..

"I'm sorry," Father Michael apologized. "I thought I might be of some help, but he wouldn't speak to me."

"It's been a rough few days for him," Dr. Thredson apologized on his patient's behalf. The two men were settled in his office for the discussion. "He's afraid of surgery."

"I can't say I blame him," confided the priest. Then he looked pained. "I just wish there was something I could do to help."

"How long are you going to be out here?" the doctor asked. He snuffed his cigarette and dropped the butt in the ashtray where it smoldered briefly before going out.

Father Michael shrugged. "My plane leaves Monday."

"There's still time," Thredson assured.

..

After his brief meeting with the priest, Oliver went to check on his patient. He hadn't been informed of the restraints; only that Tate had been put into seclusion after the pills had been found in his mattress.

The turn of events had been eating at the therapist's thoughts for the past couple of hours. He'd seen the haul they'd taken from the bed and while the doctor hadn't counted them, he could tell the collection represented at least half of the medication the teen should have been taking. It explained a lot about his erratic and unmanageable outbursts. But given that he had a tumor requiring surgery, the doctor couldn't really see the sense in getting too worked up over the long term. In a way, it was fortunate. After surgery they could start with a clean slate and assess the patient's needs as things developed.

It was the duplicity that was eating at him.

He had felt he'd made significant progress toward gaining Tate's trust and the situation with the medicine made him feel like the boy had been sitting there lying to him every session. Lying by omission. He wouldn't admit it but the doctor also resented the indication that he had less control over the situation—and the patient—than he'd thought.

When he located Tate's room and opened the door to find him sprawled on the floor, however, the irritation vanished. The teen stirred and turned his head, squinting into the light that was streaming in through the doorway.

"Hello, Tate," he said, keeping his tone neutral. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," Tate volunteered candidly. He pushed himself up some, so he could see the doctor better. "Sister Jude was pissed."

Oliver got a sinking feeling in his middle. He bit his tongue to keep from swearing but his hands clenched involuntarily. "I see. That's unfortunate." He paused, then said: "Why were you hiding your pills in your bed?"

"I didn't want to take them. They made me feel funny."

"I understand," said the doctor evenly. "But why keep them? Why not throw them away?"

Tate stirred. "I don't know. I guess maybe in case they turned out to be useful."

"You weren't giving them to anyone?"

"No." The teen wrinkled his nose. "I don't know what they are. Why would I give them to somebody?"

Thredson found an ironic sort of innocence in that statement, especially coming from a murderer. "You understand this will affect how medication is delivered to you in the future, don't you?"

He hadn't thought about it but it made grim sense to Tate. He made a face.

When it became clear that Tate wasn't going to give him more than that, the therapist moved on. "Doctor Heath has you scheduled for surgery tomorrow-"

"Tomorrow?" Tate forgot about his backside and knelt up, alarmed. "No!"

"Tate, there isn't any time," the doctor said with quiet urgency. "And I'm afraid you don't have a choice. The surgery is scheduled. The state will pay for it since your mother doesn't have insurance to cover it. If you cooperate—"

"I don't want anybody cutting me open!"

"Please, calm down," urged Thredson. He really didn't want to see Tate go down the hard road on the matter of surgery. "Getting worked up isn't going to help you and it isn't going to change things."

Tate could read in the man's round face that he believed what he was saying. Panic made the boy's heart race like a rabbit's. He wanted to run. Fear energized him. He eyed the open door.

"Don't," said Dr. Thredson, catching the glance. "Carl's right outside."

Frustration made Tate give a growl of a groan. "It's MY head!" he exploded. "You can't just cut me open!"

"We have your mother's authorization in writing." The doctor hadn't wanted to tell the boy that, but he thought it would do more harm in not disclosing it, at this point.

The news hit Tate like a bucket of cold water. He was stunned for a moment, then he thawed into a bitter near-smile. Of course his mother would sign off on something so torturously barbaric. She would probably authorize a mind control device if they could put one of those in too.

"The tumor isn't going to just go away," Thredson went on. "You know that. I know you're very scared right now but I also know you're smart enough to understand how things will go if your condition goes untreated."

