.
Doctor Edward Heath was the senior surgeon at Briarcliff Mansion Asylum. He had been there for over 30 years and was second only to Sister Jude in authority at the hospital. He loved classical music and the arts, particularly the Renaissance painters. He liked to think of himself as a Renaissance man as well: He was a doctor and a surgeon, one who specialized in matters of the brain. In his rare moments of off-time he sculpted and occasionally sketched drawings. He loved the symphony and could go on for hours about wine vintages.
But what he was truly passionate about was the way the brain controlled the body. Every aspect of the fact fascinated and enthralled him. He was devoted to learning and mapping all the ways that precious lump of gray, glistening flesh could command a human. He was blessed with a position at Briarcliff. There he was able to maintain a steady source of research material, in the form of 'volunteers' from the patient pool, who were offered money for experimental therapy and treatments.
The Research Wing was underground, reachable only through the passageways that connected the above-ground buildings. Dr. Heath had a private office in the Research Wing. The hall was also equipped with six cells similar to the ones in the regular wards, with a few unique additions to their floor plans. Each room had its own toilet and sink and all were fitted with O rings in the walls, ceilings, and floors. Those rings were often implemented for traction and restraint.
Dr. Heath had three volunteers in the wing at the time, though one had just recently suffered extremely adverse affects from an experimental course of drugs. The patient had required amputation of both legs and arms when the medicine turned flesh-eating. That patient's name was Leonard and he was the first volunteer the doctor checked on.
Leonard was in critical but stable condition. He was sedated and hooked up to both an IV drip and a catheter. The doctor checked the patient's chart and machines, then the his physical condition beneath the loose bandaging.
After three days the doctor felt he could conclusively say that the amputation had halted the progression of the decay. The left arm was exposed clear down to the bone but the cauterized flesh and gristle were clear of necrosis. There were even signs of healing. The right arm, less damaged, was likewise beginning to heal. The patient's legs were in slightly better shape, being the furthest from the injection site.
"Looking muuuch better, Leonard," Dr. Heath praised. "That new course of antibiotics is helping. If you keep improving like this, I think we'll have you on prosthetics in just a few weeks. Won't that be nice?"
The patient lay there unresponsive, swaddled in bandages, life support machines beeping.
It was all Heath expected him to do at the moment. The doctor made sure he was well-covered and comfortable-looking then went to the next patient's room.
"Good morning, Sharon," he said warmly, though he knew she couldn't hear him. He treated all of his guests with the same amount of courtesy regardless of their condition.
The young woman he addressed was bound up in a body cast. He had personally stuffed her ears with wax and taped her mouth shut before wrapping her up in gauze and plaster so he knew she wouldn't be able to hear anything. That was the point.
An oxygen hose led to her nose and there were other tubes poking into the body cast that regulated her drug intake, liquid diet, and waste output. There were eye holes in the head cast but they were wrapped over in a heavy layer of gauze. She'd been suspended in that state of sensory deprivation for nearly a month.
Sharon had been admitted to Briarcliff as a teen when she wouldn't stop eating inedible things: Beads, paper clips, staples. She had spent nearly ten years in the system before encountering Dr. Heath. A high-risk patient with few privileges, she had nothing to lose in volunteering for the doctor's experimental treatments. Granted, she hadn't been informed what the experiments would be but she'd given her consent anyway.
At the end of the month, the surgeon planned to open the cast and record the results.
It was a moment he was anxiously awaiting. He longed to know what she would be like. When he'd bound her up, she'd been a fairly attractive young lady. After a month in bandages on a liquid diet, she would have experienced tremendous weight loss and muscle atrophy. Bed sores. He would record whatever he saw, but he was even more interested in her mental condition. Would she be cured of her eating fetish? Would she be starved for human contact? Crazed? Docile? The wait was almost over. He would know soon.
Dr. Heath checked her monitors and bags. All looked as it should.
"Just a few more days," he said to her as though she'd asked about her prognosis. "Then the bandages can come off."
He made some marks on her chart then hung it back up before moving along to his last patient. Pete. A man with such an uneven brain, his skull suffered for it. One of his eyes was set dramatically higher than the other and they both pointed downward at the outer corners. He rarely closed his mouth because it was too hard to breathe through his crooked nose. The man was diagnosed as being "22% retarded" when he was transferred from some another state facility where he'd been detained after a fight with his mother.
