...
Wednesday
The next meeting Tate had was with both Doctors Thredson and Heath in a small room near the admitting office of the hospital. Dr. Thredson looked grim as Dr. Heath clipped several pieces of film to the light box on the wall. They were all grayscale images of Tate's brain and even he, untrained as he was, could tell by looking that something was wrong. There was a mass the size of a grape right where his headaches were worst.
"So that's it, huh?" Tate asked, wondering why he didn't feel scared looking at the images. He didn't feel anything looking at them. "I've got a tumor. So. What next?"
The doctors glanced briefly at each other.
"Surgery is the only way to proceed at this point," said Dr. Heath. "And it's critical that we do it soon."
"Whoa, no," said Tate, holding up both hands defensively. "I said no cutting."
"Tate, there's no other way to treat the growth," reasoned Dr. Thredson. "You don't have to worry. Doctor Heath is Briarcliff's head surgeon and he's one of the top in the state."
"No," said Tate stubbornly. "I'm not letting anyone carve my skull open and play around with my brains. Just forget it."
"If it's left untreated," said Dr. Heath. "The growth will kill you. As it is, your optical nerves are already beginning to suffer. I suspect it may be at least partly responsible for some of the hallucinations you've reported having."
"Something's got to kill me eventually," Tate reasoned, ignoring the bit about hallucinations. He knew he hadn't hallucinated anything.
"We'll give you some time to think about it," said Dr. Thredson. "In the meantime I'll give you something to control the pain. But you have to understand your time to consider is limited."
"I don't need any time," insisted Tate. "I don't want surgery."
"Allen," Dr. Heath said, raising his voice a little to reach the orderly in the hall. When the white-clad man appeared, the doctor said to him: "Please escort the patient back to his room."
..
Once the orderly had removed Tate from the room, Oliver looked at his colleague with open concern.
"I don't think he's going to give consent," he said.
"We don't need his consent," reminded Dr. Heath as he pulled the images of Tate's brain down from the lightbox. "It's just a social convenience at this point. If he doesn't agree to the surgery by the end of the week, we'll proceed anyway, and treat it as a Code Nine."
The younger man sighed and nodded. "I just hope it doesn't come to that."
..
The initial shock began to wear off on the way back to his room and Tate tried to come to terms with the idea that there was a clump of mutated cells growing in his skull. For some reason, knowing that made his head hurt more. For the first time since he'd come to Briarcliff, he wanted to talk to his mother.
"You're that guy who shot all them people from the clock tower," Allen the orderly said. "Aren'tcha?"
Tate didn't feel like talking and he definitely didn't feel like talking about that subject. So he didn't say anything.
"Hey, asswipe," the man said, grabbing the teen by the collar of his asylum-issued button-down shirt. "I'm talkin' to you."
Tate looked him in the eye and just sneered at him. The man couldn't force him to speak.
It was a fact that enraged the orderly. He punched the teen in the middle, knocking the wind out of him. Tate dropped in a heap, clutching his stomach. He was left defenseless against the punch to the face that followed. It was a hard strike, lucky in its aim. The blow put him out instantly.
...
Tate woke later that evening in his cell, being yelled at to get up. Disoriented and aching, at first he thought the orderly was rousting him for dinner but it was just the daily lock-out. With wakefulness came a crush of memory: The walk in the hall, the orderly's fist coming at him.
His midsection and jaw hurt. Leaning against the wall helped the first issue but there wasn't much to do about the second. He considered lodging a complaint, but it would be his word against the orderly's. He was so mired in self-pity, he hardly noticed the guards begin to toss the cells. He'd seen the routine before and had no interest in it. The sooner it was over, the quicker he could go back to his cot.
There was a sharp whistle from within his room. A guard appeared in the doorway and crooked his finger at his partner, who emerged from another cell. Tate's heart froze. There was only one reason he could think of that would make both of them go in there. He suddenly felt short of breath. His heart was racing like mad and he couldn't slow it down. He considered trying to run.
