Chapter Text
My name is Mira Livingston. I have recently found myself in the middle of a strange twisted adventure in old London. Ms. Enola Holmes wishes me to write my full tale on paper, so here I am writing this all down:
I awoke with a pounding headache in a room I didn’t recognize. I rubbed my eyes and blinked to clear my foggy mind as I stared at the stone ceiling.
A stone ceiling? How odd.
After the pounding in my head had ceased somewhat, the next sensation that hit me was the smell: some type of musty odor, like that of an old building, mixed with a faint chemical-like odor that I could not quite place. Cautiously, I sat upright and observed my surroundings. The room was small in size with walls made of stone, just like the ceiling. The only furniture present was only the cot I had been lying on moments before and a small table. The cot was made of cloth, clearly not meant for comfort based upon the pain in my back and shoulders. The table was empty except for a metal bowl filled with water. I touched the water and found it to be freezing cold. I could see my reflection in the water thanks to the small amount of light coming from a small window in the wall with rusted metal bars. My dark, curly hair was a mess and my face was in a similar state. I looked down and saw I was wearing what seemed to be a thin cloth gown over my graphic t-shirt and ripped jeans. There was a heavy-looking wooden door to the far right side of the room, with similar rusted bars covering the small opening.
Carefully testing my strength, I slowly stood up from the cot, using the wall for support. Following the edge of the wall, I made my way to the wooden door and tried the handle: locked. I tried to remember how I got to this room, but all I conjured up was a big blank along with a bigger headache. Remembering that I always carried my cellphone, I searched for it in my jean pockets but turned up empty handed. It was at this moment, panic started to fill my mind, but I forced myself to breathe and examine the facts.
Facts:
- I’m in a small room with stone walls.
- This place smells like an old building mixed with some type of chemical.
- The door has been locked and I don’t have a key.
- My cellphone is missing.
- The window is high up and bars cover both the door and the window.
Conclusion: I have been kidnapped and am being held prisoner in some type of old building.
Reason for kidnapping: uncertain.
Next course of action: find something useful or a way to escape before my kidnappers decide to come back.
After forming a mental picture in my mind, I set to work. I figured I might be able to reach the window if I moved the bed and the table underneath it, but quickly discovered to my dismay that they were both bolted to the floor. I looked around in every crevice I could find in the small room and…nothing. I wanted to scream in frustration but decided against it for it would only attract attention from my kidnappers. I stared at the metal bowl filled with water and, after barely a moment of hesitation, dumped the water out. I lifted the bowl and practiced swinging it.
Barely a weapon, but better than nothing.
I collapsed back onto the cot and contemplated trying to break the door down by sheer force when I heard voices in the hallway. I immediately shot up and focused my attention on the voices. Two, no three, male voices were heading in my direction. I grabbed the metal bowl in preparation but knew that one small metal bowl was going to be no match against three burly kidnappers. As the voices got closer, I started to hear snippets of their conversation: “Strange girl…” one man said. “…hysteria…” another said. “Frightened creatures women can be!” the third one replied as keys started to jiggle in the lock of my door. I braced myself for what was to come and lifted the metal bowl in preparation.
As the first man walked through the door, I threw the bowl at his head without a second thought. The man’s eyes widened, and he narrowly managed to dodge the projectile. The bowl crashed against the wall with a loud clang before falling to the floor. As the other two men stared at the bowl in shock, the man I threw the bowl at glared at me.
Blast it! I was so close!
The glaring man was tall and lean with a long nose and sharp facial features. His steel gray eyes swept up and down my body, instinctively making me shrink back against the wall. To my surprise, he wore a clean three-piece suit, making him look more like a gentleman than the unruly thug I was expecting. As the other two men turned to gawk at me, I made mental notes about their physical features and clothing. Both were about the same height and shorter than the glaring man. The second man sported a mustache, wore a three-piece suit similar to the glaring man, and carried a black bag in his right hand. The third looked more portly, with his white white coat and matching formal shirt and pants underneath it stretching till near bursting.
A white coat? Am I in some sort of hospital? But what kind of hospital would be in an old stone building like this?
I mentally named the three of them Glare, Mustache, and White Coat respectively.
My gaze flickered between White Coat's uniform and the black bag Mustache was carrying when White Coat started to stride over to me. On instinct, I pressed myself against the wall as much as possible and considered adopting a more defensive position when Glare spoke.
“I wouldn’t go any closer Dr. Gilbert. The girl seems to be unnaturally strong for a female. She appears small and meek, but the force which she threw the bowl at me and the fact that she was able to survive an attack seemingly on her own suggest otherwise.”
An attack? What on earth was he talking about?
“Mr. Holmes, she needs a complete examination in my office at once!” White Coat, presumably named Dr. Gilbert, protested.
“I have to agree,” Mustache added, “She is clearly suffering from delusions, and we must determine the best treatment for her posthaste.”
“Watson, if you observe the girl's clothing and the state we found her in, you will quickly realize that she does not appear to be from London. Based upon her behavior from earlier when she threw a bowl at my head," earning another hard stare from him before he continued, "she appears to have a tendency to speak with her fists first. I suggest we ask her to come along to your office, Dr. Gilbert, rather than attempting to take her by force,” Glare, seemingly named Mr. Holmes, answered calmly.
Wait, Mr. Holmes? Watson? London? As in…Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson?
I mentally shook my head.
That’s ridiculous. Someone must be pulling a prank on me or something.
“Miss, I think you would find it prudent to come with us,” Glare said as he gestured towards the door.
Mustache must have noticed my hesitation because he added, “Do not worry, miss. We do not wish to harm you. We only want to ensure that you are of sound health and mind.”
Seeing no other option, I cautiously headed towards the door. White Coat took the lead with Glare and Mustache trailing behind me. As we wandered the halls, I took note of all the doors and hallways for any potential exits. Most of the doors looked the same as mine: heavy, wooden, with strong metal locks. While trying to create a mental layout of the place, my mind kept drifting, most annoyingly, to the men’s conversation from before. Something about their conversation was bothering me, but I couldn't quite place it...until one word stuck out to me clear as day, and I mentally berated myself for not thinking of it before. ‘Hysteria’ one of the men, likely White Coat, said before entering my room.
Hysteria. The stone walls and high window. The thin cloth gown I’m wearing. The locked doors all in a line. Doctors. London. Holmes. Watson.
No matter how I tried to piece it together, there was only only conclusion I could make.
I’m in a mental asylum in old London or some version of one. No, not just in a mental asylum: a patient in a mental asylum. And patients...can't leave.