Pete didn't do any fighting now. He just lay strapped to the adjustable operating table with a removable piece of skull in the top of his head that Heath could lift for research. Like the other patients, Pete was intubated and unaware of the doctor, who was checking his vitals and charts. Unlike the others, the large, lumpish man had wires running from his brain to machinery that crowded the back part of the room.
"No time for exercises today, Pete," Dr. Heath said as he checked the machines connected to the patient. "Testing pool."
All three volunteers were incredibly useful but Dr. Heath needed a new batch of test subjects for the next experiment he was going to do. It was a federal test, one being performed in cooperation with other hospitals around the state, and in three other states. Heath stood to make quite a lot of money with the results, regardless of what they were.
Getting the Reverend Monsignor Timothy to agree to allow it had been a tough battle, but in the end, the promise of money for the facility and church won him over. The operation was to be kept secret: Only a handful of people knew what was going to happen, for the sake of a completely neutral study.
"I'll be back to check on you later, Pete," said the doctor as he marked the patient's chart.
Dr. Heath stepped out into the hall. The amber glow of the overheard lights flickered in the underground passage. He had three vacant rooms. After the federal testing was complete, he hoped to have at least one of those rooms occupied with a new test subject.
...
-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-
...
"Who's she?" Tate asked John.
They were looking at the woman who had just been deposited in the common room. She looked like someone from an ad for hair dye to Tate, with her trendy blonde flip 'do and her long polished nails.
"Some new gal," the guy answered indifferently. "I heard the orderlies say she thinks she can talk to ghosts or something."
"We should hook her up with that guy who thinks the aliens abducted him," Tate grinned.
"Could be dangerous," warned John, looking back to his ever-present notepad. "Do you want to be haunted by the ghost of an alien?"
"Maybe they could let us out."
"You should write science fiction," John smiled. He started writing again. Taking more notes.
"I'm gonna go say hi to her," announced Tate. He gave the new lady another look. She was still standing near the double doors, looking every bit as overwhelmed as he'd felt his first day in.
"Be careful."
"What's she going to do?" grinned the teen. "Bite?"
John didn't say anything. He didn't have to. The way his eyebrows hiked up said it all.
Tate pushed himself out of his seat and started across the common room. He had to duck past a fat, bald lady who was trying to dance while the cursing man plunked a few keys on the upright piano.
The new woman eyed Tate warily when she saw him coming her way.
"Hey," the boy said, putting on a friendly smile.
"Leave me alone," she said bluntly. "I know what you are. The disquiet spirits of the people you murdered are all around you."
Tate blinked at her then frowned, not liking what she said. "I was just saying hi."
"I don't want to talk to you."
"Suit yourself," he said, disgruntled.
He slouched back over to where John was sitting and sank down into the couch. He folded his arms.
"How'd it go?" said John, lifting a brow curiously.
"She said I had ghosts on me and she didn't want them blocking up her vibe," Tate paraphrased.
"Bummer."
"Yeah. Oh, well. Whatever. I'm gonna go hit the head." Tate was on his feet again, too irritated to sit still. "When I get back do you think I could bum a cigarette off you?"
"Yeah, sure."
"You're the best, John. I don't know what I'm gonna do if they let you out of here before I can escape."
"You could try getting a job and buying some cigarettes of your own," suggested John. "It is possible."
"I don't think Sister Stone-face would let me."
"You never know. Stranger things have happened."
Tate headed for the door and told the guard there that he needed to go to the bathroom. The man let him out. There wasn't another person in the hall. It was strange how guarded the place was and yet how lax. If only there was an exit nearby. But the only thing near was the nurse's station.
The nurse's station was at the intersection where the wings met and had shatterproof glass surrounding it. There was a shade pulled down over the large window that wasn't usually down. And despite the shade it wasn't hard to tell that there was an orderly in there banging a girl. Tate paused and listened, hoping to hear something that might let him know whether it was a patient or a nurse, but the couple wasn't making much noise beyond the bump-bump-bump against the cabinets.
Tate headed on to the bathroom. While he was at the urinal, the electricity flickered and dimmed. It was a weird experience, finishing his business by half-light. The lights came back on as he was rinsing his hands. The lights went dim again for a few moments while he was walking back toward the commons, then they started to flicker.