Sister Jude and Patrick, on hand for the inspection, shadowed the guard to Tate's cell but didn't enter. Sister Jude stood there looking smug. The orderly looked ready for anything, and he wasn't taking his eyes off Tate.
"We found these," one of the guards said in a grave tone.
Tate shut his eyes.
"Make sure his doctor knows," said Sister Jude sternly.
The teen felt strong hands grab his upper arms. He didn't resist. When he opened his eyes, they were rimmed with tears, but he refused to let anxiety overwhelm him.
The collection of pills they removed from his mattress was impressive, even to him. He hadn't taken them all out at once before and, seeing the bag of medication that left his room, he actually felt kind of proud. It was a short-lived feeling. Sister Jude's chilly look when she addressed him was sufficient to remind him of how much trouble he was in.
"I heard you wanted permission to go to the library," she said. She smiled then, a look that was just as cold as her previous stare. "I'm afraid that's a privilege reserved for our guests who can follow rules."
She looked up at Patrick then. "Take him to the seclusion room. T-suspension."
And they were moving, the orderly steering the patient by the arms down the hall toward the entrance to the underground tunnels.
"Wait," said Tate, trying to dig his heels in. It didn't work; Patrick was stronger than he was. "Wait. Where are we going?"
Patrick didn't answer. He just hustled the teen down the sloping passageway, into the bowels of the asylum. They entered a dim hallway lined with dark iron doors. They passed through one of those forbidding doorways, into a small dungeon of a room. Dark stone walls. No windows. It was like a box. Or a tomb.
The manacles Patrick fastened onto Tate's wrists and ankles were downright medieval in nature: They were connected to the far walls by chains that wrapped around twin narrow cylinders. Two-and-a-half cranks of an iron wheel on the far wall and the teen's arms were pulled straight out from his sides.
T-suspension. The shackles that were locked on his ankles were fastened to the floor by a chain so short he couldn't even lift his feet. An experimental tug on the chain of one arm found absolutely no give. Facing away from the door, he couldn't see or do anything. Fear and outrage coupled to produce panic he could do nothing with.
"You can't leave me like this," he said, half-pleading. "Patrick? Come on, man!"
"I'm sorry," the orderly said and he sounded like he really meant it.
The door squealed and banged shut, then he was left in darkness.
..
After several minutes of standing in the darkness Tate became aware of two things. First, there was a slim amount of light coming in from a small window in the iron door behind him. Second, his arms were beginning to tingle from the lack of circulation.
He tried to move them but the chains in the wall were drawn too tight. He couldn't do more than make the links clink faintly. He found he could sway around the midsection and even crouch just a little if he was willing to feel a tug in his shoulder sockets. Apart from that limited motion, he was held fast.
Fortunately his medication had stripped him of pain but the boredom eventually overtook him. He couldn't sleep standing up, fastened in place in such an unnatural fashion so he experimented with gravity, letting the chains support his full weight, but that hurt so he stopped quickly.
He hoped Dr. Thredson would free him soon.
..
It was almost a half hour before the metal door squealed open again. Tate's heart jumped with hope and anxiety. He tried to turn his head to see who it was but the way he was positioned and the angle of the light coming in through the doorway prevented that. He could only see a dark silhouette rustle by his peripheral vision, then the person was too close to see.
"Why did you keep them?" Sister Jude said without preamble, solving the mystery of her identity for him. "Were you trading them to other patients?"
"No," Tate responded brusquely, not wanting her to think he was afraid of her. Even though he was. "Those were the ones I couldn't throw away."
Only after the words were out did he think that might not have been the wisest thing to admit.
"So you haven't been taking any of your medication," Jude said loftily. "No wonder your behavior hasn't improved."
"I have so taken some," he objected, though he'd technically only been routinely taking the pain medication. That still counted.
"Your mattress says otherwise."
Tate glowered and fell silent. He decided he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of conversation. It was only making things worse for him.