Tate was silent for a long moment while he wrestled with his thoughts. "What if I want to die?" he said at last, in a tremulous voice.

Oliver sighed. "You don't have that choice."

The teen gave a strangled cry and folded over himself, fingers knotting in his hair. He thought wildly about how he might escape Briarcliff, running through a mental map of known exits and obstacles. But the outcome was the same as when he'd been casually thinking of escape while falling asleep at night. There simply wasn't opportunity or means. He could avoid guards and orderlies for a time, but never anyplace where it would turn into a way for him to exit the building.

For a desperate instant he considered knocking Dr. Thredson out of the way and bolting out the door anyway. Maybe he could slip by Carl. His thoughts got as far as the double set of locked iron doors that separated the seclusion area from the main tunnel.

He was trapped.

He felt the doctor place a hand on his back, petting in a gentle, steady way. The contact distracted him from his panicked thoughts long enough to snap him out of the 'flight' response to his fear. He broke and, just for a moment, and cried. The storm was turbulent but only lasted a few seconds before he shored himself up inside and forced his head up. He looked at the doctor miserably.

"We'll get through this," the doctor insisted with conviction. He gave Tate's upper arm a bracing squeeze. "I'll be there before and after the surgery."

Tate found a small dose of comfort in that. "Do I have to stay in here till then?"

"That depends on you," said Oliver. "If you are willing to cooperate, I can have you moved to a more comfortable room. Are you willing to cooperate?"

Tate didn't want to cooperate but he wanted to stay in the dungeon-like cell even less. At least in a normal room he'd have a better chance for making an escape plan that would work.

"Yes," he said. "Can I have something for the pain too?"

"We'll see," said the doctor noncommittally. "Right now let's get you transferred and cleaned up."

...

Further plans for escape were thwarted by heavy attention during clean-up and padded restraints once he was put in a room. The room wasn't his usual cell in the men's ward though it was furnished in much the same severe way: A bed, a chair and a built-in cabinet were the room's only furnishings. The bed was somewhat nicer than his usual one but the fact that he was strapped hand and foot to the thing spoiled whatever benefit that might give.

Struggling against the restraints was a futile and tiring pursuit that Tate abandoned soon after starting. They were an improvement over the chains and manacles, to be sure, being that they were cloth and fiber. But they were just as effective at keeping him in place as the chains.

Eventually a nurse arrived and gave him a shot. He would've made a crack about where she delivered it but his mood was too flat by then. The sedative worked fast: With nothing to do and nowhere to go, he quickly surrendered to the artificial sleep. At one point the nurse woke him to spoon-feed him some broth and then he slept again.

...

Constance told herself she was visiting for his sake but really she was going to Briarcliff for herself. If something happened while Tate was in surgery, she would be devastated. As it was, she'd had to see the scans for herself before she would sign off on the procedure. And while it was a relief to know that there was a physical reason for why her son had gone bat-shit crazy, the solution wasn't without risk.

She and Father Michael traveled to the asylum together the morning after she got word that the surgery had been scheduled. Finding Tate bound hand and foot to his bed brought tears to his mother's eyes but she refused to let them fall. She had to be strong.

"Tate? Sweetheart?" she said as she approached his bed.

He stirred and opened his eyes. It took him a moment to focus on her, thanks to the sedative.

"Hi," he said. He blinked slowly.

"Hello, honey," said Constance. She sat down on the edge of his bed and showed him the little brown teddy bear she'd brought with her. "I brought this for you. Somethin' soft. They said you could have it when you were feelin' better."

Tate looked at the stuffed animal then back at his mother's face without seeming to register the toy or the gesture behind it. "I'm thirsty."

His mother looked around and, spying a jug and a small plastic cup, she poured him some water. She taste-tested it first to be sure it was water and, when she was certain, she helped him to drink. When he had his fill, she set the cup back down.

"Don't be frightened," she crooned. "Soon this will all be over and you'll be feelin' right as rain."

"We're all praying for you," added Father Michael behind her.

At the sound of his voice Tate stiffened. "Why'd you bring him?" he demanded, growing agitated despite the medication. "I said I didn't want him here."

"Tate," Constance said reprovingly. "Father Michael is a friend of ours."

