The world faded in and out for Tate. He got shoved around by the orderlies because he didn't know where he was going. At one point he found himself out in the gray common yard. Snow drifted down, kissing his skin with stinging cold that disappeared slower and slower. He realized dimly that he was standing in the snow without a coat or shoes. There were other patients around, out of reach. Nobody talked.

The asylum faded away into nothing for a while. Hours slipped by without his notice. His next moment of clarity came when he was surrounded by loud people. Inmates and orderlies were behind him and also way down the hall in front of him. They were all shouting. Some were waving their hands frantically.

"Run!" they hollered.

A guy who had a fresh incision on his temple stitched sloppily stood beside him. Someone shoved Tate in the back hard and he stumbled forward.

"Run, you brainless shit!" the burly guard behind him barked. "I got money on you!"

Someone else pushed the other guy and cheers from the other end of the hall let Tate know he'd done good. He kept moving that way and heard the cheers strengthen. It was hard to walk, impossible to run. The floor felt like it was lumpy and moving, an effect of the shock treatment and medication he was on. He had to keep his eyes on the tile or the world would start to sway so violently he felt like he would throw up. Looking down also allowed him to keep an eye on the other guy's dirty socks behind him. Tate was in the lead, if only by a few steps. Once upon a time, he had run track in school. He was out of practice and not at all in the right condition to run anywhere but his competitive instinct was still intact.

He made it almost three-quarters of the way to the other end of the hall, where the rest of the jeering and cheering audience waited. Victory was in sight and it meant everything to Tate in that brain-scrambled moment. Then he felt the other guy grab the back of his shirt.

Tate tried to tug free, but the other patient had a strong hold on him. Brawling would take too much effort, so he just slipped out of his shirt and kept going. Soon he reached the far end where he was celebrated with much jostling and slaps on the back, some hard enough to leave marks. Money was passed between staff members, and even a few inmates who were sober enough to keep track of such things.

The world faded out again and the next clear thing he knew, he was back in his cell. He hurt all over and didn't know why. It was easier to sleep than it was to figure out anything. He had nightmares but blessedly wouldn't remember them the next groggy morning.

...

Rain pattered on the roof and made the evening darker than dark. Constance had the television on for background noise, so she wouldn't feel alone. Though Tate's presence at home had been an unpredictable one at times, she missed him most on nights like this—stormy, lonely nights. She had just finished an unsatisfying frozen TV dinner in front of the Lawrence Welk Show and was cleaning up the tinfoil mess when she felt a cold breeze on her ankles, below her house robe.

"Hello, Constance."

She heard Thredson's quiet voice right behind her and she turned on him, dropping the tin tray in her haste. It hit the floor with a loud metallic clatter. Peas and carrots scattered across the floor.

"What are you doing here?" the woman demanded, covering her fear with indignant outrage. "Get out of my house!"

"Now, now," Thredson chided, taking slow steps across the kitchen toward her. He was dressed for the cold weather outside: A heavy black wool overcoat hid his clothes and he wore leather gloves. "Is that any way to treat the man you just swore in court had nothing to do with your abduction?"

"I only retracted my testimony because you said you'd have them lobotomize Tate if I didn't."

"That's what I've come here to discuss with you," the man said in that deceptively genial tone of his. "The future of your son's treatment plan."

He drew closer, moving with the same slow deliberation he would show a volatile patient at Briarcliff. Constance backed away from him, angling toward a butcher block of knives she kept next to the refrigerator.

"What do you mean?" she demanded, to distract him from her actions. "I already did what you told me to!"

He favored her a tolerant smile. She pressed up against the cabinet behind her. If she timed it right, she thought she could sneak one of the knives out without his noticing.

"And I've upheld my end of the deal," he responded calmly. "Your son won't be undergoing a lobotomy, but in order for him to improve, he needs strong family support. You can't give that to him on your own and certainly not from here. You know that and so does he. The best way to give him the stability he needs is for you to move back in with me and for us to be a real family."

Constance stared at him, stunned by the intricacy of his insanity. "Move back in with you."

"Yes," he insisted, suddenly grabbing her nearest hand. "He needs a mother and a father who understand his special needs. We need each other. You. Me. Tate. A family."

