“What an idiot,” one patient shouted. “Bastard can’t even hang himself right.”
More jeers and taunts erupted from the crowd as the keepers rolled Oliver onto his back. His eyes were peacefully closed as if he had enjoyed the rush of wind against his face in those final moments.
“Such a waste,” a voice said behind John. He jumped. In the aftermath of Oliver’s suicide, John hadn’t even realized he had backed away from the bloody scene and now stood only inches from the fence.
A man in red stood directly behind John, and as John recognized the stranger, his breath quickened. It was the man he had pointed out to Amos just moments earlier, the man called Skinner.
Skinner wasn’t much bigger than John in general, but the muscles on his arms were much more defined. He was surprisingly clean and well-groomed compared to everyone John had met at the asylum so far, his hair combed back neatly against his scalp. And although John and Skinner were separated by the fence, John didn’t feel it provided nearly enough of a barrier.
The seconds felt like hours as John tried to find his voice. “Excuse me?” he finally croaked.
“He made the rope too long,” Skinner explained. “You can’t exactly hang yourself on a rope that’s longer than the drop. Then again, it looks like it still did the job.”
“You sure he’s dead?” John asked. It was a stupid question. Of course he was dead.
“If not now, then he will be soon,” Skinner said flatly. “Nobody is going to waste their time treating an injury like that. Nor should they. If he wants to go so badly, then let him go.” Skinner turned to John and paused as if seeing him for the first time. His eyes narrowed as he studied John’s face. “You look familiar. Have we crossed paths before?”
“I don’t think so,” John stammered. He didn’t like the way Skinner was looking at him.
“Are you sure?” asked Skinner. “I never forget a face. How long have you been at the asylum, friend?”
“Arrived last night.”
Skinner stared at John a moment longer. Then, as if interrupted from a deep thought, threw his arms in the air and exclaimed, “I’m so sorry, where are my manners? Here I am asking invasive questions when I haven’t even introduced myself.” Bowing his head slightly, he announced, “My name is Theodore, but I insist you call me by my surname, Skinner. I never much cared for the name ‘Teddy’. Sounds less like the name of a great man and more like what you’d call the village idiot. Plus, there are about thirty other Theodores in the terminal ward alone, so I prefer to go by something a bit more distinguished.”
“I know who you are,” John said.
“I see my reputation precedes me. And you are?” he asked.
“John Hunter.”
A wide smile spread across Skinner’s face. “Hunter,” he said, letting the name roll around on his tongue. “That is a good name. A strong name. Why are you here, John Hunter?”
“I failed the blood test.”
Skinner clicked his tongue. “I’m so sorry to hear that, John. A young, handsome man like you cut down in the prime of life all because of a few drops of bad blood. Tragic.”
“I’m no different than anyone else here.”
“I’ve been a guest at this asylum for a long time, and I’ve noticed there are two types of men who come through here. You have your standard cripples and imbeciles, the type who truly deserves to be the last of their kind. Like your friends over there,” Skinner said, nodding towards Amos and the others, still standing where John had left them, completely unaware of his absence. “I don’t have to say two words to them to tell you they’re dumb as rocks. And our dear departed friend here,” he said, now watching as two keepers carried Oliver’s body away, leaving a pool of blood behind where he had laid just moments ago. “Well, it takes a special kind of idiot to mess up his own suicide. But the second type, they are simply victims of friendly fire. Educated men of the world, unjustly thrown into this cage with the rest of the animals. Which one are you, John Hunter?”
“A little of both, I suppose.”
Skinner laughed. “Well said. But you’re too modest. I think you and I both know which side you lean more towards.”
John lowered his eyes to avoid Skinner’s gaze, but something on Skinner’s arm caught his attention. The sleeves of Skinner’s jumpsuit were rolled up just slightly, revealing a scar on his left arm. Two jagged pink lines running perpendicular to each other to form a cross that covered most of the inside of his wrist. Skinner followed John’s gaze down to his own arm and smiled.
“I’m sorry,” John apologized. “I didn’t mean to stare.”
“You’ve never seen the brand before, have you?” Skinner asked, rolling up his left sleeve until his entire forearm below the elbow was exposed. He pressed his arm against the fence, so John could see the scar more clearly. The word “unfit” had been carved into his skin, spanning the entire length of Skinner’s inner arm.
“Everyone in the terminal ward has one,” Skinner explained. “That way, even if we ever leave the asylum, people will always know what we are.”
“I’m sorry,” John muttered, unsure what else to say.
Skinner shrugged. “My punishment for trying to change the world.” He unrolled his sleeve to cover up the massive scar. “If only I had known then the world doesn’t want to be changed.”
Another man in red had approached the fence now. It was Laurence, the man Amos had identified as Skinner’s brother. He looked a lot like Skinner, the same sharp eyes and thin nose, but he was much wider. Wide was an understatement, the man was a beast. The muscles on his arms and chest stretched the fabric of his jumpsuit to capacity. He didn’t speak, just looked on at the exchange with disapproval.