"No, he's not," said the teen. "Make him go away."

"But he came all this way—" his mother started, but Father Michael held up a hand.

"It's all right," he assured her. "I wish to respect his wishes. I'll be outside."

He left then and Constance looked at her son. "I know you're not feelin' well, but that wasn't very nice."

Tate smiled. With the man was gone, he felt better. And sleepier. "You make it sound I gotta head cold," he joked drowsily.

"He just wants to see you get better," she tried again.

"I'm tired," said Tate. He let his eyes shut. The lids were too heavy to keep fighting with. "Are you gonna stay during the surgery?"

"I can't be in the room while they're operatin'," she said, taking his hand. She clasped it with one hand and pet the back with the other. "But I'll be here at the hospital."

"Okay," he said. Then he was asleep.

She held his hand for a long time after.

...

Violet had overheard Dr. Thredson talking to Sister Jude about Tate's pending surgery and how badly the boy was taking the forced procedure. The whole thing seemed very strange to her.

While she understood why the surgery was recommended, she didn't understand why it was being required, especially if the patient was against. Considering the crime Tate committed, she was doubly confused as to why the state would want to spend money on a surgery to sustain his life when he might get the death penalty. Why not just let him die naturally if he wanted to?

Not that she had a particular desire to see that happen but... if he didn't want the surgery, then why force the issue?

She decided she would have to do something.

..

"Wake up."

The whisper in his ear brought Tate around and he found himself blinking at Violet. She was dressed in her work uniform and looked ghostly in the dim light. She glanced toward the door then back at him. Her long light brown hair tickled his cheek. He thought he must be dreaming.

"Come on," she whispered. She opened the buckle on his nearest cuff, freeing one of his hands. "Undo your other hand. I'll get your ankles."

She moved to do just that and, after a moment to admire her moxie, Tate tugged at the other cuff. It took more effort than it should but soon he was on his feet and rubbing his wrists appreciatively.

"How'd you get in here?" His head was fuzzy, making it hard to string together a sentence.

"The door's not locked," she said with a quick smile. "I guess they figured since you're tied up, there's no need to lock it. Come on. We have to hurry. Max is screwing the night nurse, but they won't be doing it forever."

"Where're we going?" he said, following her to the door. He felt like he was walking through a cloud.

She pushed the door open a crack and peeked out. When she was sure the coast was clear, she opened it all the way to reveal a cleaning cart waiting in the hall. It was draped in dirty towels that she lifted to expose a small hiding spot beneath. Tate looked at it, then beamed at her.

"Come on!" she said with quiet urgency.

He ducked awkwardly into the hidey hole. Once he was settled, Violet arranged the hanging towels so he couldn't be seen. Then she shut the door to his room and wheeled the cart away from the surgical ward.

..

No one stopped her or even looked twice as she pushed the cart down the halls, to the administrative foyer up front. They were almost home free. There was just one last hurdle to cross.

"I'm going to distract the guard," she whispered to the cart as she pushed it slowly past the statue of St. Mary. "When I say... When I say 'Do you think it's going to rain', come out and stay close to the wall. Head for the big doors, but stay low. You'll have to hurry out when I open the door. I left some clothes for you behind the bushes to the left of the front steps. Meet me there."

She hoped he got all that. There was no way to tell; the laundry was silent.

Parking the cart near the wall, she went around to the guard station that monitored the front doors. Violet put on a friendly face and approached the man who was seated there. He was a pit-faced fellow in his late 40's. He looked more like someone she would expect to see on a Wanted poster rather than in a guard's uniform.

"Hey," she said casually. She folded her arms on the counter and leaned forward a little. "Quiet night?"

"Yep, up here," the guard said with a smile. He liked the attention of a pretty young candy striper.

"No new psychos coming in?"

"Nah," the man chuckled. "Not tonight. I hear they're bringing a fella up in a couple of weeks from Bellevue though... some cannibal nut that thinks he's a werewolf."

Violet blinked. She hadn't expected to hear anything interesting; she was just trying to distract the man. "Seriously?"

