The Requiem Red

by Brynn Chapman

  My face flushes.

  The titter of nurses passes the doorway as they walk past in the hall.

  I drop the sketch and hurry behind the door. Why am I hiding?

  Something inside urges, Keep still.

  I wait till they have passed and then skulk into the hall and quickly out the exit—intent on stopping for nothing till I sit safely in the hansom, my mind and heart racing.

  Darkness. And an ever-loving pain in my temple.

  I struggle to recall my surroundings. My back and neck provide the answer. Rough rocks grind into my flesh with each movement. The tunnel.

  Humming again. Masculine humming this time.

  The now familiar smell draws near. Woods and pine and musk. “Jane.” Big hands grip my shoulders and give a little shake. “Jane, are you hurt?”

  I force my eyes to flutter open, and I flinch at a piercing pain in my cheek. My vision is blurred, and I squint, trying to discern who kneels before me. But I recognize the smell. The abnormally appealing smell, a solitary anomaly in this land of smell-horror.

  “Mason?”

  “Yes.” His hands slide under my arms, assisting me to stand. I stumble, so he props me against his side. “What happened? Whyever are you down here?”

  My breath quickens, and I frantically look around—stupidly, because in the tunnel, time seems to stop, no light from outside ever penetrates its inky fortress.

  “I imagine it is close to dawn.”

  I grip his shirt tight. “Mason. Please. If they catch me out of bed, all my privileges of visiting Ward One shall be revoked. I only played the one time.”

  “It was marvelous—”

  “Please.”

  He nods, bright blue-green eyes tightening. “Of course. Hurry. Lean on me now.”

  “If you are caught aiding me—”

  “I shall be let go. You doan’ worry about tha.” His face is calm, but his accent has intensified—meaning he is worried as well.

  We shuffle our way down the tunnels toward Ward Four, not speaking for fear of drawing attention should anyone up top, near a hatch, be listening. I am far too aware of his arm around my back, the warm touch of his hand steadying my forearm.

  Time seems to stretch in the dark. But finally, mercifully, I see it. The ladder, looming ahead.

  The footsteps again. Gooseflesh races like wildfire down my neck to my spine.

  These are more of a shuffle than footsteps.

  I feel Mason’s heart quicken beneath my hand, which desperately clutches his shirt.

  He presses a singular finger to his lips. “Shh.” His eyes dart left and right, then finally up.

  He points to another ladder, labeled Ward Six. Then he points upward, signaling me to climb.

  I obey, and he hurries behind me. I have never exited here. We may be throwing ourselves into the middle of a common room or dead center of a nurses’ station.

  Vomit and fear rise in my throat as I throw open the hatch.

  Relief instantaneously floods my limbs, leaving a residual weakness. This hatch, too, is mercifully in a supply closet.

  Mason scurries out of the hole, closing it just in time. We hunker on all fours, ears pressed to the floorboards, listening. A sweat breaks on my brow.

  Footsteps slow beneath us.

  Our faces are inches apart as I watch his eyes tighten with fear. Steady, he mouths.

  I swallow, press my lips tight and hold perfectly still.

  Our breathing becomes one for a very long moment, our wide eyes searching one another’s as we lay frozen, our cheeks pressed to the floor.

  The footsteps shuffle, then move slowly past, and I exhale and become acutely aware of his proximity. My stomach contracts with a foreign emotion.

  He sits up gingerly, our eyes locked in a slow, meaningful dance. His fingers, which still encircle my wrist from whence we collapsed to the floor, now seem to burn against my skin.

  The sensation of touch.

  I have had so very little of it. It’s why I have clung to dolls, well beyond when children give them up. Comfort. Any sort of comfort. His eyes are bright with hesitation, but he gently pulls me toward him. His eyes flicker with emotions: fear, pain, and longing.

  A door in my soul wrenches open, one previously secured with nails borne of grief, fear, and horror.

  His lips brush mine, and the whole of my body shudders.

  His eyebrows arch, concerned, as he pulls back, searching my face. His expression turns guilty. “I should not do this. You are a … ”

  I grind my teeth. “A patient.” Anger incinerates all other emotion. I stare at him. “A freak?”

