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-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-

... SANiTARiUM ...

...

Nora Montgomery was still in the prime of her life when she turned to the church after the loss of her family. Her baby, still an infant, had been stolen from his crib and murdered and his mutilated parts sent to his frantic parents. After that horrible event her husband Charles, inconsolable, committed suicide.

At least that's what the public story was. Nora knew differently. She had pulled the trigger on the gun that had blown Charles' brains all over the ceiling of his basement workroom. She alone knew that his death wasn't a suicide and she absolved herself of responsibility with the additional knowledge that he had violated the body of their darling child by sewing the baby's parts to those of dead animals.

But it was far from a perfect ending: She suffered from horrible nightmares and guilt. The church was her sole refuge and while it didn't protect her from her memories, it allowed her a second chance at life, with a new name and a new identity. She was now Sister Mary Eunice, and her new mission in life was to cure the same sort of insanity that had driven her brilliant surgeon husband to the awful desecration of her son's corpse. She couldn't help Charles, but perhaps she could save some other demented soul.

She had come to Briarcliff on the recommendation of Sister Jude. The nun had been there when Mary Eunice had first taken up the veil and had held her hand-proverbially and literally-through many tearful moments of doubt and fear. Jude had been a guiding light and source of strict order that Mary Eunice desperately needed. The younger woman envied the senior nun's strength of purpose and confidence. She wished to be more like her. In some ways, though, the woman terrified her.

"Sister?"

The masculine voice drew Sister Mary out of her thoughts and back into the present. "I'm sorry, doctor," she said, lowering her eyes. She felt a flush of embarrassment heat her cheeks. "Sister Jude is visiting the new arrival right now. I don't expect it to take long."

Dr. Harmon smiled. He was a handsome man, kind and forgiving. His hair was dark, like her husband's had been, but his eyes were a piercing blue where Charles' had been as black as midnight.

"Please let me know when she's done?" he asked in a genial tone. "I would like to speak with her as soon as possible."

She nodded and risked another quick glance at his face. She found him smiling gently at her. He was so different from the other doctors that roamed the halls of Briarcliff. They were often pushy, cold and cynical. Some were mean while others were condescending. Doctor Benjamin Harmon was a warm summer breeze compared to those starchy individuals.

Sister Mary watched him head up the long spiral staircase; the stairwell Sister Jude referred to as her 'stairway to heaven'. Crossing herself, Mary said a quick prayer for forgiveness to erase any impure thoughts she may have had regarding the man then she hurried off to busy herself with one of the mundane tasks that came with her position: Counting linens and bedpans.

...

For Tate, the weeks that followed the shooting were a blur. Twenty-eight days of nightmares and nightmarish reality blurred by. People flickered in and out of his gray world. Sometimes they spoke but he couldn't understand the things they said. There were times of bright light then darkness swallowed the light for long periods. The room rocked and spun so much, he had no idea where he was or when he was dreaming.

Then the world slowed down again. His first brush with true consciousness came with voices speaking in hushed tones. It was the voices that brought him up from sleep, making it so he couldn't rest. But he found he couldn't fully wake either.

It was a strange feeling of being trapped inside his body. He wanted to open his eyes, to look around and ask questions, but he just couldn't. He tried shaking his head, thinking maybe that would unstick his eyes from the odd paralysis he was under. He could feel his head toss to the side and felt the cushion of a cloth-covered pillow beneath it.

Still the voices persisted, getting louder now. They began to make sense too.

"Looks like the sedation's wearing off."

It was a woman's voice, dry and humorless.

"How long did Doctor Pennhurst say it would take?" a man's responded softly.

"Less than an hour," the woman replied. "He wasn't specific."

"I don't suppose these things can be more specific," said the man. "Medicine, like the Lord, works in its own time."

Tate thought they were probably talking about him and that his body was still asleep. Based on what he heard he was under the influence of some kind of medication. All he had to do, then, was wake up. So, he focused on the task.