“John Hunter, meet my brother, Laurence,” said Skinner.
Laurence raised an eyebrow. “Hunter?” he asked.
“Yes, Laurie. John Hunter,” Skinner said, and John smirked a little. The nickname ‘Laurie’ sounded hilarious on a monster like Laurence. “Isn’t Hunter such a fantastically vivid name? It conjures up images of a gallant warrior riding through the forest,” Skinner said, but Laurence didn’t look amused. “You’ll have to forgive my brother. He suffers from a serious case of seriousness.”
“We better get going,” Laurence said to Skinner. “We have some business to attend to.”
“Yes, of course,” Skinner said. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, John Hunter. Let me know if you ever find yourself in trouble. We gentlemen must look out for each other.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said John. “I just want to keep my head down, get my operation, and get out of here.”
“Smart man. You wouldn’t want to go and make any enemies. There aren’t too many places in this asylum to hide,” Laurence said, his statement feeling more like a poorly veiled threat than friendly advice.
“I’m more than capable of taking care of myself. It was nice meeting you,” John said, turning to walk away.
John looked back to where the old man had been standing, but he was gone.
Night came again, and the patients were ordered back to their rooms. John followed Amos through the crowd as he pushed and shoved his way to the front. “If we get there first, we’ll have our pick of beds. We might even get a blanket,” he explained.
Their roommates must have had the same idea, however, because John and Amos were the last to arrive. Cursing under his breath, Amos sulked off towards the only available beds in the same corner they had slept in the night before.
John collapsed on his mattress, too exhausted to keep his eyes open but too nervous to fall asleep. The events of the day had left him feeling sick.
The keepers called for lights out and the room went dark. By the small beam of light radiating from under the door, John could see the outline of Amos’s face. He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling.
“What’s your plan, John?” he whispered. “For when you get out of the asylum?”
“I don�
�t know. I haven’t thought about it much,” he lied.
“My family owns a little berry patch. Did I tell you that? It ain’t much, but it gets us by. Me and my brother were going to take it over when my dad died.” Wiping his eyes, Amos sighed. “I do miss the smell of fresh strawberries.”
“It sounds wonderful,” John whispered.
“Too bad that ain’t an option anymore, ‘cause there’s no way in hell my dad will let me run it now. He’s so ashamed I got arrested.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe he’ll have a change of heart.”
“How’d your dad react when you got arrested?” Amos asked.
“I don’t know. My dad’s not around anymore.”
“Lucky bastard. I bet you a hundred credits that the minute I get home my dad’ll turn me out and tell me to go find work somewhere else.” In a low, mocking voice, Amos added, “‘Unfits are bad for business.’” Back to his normal voice, he continued, “I know a family in Northridge. Maybe they’ll take me on as a servant or something. That wouldn’t be too bad, I suppose. Do you know anyone in Northridge?”
“Yeah, a few people.”
“Maybe they’ll hire you. You should ask ‘em when you get out.”
John closed his eyes. As he drifted off to sleep, he thought of the dinner he had attended at the Loughlins’ house only two nights ago. It felt like years had passed since then. He tried to remember the details of that night, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember the meal or even the conversation. He could only recall the Loughlins’ servants, standing silently in the corners of the dining room, Evangeline snapping at them to fetch this or clean up that. And the more he imagined the scene, the harder it became for him to picture himself sitting at the table with the Loughlin family. Instead, he was standing in the corner, watching and waiting for Evangeline to call on him to clean up the table scraps.
Where would Morgan be in that scenario? Would she be sitting at the table, smiling and laughing with her family, pretending John wasn’t even there? A servant to the same people he had hoped would one day call him family? Just the thought of it filled him with shame. And in this alternate reality, this all too real alternate reality, John could never picture Morgan standing beside him as his wife.
Morgan had heard the first night alone after losing a loved one was the hardest, but she soon discovered whoever had said that was absolutely wrong. Every night was equally unbearable. She would lie in bed, wanting to sleep but kept awake by crushing waves of guilt and sadness and depression. It was easier to make it through the day when she could keep her mind busy, but at night there were no such distractions. At first, she hadn’t allowed herself to think of John and what the asylum must be like for him. Every time she did, the hopelessness became overwhelming. So she stopped letting herself dwell on it and tried to get through the day just like everyone else.
But Morgan could never entirely block it out. The mothers had told her not to worry, John was where he belonged and would be out soon enough. But underneath what Morgan was sure were intended to be sweet words of comfort, she could tell they were confused by her concern. To them, John was just another unfit getting what he deserved.
In public, Morgan’s family acted as if they were heartbroken and talked about John like he was a fallen war hero. Another great boy making the ultimate sacrifice for the cause. They congratulated themselves for being so open-minded to allow their daughter to befriend an unfit because in their version of the story Morgan had just befriended John. She absolutely had not fallen in love with him.