The guard nodded gravely. "They say they found body parts of at least five different people in his apartment." When Violet's eyes widened, the man warmed to his creepy tale. "They found a head in the freezer, and a gal's torso cut up on his table. They think he lured women there and killed 'em but they're still trying to find out if all the victims are female." He arched his thick brows. "They haven't found enough parts yet."

Violet's shoulders hunched up in revulsion and she made a face. "And he's coming here?"

"That's what they're saying."

"Wonderful," she muttered, feeling it was anything but. She already knew what her father was going to say when he found out. He would want her to quit working at the asylum. Suddenly she realized it was she who was getting distracted, so she put on a smile. "Well, on that happy note, I'm going to head home. Do you think it's going to rain? I have to wait for a bus..."

"Nah," the man said. "I was out there earlier and it's clear as a bell. You should be fine."

"Oh, good. Well. Have a nice night. Don't work too hard."

She acted like she was going to wave then and 'accidentally' knocked the man's coffee cup off the desk. It tumbled onto the floor on his side of the desk. It didn't break but it did spill coffee everywhere.

"I'm so sorry!" she cooed earnestly.

"Oh, that's okay," the man said as he bent down to pick up the cup. "Gives me something to do."

She motioned for Tate, who was crouched nearby, to dart out from the shelter of the reception desk to the door.

"I'm sooo sorry," she apologized again as she backed toward the exit. "I have to run or I'll miss my bus. Good night!"

She ducked outside then and looked around for Tate. He was already out of sight when she stepped onto the wide porch out front.

"Scrubs?" His quiet voice came from the shadows between the bushes and the cracked brick asylum wall.

"It's all I could find," Violet whispered back. She kept an eye out as she slowly headed down the stairs, giving him time to put the items on.

There were no shoes for him; just the pants, shirt, and a pair of socks. It was better than the hospital gown but it meant he was barefoot and coatless in September, in Massachusetts. Violet was only slightly better off in her work dress, apron, and sneakers. She also had a sweater that would have been fine for the bus ride home but wasn't terribly effective for extended periods outdoors.

"Are these your socks?"

She smiled, a touch embarrassed that he'd noticed. "I couldn't find any for you, but I didn't want you to be completely barefoot out here. I hope you don't mind that they're worn."

"I don't," he laughed. "I hope you don't mind if I stretch them out. My feet are bigger than yours."

"I don't. Besides, the walk will kill them anyway so... stretch all you want."

When he emerged, the boy had a twig in his hair. He looked at Violet with large, glassy eyes. "I can't believe I'm actually outside." He really couldn't believe it. He was sure he was dreaming. It felt like a dream, except that he still felt massively tired.

"Yeah, well," she said. "Let's keep it that way. Come on."

They headed quickly away from the institution then - as quickly as Tate could go while sock-footed and drugged.

..

They got across the covered bridge that led to the highway without mishap or seeing any vehicles but as they approached the bus stop Violet hesitated.

"No," she murmured. "This is wrong." She looked up at the blond boy seriously. "We can't take the bus. The driver will see you. When they come looking for you..."

Tate ran a hand through his hair. She was right. He was glad she was there to help him think because he was finding it really difficult to do, with his head all full of medicine. "I guess we're walking then. But... where?"

"My house," Violet said. "You can hide in the shed for now. I can get you some food. Then we can decide where to go from there."

..

Author's Note:

From the time they were established in the late 1800's, all the way to the mid 1980's, there was a short-lived branch of mental health medicine that promoted the idea of removing body parts to cure types of insanity. many asylums performed surgeries on patients without their consent that ranged from sterilization to lobotomy, amputation, blinding, and more. Often, the only thing the asylum would need would be the signature of one friend or relative. In cases of inmates who had no relatives to contact, doctors would often have nurses sign the consent forms for and operate anyway. Who would complain?

Now about Violet. That was not in my story outline or plans. I'd intended to have her overhear the convo between Oliver and Jude, and then go confront her dad about the matter. When she took off with Tate, I had to shut down my Word program and take a break from writing for the rest of the day. This single event completely threw off the rest of the time line I'd charted. I think there's still hope for salvaging it but at this point I'm just along for the ride. I hope we end up someplace that's not too dangerous.