Using her hand as leverage, he pulled her away from the cabinet, out of reach of the knives. She tried to resist but he pulled harder, forcing her to follow him down the back hall and into her bedroom.

"Pack a bag—just what you'll need for the next couple of nights. Briarcliff will provide us with better living quarters soon." He stopped then and pulled her close to him, his dark eyes intense when they met hers. "You do want your son to get better, don't you?"

She wanted to scream; to beat his chest with her fists. Her instincts screamed at her to fight him, but more level-headed inner voice urged her to bide her time. If she tried to fight him off now, she had no idea what might happen. He had the advantage for the time being. He held all the cards.

"Of course I do," she said, trying to sound less rattled than she was. "But you can't just barge into a lady's home unannounced and expect her to be ready in an instant. I need time to gather my things and get my house in order if I'm to leave it for a time. And I'll need to get dressed. I'm hardly presentable in this."

He glanced down and took in the white house robe and thin nightie she wore beneath. "Very well. But just the things you'll need immediately. You don't need to pack a large wardrobe just now. We'll be staying at Briarcilff for the time being."

She hoped he would let her alone to pack but he stayed with her the whole time, keenly observing everything she put into her two pieces of luggage. He wouldn't even let her alone in the bathroom and he insisted she leave behind things like the bottle of aspirin and her razor. She was able to slip a nail kit in past his notice. She only hoped it would help somehow when they got to the asylum.

...

Max the orderly woke to dull pain in the side of his head. He tried to ignore it, but the pain persisted, even when he held perfectly still. Coming fully awake, bright light stabbed his eyes. He blinked several times and tried to sort out where he was. When he attempted to lift his arm to shield his vision, he found it belted firmly to the side of a metal table. Panic flooded him as he found all of his limbs were strapped down in the same fashion.

"Oh, there he is," a chipper voice said from somewhere above him.

The light kept Max from seeing anything beyond its harsh glow. He didn't need to strain though; Dandy leaned in close enough for the bound man to see his smiling face. The scars distorted the expression into a caricature.

"Hello there," Dandy greeted. Then his brows went up and he put on his serious face for the man. "You've been a very bad boy. Haven't you?"

"I don't know whatcher talking about," Max said, torn between anger and fear. The last thing he remembered was walking the halls during inmate free time. To judge from the pain in the back of his head, someone walloped him a good one from behind.

"Oh, sure you do!" Dandy crowed merrily. He propped a hip on the table so he could get closer to the man, putting an arm around his head so he could pet Max's dark hair. "You like fucking the girl patients. Even the ones who don't want you to."

"That's a lie!" Max yelped. "Whoever told you that is a fucking liar! Let me outta here. You can't do this to me!"

"Shh," Dandy soothed. When Max didn't shush, he planted a palm firmly over the orderly's mouth, pressing down hard. It was the only outward crack in his veneer of pleasant geniality. "Shh! Don't waste our time with nonsense. We both know you're guilty as sin. And this being a hospital of God…well. Sins can't go unpunished!"

He let go of Max and hopped up from the table. "Doctor Haddonfield? I believe your first specimen is prepped and ready for 'treatment'."

The surgeon was likewise prepped, outfitted in heavy rubber gloves and a black apron brought up from the morgue. He had a sterile mask on his face and a ball gag in his hands. "Thank you, Mr. Mott. Today, we break new ground in the field of medical science."

Even with the ball gag firmly secured in Max's mouth, the sounds of his screams as the doctor autopsied him alive could still be heard echoing down the corridors of the underground tunnels for several minutes after Dandy left the doctor to his new 'research'.

...

Author's Note:

I think it's pretty funny that we've had a Joker-fied Dandy running the asylum here and now WB's released Joker in the theaters. Timing!

This chapter was largely inspired by true tales from notorious asylums, which is partly why the chapter's name is what it is. Bedlam is the world's oldest mental asylum. It was the first and it's likely to be the last of its kind, if things keep going the way they have been.

Most "mental health care" these days revolves around chemical lobotomies: Shoveling drugs into patients to turn them into passive, living zombies. It's easier and better on the pocketbook for many so-called therapists to just lob pills at the patient and collect a paycheck. That's even poked at some in American Horror Story's first season.

Next time: Haddonfield helps with the overcrowding situation and Thredson gets a surprise.