But she didn't need a reply. His silence was confession enough for the rigid nun. She reached around and unfastened his pants. The blue bottoms fell to the dark stone floor and she yanked his underpants down to join them. His stomach clenched up. He shut his eyes and tried to brace himself, hoping the lingering effects of the pain medication would help with whatever was about to come.
"Maybe one day you'll learn the rules apply to you, too," said Sister Jude.
There was a soft whistle of wood cutting air then the cane struck his bare ass. The tool was a more serious stick than the whip-like thin one she'd used on him previously. The one she struck him with now was a Singapore punishment cane, a half-inch-thick bamboo rod, stained dark blood red.
Designed by the Chinese to beat a man to a pulp without killing him, the wicked cane was glossy and knotted and vicious against bare skin. It wasn't a tool for speed; each welt the nun applied took several seconds to fully surface and she waited patiently for each angry red mark to rise before laying another beneath it.
It took an agonizing eternity for her to cover his whole backside to her satisfaction. After each stroke she moved the length of hard wood down and pressed it against his skin where she planned to strike next, making him dread the blow until it finally came. It was brutal; over thirty strokes that would leave lasting marks on his flesh. He could feel warm blood trickling down his ass when it was over. He felt like he was on fire and his throat was raw from his cries of pain.
Exhausted and whimpering in agony, Tate wanted nothing more than to curl up somewhere, but he couldn't move from the T-position he was locked in. Sister Jude left him then and for a wild moment he believed it all was a vivid, bizarre dream. It couldn't be real. He couldn't really be in some dark dungeon of a room, beaten and drugged, imprisoned for an indeterminate period.
But he was. He very much was. The reality of the situation was terrifying.
The door squealed open on its rusty hinges again, making his heart lurch into a rapid-fire beat. There was a rustle of footsteps behind him followed by even more rustling. Then a light touch on his butt made him flinch. Gentle fingers spread a cool, soothing salve over the first welt and then on down, covering every inch of the damage. The balm didn't take the pain away but it did tone it down quite a bit. Tate gave a soft sigh of gratitude once the first aid was finished.
"You should use your time in here to pray for guidance," said Sister Jude.
The sound of her voice startled him. For some reason he'd assumed the person providing him with relief was an orderly. Certainly not Sister Jude. Not with that gentle touch that so contradicted her stern tone.
But she was the only other person in the tiny room. When she left, he was alone in darkness once more.
..
Somehow, Tate managed to sleep. It was more of a system shut down than true sleep and not at all restful but it did spare him from some of the pain and discomfort he was in. His escape was interrupted by the squeal of rusty hinges and for a moment he didn't know where he was. He tried to roll over but the chains were inflexible and reminded him of his position.
He felt a straw at his lips and suddenly realized he was very thirsty. Without thinking he eagerly seized the straw with his lips and gulped cool liquid. The water had a faint aftertaste but he didn't know if it was drugged or just the cup flavoring it.
Then the cup was taken away and footsteps behind him retreated. Tate turned his head to try and see the person but again the angle was bad no matter which shoulder he tried to look over. He saw white clothes and nothing more.
"How long am I gonna be here?" he said, hating how desperate he sounded.
The orderly didn't answer. He just left.
The water, it turned out, was indeed drugged. Quite heavily, in fact. Tate didn't have much time to worry about how long he'd be in restrained seclusion before he was unconscious.
..
Motion woke him next: With a sudden clank, the chains holding his arms went slack, jolting him into bleary consciousness. He collapsed, unprepared to stand on his own. Fortunately there was just enough give in the chains on his ankles that he didn't hurt himself but he was very confused.
A moment later Cecil was beside him, unlocking the manacles on his wrists and legs.
"Get up," the orderly said once he was finished. "Put your pants on, son. You got a visitor."
Tate tried to comply but he was still sedated and pain slowed him down as well. With much effort and even more pain he got his bottoms back on. Getting to his feet was another struggle and in the end Cecil had to help him up. Walking was a nightmare that brought tears of pain to the boy's eyes. But better to walk in agony than stay in that cell.
