Chapter Text
Smith's Grove Warren County Sanitarium, 1964
April’s cold rains washed over your car, rattling off of the metal with tiny raps. The windshield wipers lazily whipped back and forth, letting you peer through the haze. Smith’s Grove Sanitarium dominated the horizon, a looming, unerring edifice of brick. If you were feeling poetic, it could be called a monument of neglect. But, as you viewed it through the dying light of dusk, it was simply ‘work’. Painted red lips twisted downwards into a frown as you drove closer, and your hands unconsciously gripped the steering wheel tighter, nails leaving little imprints in the leather.
Your eyes flitted to the left, and you turned the wheel, pulling up the entranceway of the asylum. The wrought iron fence stretched around you, and you pulled to a halt near the gate, beside the security box. There was never a guard in there. After a moment, the gate automatically opened, and you pulled in- the rest of the drive slow, up the driveway, until you reached the employee parking lot. Most workers were gone for the day, and only the deadshift staff remained. That meant you. You pulled into an empty spot, right beside the car of one of the doctors, before taking the keys out of the ignition, glancing at yourself in the mirror, and then stepping out. You opened your umbrella with a bit of a struggle, and sighed.
“Nurse, so good to see you!” A voice greeted. You turned, your hand gripping the car door, and mentally, you cursed. Outwardly, though, the only sign of your distress was a quick glance to the blue Pontiac you’d parked beside. The car of...
“Dr. Loomis,” You waved, “How are you?”
Dr. Loomis ran a hand through his receding hair. You noticed that he didn’t seem to mind the rain that fell on him, shaking his head, “Not well. It’s Michael again, I’m afraid.”
You gripped the car door tighter, “Michael Timm?” You asked, tilting your head, a feigned ignorance, a touch of hope.
“Myers,” Dr. Loomis reached into his leather bag, pulling out some keys that had been sandwiched between papers, “I’ll be talking to the board tomorrow about moving him to a more secure location.”
You managed to keep the stutter out of your voice, “Why? Did something happen?”
“My dear, nothing happened, aside from his usual existence. Evil does not sleep,” Dr. Loomis muttered, slotting the keys into the car door, “He’s too crafty. I know he’s hiding something, I just know.”
You closed your eyes to maintain an expression of easy serenity, but you were gripping the car door so hard, it hurt, “He’s a child, doctor,” You reminded. Your voice sounded strained. But, Dr. Loomis didn’t notice, too busy trying to unlock his car. In fact, he continued, as though he hadn’t heard you.
“His catatonia is a farce. A mask, to hide pure evil. Six months, I just need to tell them...” Dr. Loomis paused, looking over to you, “I’m sorry, did you say something?”
You swallowed your bitter vitriol, “Nothing. Have a good night, doctor.”
Dr. Loomis waved to you briefly as he entered his car. It must have been brand new. You turned away quickly, taking a calming breath, before making your way to the employee entrance. But, the long walk gave you time to think, and thinking for you meant trouble, because all you could think about was little Michael Audrey Myers. The rain pitter pattered off your umbrella.
Michael, or as you called him, Mikey, was six and a half years old. His records spoke of an advanced development for his age, and he would’ve been put into Kindergarten this September, had he not...
“Had he not killed his sister,” You whispered. It was like fiddling with a loose tooth, you couldn’t stop turning the problem over in your head. Why did he do it? That was what you asked yourself, for six months straight. While Dr. Loomis and the others tried brute force, you were subtle, researching what your degree couldn’t cover. And when the others cried out that Michael was a lost case, that he was simply and purely evil (a child), you knew the truth. After all, being assigned as his nurse for six months meant you saw what others didn’t.
“Michael Audrey Myers, scared of authority figures, lacking verbal development, and responds to stress by clamming up,” You listed. The sentence was monotone, because you’d said it so many times before. No one listened. His catatonia was a farce, they claimed. Yes, it was, because he is six (and a half) years old, and hasn’t seen his parents since they left him here, and everything was so sterile and cold that it must have been terrifying.