The people screwing at the nurse's station didn't seem to notice the issues with the lights as they were still at it when he passed by again. The flickering made Tate's head hurt. It was also screwing with his vision. He thought he saw someone out of the corner of his eye standing in a doorway but when he looked in that direction the door was closed. No one was there.
He hurried back into the common room. Once there, he oriented on John and went over to flop down in one of the old chairs near the guy.
"Welcome back," the other man greeted.
Tate grunted, too busy thinking to make small talk. He'd been so distracted in the hall, he hadn't given serious thought to trying to escape. All the drugs he'd been taking at Briarcliff were likely to blame for his inability to think much further than the moment, he reasoned. The staff probably did that to patients on purpose, to make it harder for them to run away.
There was a semi-festive atmosphere in the commons. Several of the residents were trying to dance, despite the fact that the song on the record player was the same one that always played. The lady with the baby doll was fairly coordinated, almost elegant in her waltzing moves. The new gal didn't seem to be enjoying the party. She looked creeped out, which gave Tate a small dose of vindictive pleasure.
His line of sight was suddenly interrupted by a bag of potato chips thrust right in front of his face. Refocusing on the bag, he found it was held by the candy striper he'd seen before in the cafeteria hall. She and a couple of nuns were passing out the bagged treats to the assembled inmates. A pair of surly-looking armed security guards
"What's this for?" Tate asked as he took the bag from her.
"To eat," she said. She gave a bag of chips to John, who turned the bag over in his hands but didn't open it.
"What's your name?" asked Tate. She was far more interesting than the junk food, which was saying something considering how lackluster the food had been at Briarcliff.
"I'm not supposed to talk to the patients," was the girl's answer but Tate sensed she wasn't firmly committed to that rule.
When she went to move onto the next group of patients he got up and followed her.
"I just want to know your name," he said reasonably. "If you don't tell me, I'll have to make one up for you."
She handed a bag of chips to a man with a deformed face. "Guess you'll have to make one up, then."
"Suit yourself, Mildred,"
"Mildred!" she exclaimed, offended that he would think she deserved a name like that.
"Leave her alone," one of the security guards warned Tate, attention drawn to them by the girl's outburst.
The teen put his hands up to show everyone he was behaving. Then, in a quiet undertone to the candy striper he said: "You said to make up a name."
"My name's Violet," she whispered back.
"I said: Leave her alone!" the guard repeated as he strode over, baton in hand.
He took a swipe and whacked Tate in the back of the knee. The blond teen yelped and hopped away from Violet and the guard.
"I'm not doing anything!" he protested, hands up. The potato chip bag hit the floor.
Despite the protests, the guard whacked Tate in the other knee. The young man yelped again and went down. A couple of other patients scrambled away from the escalating situation. They knew how these things went and wanted no part of it.
"Motherfucker!" Tate swore, grabbing at the most recent injury. He wanted to get up; to run or fight, but the pain thundering in both legs made him wonder if they were broken.
One of the orderlies, Carl, noticed the commotion and came over to get involved even though he didn't know what was going on. He assumed Tate had done something out of line and came to intervene. In an instant he had Tate in a headlock.
"I'm not—" the teen started but he the orderly cut off his air supply with a tight squeeze, effectively silencing him. When he struggled for air, the man punched him once in the side of the jaw really hard, which put an end to the short fight.
When Tate woke next, he was in his cell, cuffed to the bed. His head hurt a lot but he remembered the girl's name.
Violet.
...
Author's Note:
Welcome to Episode 2. In Ep. 1, we arrived at Briarcliff and learned the ropes. Now, we're going to get to know the system.
Dr. Heath is an amalgam of various vile doctors across time and the globe. He's largely inspired by Shiro Ishii, a doctor who ran a hospital during the WWII era. He makes Mme. Lalaurie look like an uninspired amateur where torture's concerned. Ishii was pardoned of war crimes in exchange for turning the data he collected in his torture sessions over to the US government. True story. Don't look him up unless you want some serious nightmares.
The title of this chapter is ripped from Romeo and Juliet, one of my favorite horror stories.
Next time: Another session with Dr. Thredson.