Work Text:
Dr. Stein wasn’t sure how he’d managed to work at the Holstenwall Asylum for over five years now. Yes, there were many times when he’d wanted to transfer to another institution- he told himself over and over again that, with regards to the booming young field of psychology, he’d have no trouble finding work somewhere else- but he had no idea how to bring up the matter with the director, who would undoubtedly ask why.
At least now, he thought grimly, there would be no need to ask for the director’s approval anymore.
If he had known what was best for him, he would have left long ago. The place was hardly a refuge for the mentally disturbed, and, if anything, seemed designed to produce insanity, both within its patients and its staff. From the outside, the wrought-iron gate with the crooked fence posts that jutted out of the ground at odd angles was sure to deter concerned relatives and well-wishers, and if one dared to look beyond it, they would see a multi-storied monument to disorientation and despair rising from the surrounding sea of jagged grass, built at all the wrong angles like a molding cake collapsing in on its own weight. The whole place looked like it had been turned upside-down, its irregular windows glowering haughtily at those unfortunate enough to witness it, the too-tall double doors seemingly carved into the stone by a blindfolded mason. A wall sticking out from the side of the building like a broken bone encircled a struggling, ill-tended garden, where a few determined trees and bushes pushed through the soil, undeterred by the knots of crawling vines that snarled around their branches.
As for the inside of the asylum, it resembled the cavernous, pulsing organs of some wretched living thing, filled with twisted halls decorated with ominous snaking patterns. The high ceilings yawned in such a way that they appeared to have been designed to amplify the shrieks and moans and frenzied laughter of the patients, which the asylum seemed to delight in tossing haphazardly about its crooked walls, sending them ricocheting and careening into each other until they all collided in a violently indistinguishable cacophony. Light mainly came in through the windows, but an electric lighting system was slowly being installed, and so the most remote hallways from the main rotunda flickered with the dim light of now-antiquated gas lamps. The rotunda itself was the beating heart of the asylum, where the healthiest patients were sometimes gathered, and the staff congregated to discuss important matters before heading off to their respective duties across the great organism. It was also where the few visitors who made their way into the asylum would enter, waiting for news of their unfortunate loved ones, or even, in some lucky situations, to take them home. But the Holstenwall Asylum still haunted those who were fortunate enough to be discharged from its corridors, its shadowy tendrils lurking at the backs of their mind’s eyes right before they fell asleep, its seemingly endless network of vast hallways and staircases rising from their subconsciouses when they slept. It was said that there were even rare cases where recovered patients had been returned to the asylum not long after they had been released from it, tormented back into the snare of madness after suffering one too many memories of its malevolent interior.
Dr. Stein had plenty of time to familiarize himself with the asylum’s unfamiliarity over the last five years, but as he walked back through its halls, the entire place seemed as alien to him as it had the first week he’d arrived. In a shocking turn of events, the director himself had been declared insane, having subjected a patient to countless unspeakable acts right under the noses of the rest of the staff in an attempt to realize an impossible fantasy. He had been locked in an empty cell- the same, it was suspected- that he’d used to experiment on the hapless patient’s mind- and would be questioned by both his former staff and the town authorities in the coming days. His patient, however, was not so lucky. After being connected to a string of murders and an attempted abduction, the young man had been found dead in a field just outside of town, his body withered from starvation and his bony limbs in a dark, tangled mass.
Now, Dr. Stein was tasked with removing the body from the director’s office, so it could be transported to the medical hospital for an autopsy, after which it would make its way to the local cemetery, and finally be disposed of in an unmarked grave. He found himself dizzy with nausea as he made his way down the hall. He’d dealt with bodies before, and was not afraid of them, but the thought of seeing this one again made him sick. Just hours before, he had read the director’s journal, and discovered all the horrific things that had been done to the patient- at least, the ones that had been recorded- to tear away his humanity and reduce him to nothing more than a mindless tool. And if that wasn’t disturbing enough, Dr. Stein had been there the whole time, since March five years ago, dutifully following orders and respecting the director’s expertise and being proud to work for such an accomplished man of science. As he filed away records and administered injections and monitored his patients, the director had been purposefully unraveling a man’s sanity, forcing his will onto someone who did not have the strength to oppose it, just a few doors away from his own office. He recalled hearing near-animal screams unlike any he’d ever heard, years ago when he’d first started working at the Holstenwall Asylum, but learned quickly not to question the director, or else all he’d worked for would go to waste. If only he could have done something back then- but what could he do, and who would believe his suspicions?