Limping, he was taken to a room that looked a bit like a small cafeteria only without the serving line. Several small, round tables dotted the area, flanked with chairs. All the furniture was bolted to the floor. A guard stood at the door watching the room with a bored sense of detachment. Cecil led Tate to the only table where there was a person sitting.
The man got up as they approached. Father Michael was older than Tate remembered him and had a bigger, softer belly. His hair was peppered with gray and he had smile lines etched around his eyes and mouth. He still wore the suit of a priest and his gray eyes were sad but loving. He opened his arms.
Tate hesitated a few feet away and looked up at Cecil. The orderly turned and left. Tate looked back at the priest and regarded him from head to toe and back again.
"What're you doing here?" he said bluntly. "I'm not supposed to have visitors."
The man finally put his arms down, looking faintly disappointed. "The Reverend Monsignor Howard has graciously granted my request to see you."
"Why would you do that?"
"You're going to have surgery," said the priest. "I—"
"You left," Tate interrupted, not listening. He had discovered he didn't really care why the man had come. He was in massive amounts of pain and very unhappy, even without this latest unpleasant development. "You said you would always be there and you left!"
Father Michael sighed and clasped his hands before him. He wanted to reach for the young man but he didn't want to be rejected again. "I didn't have a choice."
"Yes. You did."
"I was relocated, Tate. It wasn't my choice."
"You could have said no!" the teen erupted, attracting a warning look from the guard, who was stationed in the room.
"No," said Father Michael. "I couldn't. That's not how the Church works. They're like the Army that way. You go where you're sent."
"Bullshit," said Tate but there was less vehemence in that vulgar statement.
He didn't know just how bureaucratic the Catholic church could be or what might happen to a priest who refused to transfer when a Cardinal told him to. Tate also didn't know that Father Michael had been relocated to avoid legal charges and potential jail time stemming from a scandalous incident Tate had been blissfully sheltered from. He had been involved in an international ring of priests who helped discreetly relocate other priests who had committed pedophilia. A priest with a record in one state would be shuffled to another without the parish being made aware of his background. Once the 'underground railroad' had been exposed, a transfer was mandatory on many levels, for him and several other men of the cloth.
But Father Michael hadn't told Tate that then and he wasn't going to tell him in the visitor's room at Briarcliff. So he just stood there helplessly gazing at a boy he'd helped raise, who had turned into a deranged killer. It broke his heart.
"I know I failed you," the priest said, sadly. "And I know apologies can't undo that, but I do apologize, Tate. I'm sorry that I hurt you. And I'm sorry to see you in this place."
"Then get me out!"
"I can't do that," Father Michael looked down at his hands. "It's not within my power."
"You got in here."
"That's a different matter. As a priest, I can go anywhere my brethren can. That doesn't mean I can release people from the sanitarium."
Tate pawed at his hair, making it stick up. His ass was killing him— worse than his headache—and his patience with the current situation was nearly exhausted.
"Why're you here, then?" he demanded, unaware that he was repeating a question he'd already asked.
"I just wanted to see you—"
"Well, you've seen me," Tate interrupted again. "If you can't help me, then go away!"
He didn't wait for the man to respond but turned and limped for the door.
"We're done," he said to the security guard. It occurred to him that he was probably setting himself up to be put back into restraint but at that moment he preferred that over spending another moment with the priest.
The guard radioed Cecil who returned to collect Tate. The teen didn't look back as they left.
..
Tate was taken to another seclusion cell, this one without chains. It was a vast improvement but, alone and in pain, he was still miserable. Seeing Father Michael had done nothing to improve things. He didn't need some phantom from his past turning up to shame him for what he did. The man had stepped out of Tate's life years ago, just like his real dad, and didn't deserve a place in it again. Especially now.
His backside was beginning to ache even more, throbbing with a dull pain than dug straight to the tendons and bone. He was glad it was pitch black in the room because he knew he would look at the damage if he could. He could feel how bad it was; seeing it would only make it hurt more. He moved as little as possible, to prevent chafing of cloth against injured skin. At that moment he would have preferred the hated hospital viewing gown, because it would mean relief.