It wasn't easy.

He discovered that he felt thirsty. Very thirsty. He wanted to ask for water but when he tried to speak, again nothing happened. He tossed his head more, one way and then the other. Trying to wake was like trying to swim against a strong tide. He didn't feel an urge to drop back into blackness but he couldn't quite get all the right signals to spread out through his body so he could function.

Tate found that he could twitch his right hand a little and he homed in on that. If he could just get another part of his body working, the rest might fall in line. He kept moving his head and after an agonizingly lengthy period he finally found the strength to open his eyes. They felt weird. Greasy. He blinked slowly and discovered he could move his toes a bit.

"He's awake," the woman said.

Tate looked in the direction of her voice and saw two hazy figures in the shadows of the gray room he was in. There was little else in the room that he could make out. The two people came closer, and he saw that they were both wearing black clothes. One he identified as a nun. After a moment he realized the other was a priest.

The priest clutched a rosary in one hand and wore a concerned look. The woman had a severe cast to her sharp-boned face. She wore her rosary around her neck. Her hair was hidden under a white-lined black habit.

"Peace be with you," the priest said, waving his rosary over Tate.

The teen tried to move his arms and found that while he had some control over them now, they were bound securely to the bed with padded leather cuffs. Lifting his head, he could see his bare feet sticking out below the sheet. His ankles were likewise cuffed to the bed. Fear prickled inside him, and he looked up to the pair for some sort of explanation.

They didn't offer him one.

"Our help is in the name of the Lord," the priest said quietly. He passed the rosary over Tate again.

"Who has made heaven and earth," the nun said in response. She stared cold and relentless at the young man while the priest's dark-eyed gaze was one of pity.

"Lord, hear my prayer," the priest continued.

"And let my cry reach up to You," the nun said. They were switching off, each saying a portion of the prayer in turn.

The priest continued: "The Lord be with you." and he touched the rosary to Tate's forehead. The teen flinched a little, but he couldn't move away.

"And with your spirit," the nun murmured.

"Let us pray," the priest intoned, and he turned his eyes upward. "Look upon Your servant, Lord, suffering from sickness of the body and mind. Refresh the soul You have created so that, purified of this affliction, he may always remember that he has been saved by Your loving pity through Christ our Lord."

"Amen," the nun said reverently.

"Merciful Lord," the priest continued. "Consoler of the faithful, we beg of Your great mercy that at our humble request You will visit this, Your child, lying on a bed of pain and come to him. Bless him so that he will have the strength to overcome his weakness and through Your aid he will be restored to health so that in the sure knowledge of Your goodness he will gratefully bless Your name."

"Amen," the Sister said again.

"May the blessing of almighty God - the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit - descend upon you and remain always," the priest said.

The dark-haired priest lifted an aspergillum that was attached to his belt by a leather thong and sprinkled water over Tate's bound form with it. The cool liquid prompted another slight flinch.

"Amen," the nun said again.

Tate had wanted water, but the delivery left something to be desired.

"Where am I?" he croaked, finding his voice at last. His tongue felt sticky. His throat was raw.

"You're at Briarcliff Manor Sanitarium," the priest said as he put away the metal water shaker. "I am Monsignor Howard and this is Sister Jude." He inclined his head toward the serious-faced nun at his side.

"You were brought here by the authorities," Sister Jude said. "To convalesce. Once you're physically well enough, an inquisition into your sanity will be made to determine whether you're fit to stand trial for your crimes."

Crimes? Suddenly the clock tower came back to Tate in a flood of scrambled memories. It was too much to make sense of all at once. His head was starting to hurt again.

"I'm thirsty," he said, wincing. "And my head hurts."

"Sister," said the priest. "Please tell Doctor Pennhurst that he can come in now. And would you please fetch some water for our guest?"

