“Like who, Pam? How can I say no to her?”

“No no. Pam is nothing. Pam’s just doing her job. Have you had your weekly checkup with the Doctor yet?”

“No,” Claire shuddered. She did not want to think about the Doctor examining her again. He made her extremely edgy. “It’s… tomorrow.”

“Well,” said Myst with the same tone of reluctant sharing as she’d used that morning, “I know a few things about him that I need to tell you.”

“I don’t like talking about him. He’s the reason I’m stuck here! And being around him makes me so… well, like what you just saw — helpless! I don’t even like thinking about him!”

“You might not like thinking about him, Claire, but I expect that he’s thinking about you!”

“Oh Myst please don’t be talking in circles like that, at a time like this! Please just tell me what I’m supposed to be worried about!”

“Ok. Our Doctor — the one that’s in charge of all the patients on this floor… Have you noticed that all of the women in here, are mostly young? Mostly hot? Mostly don’t even need to be here, or just barely? It’s not exactly a cross-section of all the types of women who belong in a mental hospital!”

“I… yes, now that you mention it. I figured that was just because, you know, this was the low-security wing or something.”

“Well, it is, actually, it’s mostly full of girls like us — girls that don’t need to be here. As far as the official hospital is concerned, this is just where they place us. As far as he’s concerned, this place is his collection. His menagerie. Where he keeps his pretty things…”

“Oh…,” Claire did not like the sound of any of this, at all.

“And then there’s you and me. Most of the women here are decorations, flowers in his garden. You and me, we’re his special project. He has plans for us.”

“Oh God! I don’t believe it! Myst, the man is cruel, yes, but he’s a Doctor! He’s doing his job…”

“Believe it, Claire! He wants you, and that’s why you’re still here!”

“How… how do you know?”

“Because he’s already got me!”

“What?!”

“Claire, the Doctor is, I’m not sure what the word is. My boyfriend? No that’s too innocent. Lover? No, that makes it sound like fun. Sugar-daddy? That’s a lot closer, only even the sugar here isn’t very sweet.”

Claire stared at Myst, not sure if she could believe what she was hearing.

Myst continued, “I could, perhaps accurately, also use words like abuser, enslaver, except… those don’t convey the part I’m playing voluntarily.”

Claire stammered, “V-voluntarily? You want to do this?”

Myst paused for a moment, as if briefly stung by an accusation, and then continued in a dry, clinical manner. “I don’t want to do this Claire. I need to do this. He has me anyway. He doesn’t have to let me go. He can do whatever he wants. At least, this way, I get a little in return for giving him something he can’t get any other way.”

Claire was terrified. It had sunk in. Myst wasn’t lying, wasn’t exaggerating, wasn’t just a crazy person imagining things. This was real.

“And what is that? What do you give him?”

Myst’s voice lowered, “Two things. One, I give him willing participation. He can’t force me to pretend I’m doing this of my own free will! Two, I give him the one thing he can’t get from anyone else here — domination.”

Claire was confused again, just when she thought she understood Myst, she was thrown for another loop. “Domination?”

“Yes, Claire. He needs me to be the only woman that can take charge of him. All day long he gets off on being in charge of all the girls in here, but the thing only I can give him is to make him feel small. Make him feel degraded. Make him feel like the piece of absolute human garbage that he is…”

“You mean, like, whips and chains and stuff?” Claire’s knowledge of this area of human sexuality was limited mainly to sex store billboards along the freeway, and a couple of steamy novels, which she found herself unable to finish reading for how awkward they made her feel.

“Yes, sometimes,” said Myst. “I’m not proud of it. Before I got locked up in here, I was involved with kinky people who did it right. There’s a community, Claire, and rules. Rules that protect you. Rules that keep everyone safe. I learned those rules! Those rules set me free. There’s no rules in here, other than what I’m able to get him to agree to by sheer force of will. I’m all alone, there’s no one here to protect me…” Myst trailed off, she sounded like she was about to cry herself, “… so I have to protect myself!”

“Oh God! Oh Myst, I’m sorry I doubted you!” Claire pleaded, “I believe you! I believe you!” she said, hugging Myst, this time as the comforter. “But what’s in it for you? What could you possibly have to gain?”

“Well,” Myst continued after another pause, “it means I get some semblance of control over times, places, what I have to do. It also means I have a lot more autonomy in this hospital than I would otherwise. You notice how even though I’m a special project, I get to dress how I want? I mean, a robe with a belt? Have you ever heard of a mental hospital, prison, rehab, halfway house, or anything, where they let you have belts? That alone should have given me away as not quite a normal patient.”

“I guess? I mean, I did notice that you’re not dressed like I am,” Claire said, contemplating her own gown again.

“That’s one of the few advantages of my… situation. But mostly, I use it to help others.”

“Others?”

“Like, when you got your zip ties taken off sooner than expected, remember?”

Claire thought for a second. “Oh Myst! That was you! You did that?! How?” Myst has been protecting me since the day I got here, before I even really knew her!, Claire thought.

“You don’t want the details, Claire, believe me!”

Claire did not, in fact, want the details. “So why… again… are you telling me this?”

“Because if you’re here, he’s got his eye on you too. I’m not enough for him, apparently. He wants you, too!”

This was, of course, exactly what Claire did not want to hear. She started crying, silently. “What do you think he wants from me, specifically?” she dared to ask. She did not want to think about what this man and Myst were doing, or the idea of her being expected to do any of it.

“I don’t know,” said Myst, returning to her factual, clinical voice, “but it must be completely different from what he gets from me. From me, he gets a deal. A compromise. He gets transactions. It’s all tit for tat — except I’m all tits and no tats, and not even too much of that…,” Myst grinned and gesticulated in the direction of her chest, her modest cleavage visible inside the robe, attempting to inject humor into what she was about to have to say. “If I had to guess, I’d guess he expects your complete and total submission. He wants you to surrender to him. He thinks he can bend you.”

“Oh… Myst I’m scared. What am I going to do?”

“Well, you could fight. Push back. Kick. Scream. Bite! There’ll be consequences, but you’ll survive. The fact that I’m ok, after the fights I put up when I first got here, is proof of that.”

“Myst,” Claire said tearfully, “I’m not you! I don’t think I can do that.”

“I know, I know, Claire Bear. Here’s what I suggest instead, and I think you’re going to do it anyway without me telling you: exactly what I saw just now with stupid-boy.”

“Huh? I didn’t do anything.”

“That’s right. That’s it exactly. You went stiff as a board. You showed no sign of liking him. You refused to entertain him. You made no effort at all to recognize him, his presence, you gave him no power over you!”

“That’s not how it felt!”

“That’s what I saw! You held your own, in the only way you know how. And that’s what I need you to do with the Doctor. Don’t give him anything. Don’t pretend to like him. Don’t pretend you’re comfortable with him. Don’t let him ever think he’s winning you over.”

“Will that… work?”

“I don’t know, but it’s what we’ve got. You just hold your ground, like I saw you do just now, until I can figure out how to get you out of this shithole.”

1.7 A Maze of Twisty Little Passages

It was Tuesday. Towel Tuesday, Claire said to herself, looking at the clean but threadbare towel that Pam had dropped off in the room before taking Myst away for her meds. But the real ...