The sound of rain cut off. You blinked back into focus, realizing you were at the employee entrance. The overhang above shielded you from the worst of the rainfall, and you sighed, slowly lowering your umbrella, shaking the water from it as you closed it up. You looked down at one of the puddles, catching your reflection. You looked sad.
“Come on, get a grip,” You chided yourself, forcing your face into a neutral expression, “You’re fine.”
You turned back to the door, entering in the key code to open it. The rusted hinges whined, but did their job, the door slowly sliding open as you pushed it. Well, that was one security measure– doors that took three shoves to open. You let out a breath of air once you were inside, shoving the door shut. Silence. You glanced around, but the staff changing room was empty. This would be one of the only two times you’d have silence today, so you took care not to break it, walking softly over to where you’d left your cleaned uniform the day prior. It was pressed and the white fabric nearly pristine. As you went to grab it, something fell out of the upper pocket. And, as you bent down to grab it, you gasped in recognition. But, it was a sad noise.
“Oh, Mikey,” You whispered, cupping the paper delicately. It was flimsy and messily made, but you could see where the lines were supposed to go, paper all folded together to make an origami bird. You made them when you sat with Michael, putting them on his windowsill to try and make the room happier. You must’ve left some paper, because the next day, you found a partially folded bird, tucked near the others. You held the little thing close to your chest, feeling your heart unravel, “I’m sorry...”
You didn’t know what you apologized for, but it didn’t feel like enough. You sniffed demurely, like you weren’t about to cry, and set the bird down gently on the top shelf. Then, with deft movements that spoke of one who had done this a hundred times before, you removed your shirt and pants, swapping into the stark and sterile nurse uniform that was your station. After a moment’s hesitation, you plucked up the bird, setting it back into your pocket, angling it so that the head peaked out– a little flash of color. You smiled.
“Helloo, Nurse,” A voice called. Your pleasant smile flickered into a frown. You turned your head to the side, looking to the doorway, at the woman who stood there. Your frown tinged itself with an unhappy grimace.
“Hello, Ms. Frump,” You greeted, “Is something wrong?”
“Your hair,” Ms. Frump snorted, crossing her large arms over her torso, “What did you do to it?”
“Nothing, I just got in,” You reminded. You didn’t... dislike Head Nurse Pamela Frump. That would be unprofessional, and you were always courteous and professional. At work. At home, however, if anyone asked, you’d tell them that Ms. Pamela Frump was a very nasty person. She’d been the Head Nurse and Smith’s Grove for twenty years, and maybe she had been a pleasant woman once, but that part of her had shriveled up and died long ago. Now, she delighted in cruelty and laughed at the misfortune of the poor patients in her care. So, no, you didn’t dislike Ms. Frump: you hated her.
“Let me fix it,” Ms. Frump rolled her eyes, coming up behind you before you could protest, then sitting you down on the bench, pulling out a comb from your locker and setting to work. Her hands deftly began to sort through your hair, the comb occasionally yanking hard, “Hmp. You need to take better care of yourself. Have you been sleeping?”
“Yes,” Was all you said. It took all your effort not to snarl, as she pulled hard on another portion of hair.
“Liar,” She said, “You’re working late, staying with that basket-case, Myers,” She stopped to section off another portion of hair, “You shouldn’t.”
“He’s just a child,” You retorted. There was the sound of a rubberband tying your hair together roughly, and you winced.
“You keep saying that, but don’t you ever get tired of being wrong all the time?” Ms. Frump asked. She didn’t wait for a response, “There, done. Come on, you’re already late to your rounds, Nurse,” and she dropped your hat onto your head, before she turned and went to grab the medical cart.
You stood up, fixing your hat, and casting once last glance down at the origami bird Michael had made you, before hurrying after Ms. Frump.