Sister Jude didn't particularly want to play waitress to the bound young man but she couldn't refuse a direct request from Reverend Monsignor Timothy. She bowed her head in acknowledgement and silently let herself out of the small cell. The doctor was waiting on a bench outside the ward, examining his notes when she arrived. She let him know that his patient was awake then she headed back to the kitchen.

By the time she returned to the cell with a tin cup and small pitcher, the doctor was finishing his examination of Tate's injuries. The young man had been kept naked; clothing would have only been a hindrance in keeping him clean and changing his bandages while he was sedated. Apart from his injuries Sister Jude might have found him attractive except that his crime repulsed her so much she found it impossible to separate his physical form from the atrocities he'd committed.

Dr. Pennhurst, a tall man with a balding pate, pulled the sheet up over the blond boy's trussed form, then straightened.

"How is he, doctor?" the nun asked as she filled the tin cup with water from the pitcher.

"Coming along quite well," the man said. Unlike the nun, he could part himself from the enormity of the crimes the teen was accused of and focus solely on his physical state. "He should exercise as soon as possible. He's strong enough and his wounds are closed up. Nothing too rigorous, mind you, but he should be up and walking to prevent further atrophy."

"Thank you, doctor," the priest said. "Can he be integrated with the common populace then?"

"Indeed," said Dr. Pennhurst. "I don't see why not. You may wish to have him mentally evaluated first but it's my opinion it's safe."

"Excellent," said Monsignor Howard. "There are some other matters I would like to discuss with you if you have the time?"

The doctor nodded. "I do. What is it?"

"Sister, could you see that our guest gets his exercise?" said the Monsignor with a mild smile.

Sister Jude gave him another stiff nod and watched as the two men departed.

"Hey, if you're not too busy, I'd really like that water now," Tate said. He'd been waiting very patiently for a drink, but he had his limit.

The nun's cold gaze found him. "Of course," she said in a deceptively kind manner.

She held the cup to his lips, tipping it just a little too much so that he was forced to take bigger gulps than he would have liked. When the cup was empty she set it next to the pitcher on the small sturdy cabinet bolted to the floor in the corner.

"So you're gonna let me up now, right?" the teen pressed. His fingers curled over the leather cuffs in anticipation.

"Contrary to what the Monsignor's polite words may have you believe," Sister Jude said, clasping her hands tightly before her. "This is not a hotel. You are not our 'guest'. You are a prisoner under our care until such a time as the court deems you fit to stand trial for your crimes. Until such a time, you are an inmate here - a patient to be rehabilitated. You will repent for your deeds even if you never go to prison for them."

Tate's brow furrowed. He couldn't tell whether the nun seriously believed that last bit or not. "My head still hurts," he said.

"I'm sure that will be factored into your daily medication," Sister Jude dismissed. But she noticed that his complaints only seemed to come when he was confronted with his evil deeds. "Right now, it's time for you to get some exercise."

"Will I get some clothes too?"

"At Briarcliff, you have no rights," the nun said archly. "You earn everything, even clothing. You will be given a hospital gown to start. But whether you get to keep it, or upgrade to something better, will be determined by your behavior."

She went back to the door then and beckoned an orderly in. "Release him," she directed the tall, burly blond man. "We're taking him to the Common room."

—

The hospital gown Sister Jude had referred to was more of a viewing gown and was only marginally better than being naked. Tate was escorted down cold, dark corridors. The floor chilled his bare feet and no matter how he fidgeted with the shapeless gray smock it kept opening in the back. He was sure the orderly behind him was getting more of a view than he wanted.

Worse than the peepshow: Tate found it difficult to walk and move. Atrophy, the doctor had said when preparing him for the effects. Being out of commission for a month, his muscles had weakened drastically. Walking and even scratching his own nose were tasks that required effort and left him feeling clumsy and uncoordinated.

"When can I get some pants?" he asked, trying to keep his tone light despite the fact that he wasn't at all happy. It was a defense mechanism meant to hide his true feelings while he sorted out what to do with them.

