The reasons for admission were not private.

You did not have to confess your sins to be guilty of them, not in this house of the insane.

This combination was the reason Kit's things went missing, why people would bump him in the middle of a game to shake the board and knock his pieces, why people would suddenly stretch and put their foot out in his path, and why he learned to keep his eyes open to avoid trips. He walked through the middle of the room now, as close to middle as he could get.

He had cigarettes ripped clean out of his hands, nasty jabs in the side in the hallway, and death threats to his face as they were herded back to their respective beds after the common room had closed.

Lana and Grace would sit, huddled, Grace twiddling an unlit cigarette in one hand, shaking her head as she watched Kit stepped over a purposefully outstretched leg on his way over to them.

Lana moved very subtly closer to Grace on their bench as he raised a hand in greeting. It did not go unnoticed and Kit sat down heavily, choosing to ignore the unfriendly welcome. He recognized silent punishment. He recognized all forms of punishment these days.

"Hey," Grace spoke, finally lighting her cigarette between slim fingers, nails carefully washed. Along with the rest of her, Lana noticed. She was one of the cleanest inmates- she mentally corrected herself – patients in the asylum – correction, hospital.

"Hey."

"How'd it go with Arden?"

For this, Kit leaned forward, speaking to the floor after a weighted pause. "Not as bad as it's been. He was just checking."

"Checking for what?" Grace's accent added airy syllables to the question, making the subject present more like a game and not like the assessment of an unchecked torture session that could have been hours long.

Lana chewed her lip and leaned back. She was uninterested in Arden's quest for the essence of madness that he was sure Kit had hidden in his chemistry. It was frightening, it was nasty, and she wasn't sure if he was telling the truth or making up sob stories to reel Grace in. She counted the knots in the wooden ceiling above them to pass the time while the pair talked, exchanging advice and sympathy.

She hadn't managed to make friends with anyone else so she had to stay with Grace for the time being, but it was partially due to the disapproving glances the aides gave her whenever she engaged a non-male patient. Because of her condition, she couldn't be trusted. Right. Don't want to irritate the condition. This was the state's way of dealing with homosexuals. This was deserved, she should be glad she was being put in check.

Same with Kit. Her eyes fell from the details in the architecture to Kit's unsettlingly earnest face. His eyes were black. Deep, solid black. The room wasn't lit that well; maybe they were brown, but they were black as could be as he spoke to Grace. That should be enough of an indication he's insane, she thought bitterly. What sane person has black eyes? He should be happy that he's even getting a chance to talk to anyone, let alone women. He should be happy they let him out of bed. For anything.

She cracked her neck and folded her arms, thin against the pale blue gown. She had lost weight. Five pounds in the past few weeks, she guessed. They weren't allowed to know their weight. Apparently God wasn't big on scales.

They were all being punished here. This was the supposedly legal way to manage these brains, these bodies, everyone in this room. All these patients, they had been told time and time again, were in good hands. These measures were necessary. People like them couldn't settle and get a job and have hobbies. They needed to be wrangled and controlled- correction, helped, and that was through religion.

It was religious retribution. It didn't feel fair. It didn't feel right.