He paused at the door to the director’s office, holding his breath and still thinking he needed permission to enter. Then, recalling that he didn’t, he wiped his hands on his lab coat and braced himself as he pushed open the door, fearing the worst.
Splayed out on a stretcher, right in front of the director’s desk, was the patient’s body, exactly as it had been left. Dr. Stein approached it, thankful that it was still too early for the smell of decay to settle in. He examined the body, his eyes trailing from the long hands dangling listlessly off the side of the stretcher to the sharp ribcage sticking out from beneath the patient’s sleek leotard. Perhaps worst of all was the patient’s face, with its chalky greasepaint grotesquely slathered over two sunken cheeks. The expression, at least, seemed almost peaceful; his long, delicate eyelashes rested on their lower lids and his half-open mouth displayed a set of yellowed teeth, slightly larger than average. To Dr. Stein, the patient seemed to merely be asleep, as he had been for so long.
He was young, Dr. Stein could tell. Beneath the paint was an unwrinkled forehead, partially hidden behind a shock of jet-black hair. In fact, he couldn’t have been that far in age from Dr. Stein himself, which only made the guilt he was already feeling sink deeper into his stomach. He had a handsome face, albeit unconventionally so, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones. Who could this young man have been, Dr. Stein couldn’t help but wonder, if he had not fallen into the director’s greedy hands? A learned man like himself, perhaps? An athlete? An artist? Had anyone ever loved him? Did anyone miss him? What might have he wanted to be, before he was stolen away?
He wiped his eyes, still staring down at the body. That’s all it was now- just a body, to be examined and then disposed of.
Dr. Stein sighed, and took the sheet that lay on the ground beside the stretcher, draping it back over the body. Before covering the head, he couldn’t help but brush a lock of the dead man’s hair out of the closed eyes, although it was still sticky with sweat. The wretched thing deserved at least a little compassion, after all.
As he did so, the still brow wrinkled slightly, and the nostrils twitched. Dr. Stein gasped, drawing his hand back; could the patient still be alive? But how? He’d lain there completely still for hours, without showing any traces of movement. Perhaps it was just a muscle twitch- or had Dr. Stein simply imagined it? In a place like this, it was all too easy to see things that weren’t there. But stranger things had happened before, and he wasn’t about to send a living patient off to be dissected. Holding his breath, he made his way to the director’s desk and rummaged around until he found a stethoscope, then pressed it to the patient’s heart and listened. At first, he couldn’t hear anything, but very faintly, and very slowly, he could make out a labored pulse.
He’s alive, he thought, and stepped away from the stretcher, wondering what to do. What would happen if he told anyone about the patient, after what he had reportedly done? Would he be euthanized, or locked up just like the same man who had tormented him? It wasn’t his fault, Dr. Stein thought- and then gasped, slowly circling the stretcher as he focused his vision on the body. If it was possible to destroy a patient’s mind completely as the director had, would it be possible to piece it back together? And- he allowed himself to entertain the hypothetical- supposing it was, he could absolve himself of five years’ worth of guilt and inaction. Yes- he’d conduct his own series of experiments, only this time, they’d be designed to bring the young man back to sanity and consciousness, with the eventual aim of reintroducing him to society.
“You’re still a patient, aren’t you?” he whispered. The patient, still unconscious, didn’t respond. But he was, Dr. Stein knew, and he was in desperate need of help. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll do my best to bring you back…” He paused, realizing he didn’t know the patient’s name- at least, his real name. They found no records from before he entered the asylum; the director must have destroyed them. All the patient had left was whatever identity the director had branded him with.
Suppose I give him a new name, Dr. Stein thought, before realizing that may not have been practical. The patient would certainly be confused enough about his identity; it would be best to figure out what he knew first. He’d already been given one name; giving him another could only disorient him more.
Dr. Stein took a deep breath. “That is,” he said aloud, “I’ll do my best to help you… Cesare.”
As soon as he said it aloud, he felt guilt grip his heart. What if this entire endeavor would only damage the patient further, especially in his fragile state? And was he doing it to help the patient, or just to calm his own internal torment? For all those years, if he’d been braver, he could have helped- but he hadn’t, until the task seemed impossible. If he had done so earlier…
He paced around the stretcher, biting at his nails. He’d been told to take the patient to the medical hospital for the autopsy- and if he were to carry out his plan, he wouldn’t be doing that. He wasn’t used to disobeying orders, even if they weren’t from the director himself.