"When you've earned pants," the nun said without so much a glance back at him.

She pushed open one of a set of large oak double doors inset with wire mesh-infused safety glass. The room beyond was large and had large windows set with the same sort of indestructible glass as the doors. They were also fronted with thick bars. Old couches and several tables and chairs were scattered about, some near the walls and some more centrally located. An old upright piano stood near the middle of the room. The air was hazy with cigarette smoke and an standing record player against one wall was playing a recording of Jeanine Deckers' 'Dominque'.

The nun and the orderly abandoned the newest inmate to the general population of the room, but Tate hardly noticed. There were so many people around and in so many strange states, he couldn't help but stare.

The first thing that caught his attention was a skinny old woman curled up under one of the tables. She was completely naked and the way she was lying on her side made her topmost breast sag down her bony chest like an empty sack. The sight of her shocked him and he wondered whether she was naked as a punishment or whether she'd simply shed her clothes of her own accord.

Not far from where she was, a man sat on one of the low brown couches making strange faces. His jaw stuck out at a weird angle, and he kept twisting his mouth in wild contortions that made him seem toothless at times. Every now and then his face would relax and the man, who looked to be in his 50s, would appear almost normal. Then his face would contort again in a rubbery, bizarre way. He held both hands up and his fingers stayed locked in a stiff position like he couldn't relax them.

On the opposite end of the couch a younger man with a shaved head sat, rocking and rocking and hugging himself. He stared up at the ceiling slack-jawed like it was the most amazing thing he'd seen. Nearby stood a short, chubby older man who had one hand down his pants. He didn't seem to be doing anything with that hand; just holding himself in a socially inappropriate way.

Another couch across the room held three women, two younger and one older. One of the younger women was bowed down, hugging her own knees and not moving. The other two conversed and smoked cigarettes, ignoring her. The older woman had a beat-up old baby doll tucked into the crook of her arm.

Then there was the singing man. He was standing on his head with his back against one wall, his eyes closed. He was singing the same tune over and over, something praising the pope and the bishop and the cardinal and so on. Closer to Tate, a man with a cigarette was talking animatedly to a man in a lab coat. Their conversation gave the teen something to focus on in the midst of the bizarre bedlam all around.

"I just don't see why I have to take medication," the man was saying. He had short dark hair and a healthy physique. "I'm not crazy. If I love my mom and my dad, that's not schizophrenia. That's normal. And here you are, forcing me to take this medicine like I'm some sort of crazy person. And I'm not."

"No one's forcing you to do anything," the doctor said in a benign way. He had square, thick-rimmed glasses that hid most of his round face.

"But you are," the patient insisted. He pulled a hard drag off the cigarette then waved it around dramatically. "I don't belong here. You know that. Everyone knows that. So, why do I have to take your medicine? I don't need it, and taking it is what's going to make me crazy."

"If you're in this place," the doctor said. "There's a reason for it."

"But that's just it," the patient said. For all his protesting, he seemed calm and rational to Tate. "There isn't a good reason. It's a conspiracy. The government wants me here to keep me under tabs so they can watch me. Is that fair? No. And neither is giving a sane man medication to make him insane. Where's the justice in that?"

"I don't have time to debate this with you, Harvey," the doctor said. "Take it up with your therapist."

"But I want to take it up with you, doc," the man identified as Harvey said. "You're the one dispensing medication around here. You're the one forcing me to take it."

The doctor didn't respond. He just walked away from the man. Harvey looked after him for a moment before noticing Tate watching him. Then the dark-haired man put on a smile and headed over.

"Hey. A new face! I'm Harvey Wilmington."

He stuck out a hand which Tate shook, if hesitantly.

"Tate."

"Nice to meetcha, Tate," said Harvey. "Whaddaya in for?"

Tate shrugged. The careless action tugged his hospital gown open. He quickly tugged it closed again. "They say I'm crazy," he said. "Mind if I sit down?"