Home was a different story, though, where a passing comment at dinner and a few understanding nods was all the sympathy they could muster. Mostly they just stayed away from the topic of John’s arrest altogether, and Morgan knew why. They were embarrassed by how close he had gotten to them. An unfit had been in their home, sat at their table, and no one had realized it. No one except Evangeline of course, who congratulated herself every day on her good judgment and foresight for advising Morgan to seek the company of those with better breeding. John had officially become a cautionary tale they wanted to forget.
Morgan hadn’t told them the truth. She didn’t know how to. “Remember the man who you never approved of? Well, I married him.” No. Instead, she bore her grief in silence until the silence became too much and the panic built-up in her chest, threatening to tear her apart.
Long walks had become a daily ritual now to the point that no one even bothered to ask Morgan where she was going or where she had been. That was fine with her. She wouldn’t have had an answer for them anyway. Most days she just wandered the streets, going nowhere in particular, trying to find reprieve in her solitude.
Sometimes she would walk to John’s apartment. The familiarity of the route was comforting. But each time she would stop and turn around just outside his door, unable to make herself go inside. She didn’t want to face the empty apartment. There were too many memories.
Other times she would find herself on the long, abandoned stretch of road leading to Emerson Asylum, unsure whether or not to go forward. She had tried to visit John once, the day after he was taken away, but was told only direct relatives were permitted to visit. So she left, ashamed at herself for not admitting she was Jonathan Hunter’s wife.
It was for his own good, she tried to convince herself. Being associated with the Loughlins could cause other patients to resent him, make him a target. Still, she carried the shame with her every day.
That night, Morgan was on another one of her walks. When she had left the house, her mothers and siblings had been getting ready for another one of their dinner parties, and Morgan did not want to be around in case they tried to make her go with them. She did not feel like being put on display that night.
Morgan crossed the yard in front of her family’s estate, resigning herself to going back inside. Hopefully, everyone had already left. It was getting dark and cold and she had run out of places to go.
Morgan’s father sat in his study, reading by the light of the fireplace. He was the reason the Loughlin family got invited anywhere. Everyone wanted to host the famous Dr. Arthur Loughlin. But, like Morgan, her father took any excuse he could not to go. When she was little, she and Loughlin would take turns pretending to be sick and the other would generously offer to stay home and take care of them. At the time, Morgan had felt like she and her father were the most cunning people in the world. Now she realized the wives were probably just tired of trying to convince their husband to come.
Either way, Morgan’s favorite memories were of the two of them reading stories in front of the fireplace or playing hide and seek in the study. Her favorite place to hide was in an old wardrobe that stood right behind his desk. The wardrobe was filled with fur winter coats, and Morgan loved the feel of the soft lining against her cheeks. She would hide in that wardrobe practically every time they played, and every time her father would pretend he had no idea where she was—fumbling around the study, looking under pillows and behind drapes while she giggled loudly.
“Welcome back,” he called to Morgan as she passed.
Turning back to the study, Morgan asked, “Did everyone already leave?”
“About half an hour ago. I told Evangeline to give the Fairchild family our regrets.”
“Thank you.”
“How are you feeling?” her father asked, closing his book.
“Fine,” Morgan said. “Just a little cold. Nothing a warm bath won’t fix.”
“No, I mean about everything that’s happened in the last few weeks. About John.”
She knew what he had meant, but she also knew he didn’t want the truth. Nobody who asked questions like that wanted the truth. They wanted the happy, watered-down version.
Still, his directness caught Morgan off guard. So far, no one had specifically asked her how she felt about John’s arrest, but now the question almost made her angry. How did she feel? She was upset, of course. The whole thing made her want to scream. But at the en
d of the day, there was nothing she could do, so why even bother crying about it to her father? Especially since she had no right to feel sorry for herself. She wasn’t the one who had been arrested.
“I’m fine, Father,” she said again, trying her best to sound convincing, but the look on his face told her he didn’t believe her.
“Look, Morgan, I’m not blind. There was more than just friendship between you and John, wasn’t there?”
Morgan’s breath caught in her chest and her eyes began to burn. She knew that if she tried to speak, she would just end up crying. Biting the inside of her cheek, Morgan tried to collect herself, but of course the longer she took to answer, the more her father’s suspicions were confirmed. “I mean, I miss him of course,” she said, still foolishly clinging to her casual facade, “but in a few months he’ll be out, and everything can go back to normal.”
“I don’t see how it possibly can,” her father stated. Setting his book down on the end table beside him, he continued. “You understand what is going to happen to John, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” Morgan nodded. She couldn’t believe he was even asking her that question. Of course she knew what was going to happen to John at the asylum. Castration wasn’t exactly forgettable.
“Then you know this is not a brief inconvenience that can just be sidestepped. After John comes back from the asylum, everything is going to be different for him.”
Morgan shook her head. “It doesn’t have to be,” she said. “And even if it is, that doesn’t bother me.”
“What about being associated with an unfit? Because that isn’t the kind of thing people are willing to simply overlook. Whatever relationship you imagined having with John is no longer a possibility. He’ll never be able to provide for you, Morgan.”
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