I’ll tell them… he thought, and realized he wasn’t sure what he’d say if they asked. I’ll tell them that the autopsy wasn’t needed after all- no, they won’t believe that. Or maybe I’ll say I’ve delivered him to the hospital- but what happens when they expect results? What if they accuse me of stealing the body?
He looked down at the patient again. By now, he could vaguely make out the chest rising and falling, the slightest trace of color underneath the paint.
What if they forget about him?
He took the stretcher carefully in both hands, the sheet still draped over the patient, and began to wheel it out of the director’s office. His own wasn’t far; he could move the patient there for now and examine him for injuries without anyone noticing. He shuddered as his footsteps echoed through the hall, which seemed to grow longer and longer, as if the asylum itself was taking a great interest in his nervousness. It wasn’t far-
“Dr. Stein!” someone called.
He jumped, and turned around, straightening his coat. “Yes- Dr. Schmidt,” he exhaled. “I was just- if you’ll understand-”
“Is that the deceased patient?” Dr. Schmidt asked.
Dr. Stein cleared his throat. “Yes,” he answered.
Dr. Schmidt looked down at the body on the stretcher. “Poor thing,” he said, clicking his tongue. “Made to do all of those dreadful acts.”
Dr. Stein blinked. Perhaps I could tell him, he thought, and cleared his throat.
“Nobody’s claimed the body, yes?” Dr. Schmidt said, continuing to eye the patient. “No relatives?”
Dr. Stein shook his head. “None that we know of.”
“If that’s the case, we could donate the brain to the university,” Dr. Schmidt said. “A case like this would certainly be of interest. It’s unfortunate, but at least he’ll be able to contribute something good to the world, as morbid as it sounds.”
Dr. Stein paled. “I’m, um, supposed to get him- I mean, the remains- delivered to the hospital. For the autopsy. We’ll see what happens afterwards.”
“Right,” Dr. Schmidt nodded. “Of course.” He paused, glancing down at Cesare on the stretcher. “Do you think we… do you think we did the right thing? Locking up the director?”
“What?”
“It’s just- we found proof, of course, of what he did. But I go in there with him, and he… I don’t know; maybe he’s putting ideas in my head. Telling me that despite what he did, this whole place will descend into chaos without his leadership. That we need him- and the patients, too.”
“He’s a murderer,” Dr. Stein said.
“Yes, I know- but he ran this place well. We all respected him.”
“We did,” Dr. Stein answered quietly.
“I guess it feels strange to say it, but I feel bad when I see him in there. He looks so fragile and weak; I never saw him that way before. I know I shouldn’t, but I feel I should go in to talk to him, and that he needs the company.”
“You know what he always said,” Dr. Stein replied. “We can’t let our emotions get in the way of our duties. At least in this case, he may be right.” I should talk, he thought.
“Maybe so,” Dr. Schmidt admitted.
“I must be off now,” Dr. Stein said curtly. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
He stood with his hands on the stretcher, waiting until Dr. Schmidt had left, and exhaled, wheeling it into his office. He then closed the door behind him and removed the blanket, beginning to examine Cesare for injuries. There appeared to be some head trauma, he found, as well as signs of dehydration, and he wondered if he’d be able to pull through. Two back teeth were missing- whether they’d been pulled or rotted out, he didn’t know- and he figured that once he’d gotten enough nutrients in him, he’d have to run some blood tests- with the condition he’d been kept in, who knew what diseases could have been in his bloodstream? There were some minor sores on the palms and fingertips- infections, he figured, from splinters in the box- and he hadn’t even seen anything concealed by the leotard yet.
How am I going to treat all this alone? he wondered. And then there’s his brain to deal with… usually our most severe cases have a whole team of professionals with them. Is there anyone here I can trust with him?
He took a shaky breath. “I’ll try my best to figure this out, Cesare,” he said. “I’m not giving up on you yet.”
As he continued with the examination, he felt something prickle on his back, as if he were being watched. There was nobody else in the room, but it seemed as if the asylum itself were examining him, analyzing every one of his doubts and flaws with its methodical gaze. He looked around nervously, his back turned as the fingers on the stretcher began to twitch, and the patient’s lungs expanded with a slow, wheezing gasp.