Harvey grinned. "Don'tcha hate those things? Now we know why doctors call 'em 'viewing gowns'."

He followed Tate to a table where they both had a seat, Tate carefully arranging the gown before settling into the hard wooden chair.

"You know, they say I'm crazy too," Harvey confided. He stubbed his cigarette out in a wide ashtray that sat on the table. "I'm not. But once you're in this joint? There ain't no gettin' out. You can argue till you're blue in the face, and it won't mean crap to these jack-asses."

"You got a cigarette I could have?" Tate asked.

"Oh, sure," said Harvey amiably. He dug around in the front pocket of his gray-blue shirt and produced an orange-filtered cigarette that he handed over. Then he offered the teen a half a pack of matches. "Cigarettes're one of the few humanities they allow us in here. That and fruit cocktail."

Tate lit the cigarette and exhaled smoke. He wasn't much of a smoker, but he'd grown up with a mother who smoked a pack and a half a day. The familiar smell was soothing. "What do you have to do to earn clothes around here?"

"Keep your nose clean," said Harvey with a short chuckle. "Don't piss off the Sisters, and they'll get you clothed pretty quickly. They don't like lookin' at bare man-flesh." He waggled his brows suggestively.

That made Tate smile a little. Then he glanced around the room again. "So, what do you do in here?"

Harvey shrugged. "Play cards. Chess. Checkers. Try not to go crazy." He grinned crookedly.

The record ended and the needle on the player lifted and reset itself. The song started again.

"What's with the singing nun?" asked Tate, raising his chin in the direction of the old record player.

Harvey glanced over and made a face. "Sister Jude's idea. As long as the Common room's open, the record has to play. I'm not sure if she thinks it mellows the crazies or if she's just tryin' to torture us."

Tate smiled and a dimple showed. "She seems like a real hard-ass."

"Kid, you don't know the half of it," Harvey said with chilling sincerity. "Just don't get on her bad side."

"I think it's too late for that. She hates me already."

"Nah," said Harvey. "If she hated you, you wouldn't be in here."

Tate looked around the room again, bewildered by the amount of people doing strange things. He couldn't see how being in among all the unbridled insanity was a good thing.

"It can get worse," Harvey said quietly, reading his expression. "Believe me. You don't wanna find out."

Tate's expression cleared with a quick jolt of his brows. "If you say so," he said and tapped his ash in the wide ashtray.

The tall blond orderly who'd escorted Tate to the room came over to their table then and took hold of the teen's elbow.

"It's time for you to go see the shrink," the man said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Tate thought about objecting because he didn't like being told what to do but then he realized he'd be getting away from all the crazy people. So, he had a last puff off the cigarette then snubbed it out in the ashtray.

"See ya, Harvey," he said. "Thanks for the cigarette."

"Any time, kid," Harvey said with a little wave as the orderly led the teen away.

...

Author's Note:

As you can see I'm doing some cross-season character use. I'm using some characters from Season 1, some from Season 2 and some characters that are a blend. Keep a sharp eye; you never know who'll turn up.

Pennhurst is of the worst asylums that ever existed in the United States. A lot of the nastiness you'll see in this fic is inspired by that place. It was a facility where the insane were housed alongside people with other disabilities such as being an amputee. Some 'patients' started out as healthy teens whose parents simply wanted to punish them for not wanting to go to their college of choice. Through drugs, physical and mental abuse, just about every person who entered Pennhurst wound up a zombie or a lunatic, even if they were sane when they went in.

The song playing in the Common Room was written by Jeanine Deckers, known as "The Singing Nun". She wrote several other songs but none so popular as that one. She and her 'companion' Anne Pescher later committed suicide together as a result of the tax problems and financial troubles that stemmed from recording the song.

Next time: Tate meets with the shrink. And if you haven't seen it, I've updated my Profile to include a playlist of songs for Season 2 AU. Check it out!