Unable to sit down, Tate slowly shuffled around the perimeter of the tiny room. He traced his path by dragging his fingers along the rough wall. He went around so many times, he began to notice certain lumps and deformities in the wall as he passed them each time. He came to expect them, like familiar landmarks.
Eventually that got tiresome and he finally mustered the courage to try and lower himself to the floor. It was painful, bending, but he got himself down to where he could stretch out on his front. He put his forehead down on his folded arms and lay very still. It was far from ideal: The cold floor was solid concrete. The chill from it quickly seeped through the thin asylum-issued uniform but he didn't want to risk rolling over. Cold was better than agonizing pain.
As he lay there, his thoughts began to wander. He wondered what 'normal' really was. A normal life. He'd heard the word 'normal' tossed about quite a bit, especially over the past couple of weeks, and he was coming to the conclusion that there wasn't any such thing.
People liked to pretend that there was because it made them feel safe. 'Normal' meant there weren't ghosts and dead things in the basement that wanted to kill you. 'Normal' meant dead was dead was dead, and you either went to heaven or hell. 'Normal' didn't allow for things like nuns with canes and doctors armed with experimental drugs and electrodes and mothers who slept with men who would murder their children.
Tate wondered how many people really lived 'normal' lives and how many just pretended to, because they were too afraid to admit the fucked up things that happened behind the closed doors of their homes. He wondered why, if 'normal' was so elusive and mythical, everyone felt such a dire need to believe in it. Believing in 'normal' seemed stupider to him than believing in the Great Pumpkin.
Thinking about the Great Pumpkin made him smile. It was from a show he and his siblings had watched a couple of years ago, based on the Peanuts strip in the funny papers. Tate and Beau had loved Charlie Brown's ghost costume with the eyeholes all over it.
"If somebody gave me a rock for trick-or-treat," he'd told his siblings boldly. "I'd throw it through their window."
But the part where Linus sat in the pumpkin patch had really snared Tate. It had bothered him that Linus was so short-sighted that he couldn't figure out to go trick-or-treating early and then go sit in the damned patch to wait for his harvest god. On the other hand, Linus did end up with the girl, which said something.
Thinking about the show made him miss his brother and sister. He'd done a good job of not thinking about them much since he'd regained his senses but it was impossible not to, here in the dark, with nothing else to do. It was awful knowing that no matter how much he wanted to talk to Beau, it was never going to happen again. Even if Tate could have visitors, Beau couldn't leave the house. Addie would have to depend on their mother to come see her little brother. He had no doubt the older girl would pester Constance mercilessly, but he also knew that the woman was a tank. If she didn't want to come to Briarcliff, she wouldn't.
But she had sent Tate a care package. Apparently, she didn't hate him over what had happened. He didn't know how to feel about that. He was still carrying a grudge against her for ever getting involved with Larry in the first place—that's what led to everything unraveling, as far as Tate could see. He blamed her for everything up to and including his present situation. If it hadn't been for her actions, Beau would still be alive and Tate wouldn't even be in Briarcliff.
But she had sent him a care package.
He sniffled, only then becoming aware of the fact that his eyes were dripping. In the position he was in, the warm tears fell directly from his lashes onto the cold concrete.
..
Author's note:
So I had to research heavy caning since I don't know much about it. I figured Sister Jude would break out the big guns for this infraction, so I wanted to find something nice and severe. In my search, I happened to stumble on a website for the company who supplied AHS Season 2 with Sister Jude's canes, including modified Singapore punishment cane that she's featured with on the cover of Rolling Stone. Talk about fate.
I had to use that cane, naturally. Reading up on how it's used and the effects it has... just. Wow. Even if you're not into BDSM, it's worth reading about just for its historical use on prisoners, starting in Singapore. It's a pain that really sticks with you.
If you're curious, you can see the cane here: canes4pain dot com slash americanhorrorstorycaneprint dot jpg. Sorry about the way it's written. Fanfic doesn't do URLs.