  He is breathtaking. More beautiful than any picture in any of the books in the abandoned library. Arched eyebrows, deep-set eyes, thin lips. His thick shock of hair is a dark brown; his impending beard holds highlights of red. I saw it glimmering in the skylight’s sun the day he presented me with the hair elixir.

  “You think because I am a patient I do not want? Need? Wish? Condemn?” My voice catches. “Hurt?”

  His chest rises and falls, faster and faster, keeping time with mine. His eyes dart back and forth, trying to decide.

  He lurches forward to grasp me with two hands and folds me into him, his warm mouth covering mine, his tongue velvet and plush. I feel the fever in his kiss. That he does, indeed, want me. Despite it all. Even if he never admits it.

  I slide myself into his lap, and his hands stray up and down my back, stopping to knot my dress in his hands in a needy frustration.

  Footfalls. The closet doorknob jiggles.

  He casts me off, hauling me to stand in a single motion.

  Our eyes scan the room. Only two routes to escape. Back into the tunnels or …

  This closet has a second door which leads into another corridor, another ward. They share this supply room.

  I am flying, or so it seems. His hand clasps over my mouth to quiet me as he pushes me, ushering me out the adjoining door. The neighboring corridor is quiet. But it shan’t be for long. This is not my ward. We must move.

  Our eyes fall outside. My ward is visible, running parallel to this one. To walk to it through adjoining wards and halls, we would absolutely be caught.

  In the space between, in what was once a courtyard, grows an overflow of corn.

  He whispers, urgency coloring each word, “If we are discovered … Our only chance to make it back before light is out there.”

  I follow his gaze, and I swallow. He gestures outside. Out into the corn.

  “Run, Jane.”

  Mason crushes my fingers between his as we barrel into the stalks. The texture of the light has changed but a fraction. But it is enough to know morning is on its way.

  Dawn is breaking. The asylum looms above us, its windows like the blackened eyes of an overbearing orderly. The corn grows very close to the building. Should the sun rise, any who happen to be standing near a window will witness our flight.

  Mason’s breath comes hard and fast as he cuts a straight line through the stalks, heading directly for my ward.

  I hear it. Orchestral music blasting to life, embedded within its notes a wailing scream of despair and torture.

  I fall to my knees, pressing my hands hard to my head, clutching my temples. “No-no-no-no.”

  Mason whirls.

  I hold my breath, await the accusations to end any hope of happiness.

  What is wrong with you? Await the inevitable pity, which quickly turns to fear at any sign of abnormality.

  I squint, trying to discern his expression, but he is frozen, stock-still, a desperate sort of fear crossing his ashen face.

  I peer up, blinking at him, the wails filling my head like a water-siren’s call. But he is looking around, not at me, staring, eyes wide, at the stalks of corn as if they blaze with fire.

  “You hear it.”

  It is not a question. The horrified expression on his face proclaims it.

>   His gaze drops to meet mine. “Aye. I hear it. What the devil is it?”

  I swallow as the screaming reaches a crescendo. “Can you hear … the message?”

  Now, he does cock his head. “I hear no words. Only music.” He reaches down to grasp my hand and hauls me to stand. “We must away, Jane. If they catch us, I shall not merely be let go. I shall never see you again—they will never grant me entrance. They will make you disappear before I am able to fight my way back in.”

  I nod and let him pull me behind him, running flat out, doing my best to keep his pace.

  Light. It casts a golden glow across the corn’s silken heads. Our enemy has arrived. The sun releases dim red rays onto the horizon.

  “Mason. They shall see us for certain.”

  His only response is to run faster.

  Suddenly a rrrrumble cuts through the orchestra. At first I think it thunder, the fluttering, rolling timbre of it.

  But it is a flock of ravens, so thick and deep, I mistake it for a locust swarm, flying low to the corn. I cover my ears—their squawking is deafening.

  “They are blocking our view.”

  The black bodies cluster in a racing serpentine, matching Mason’s weaving path through the corn. Mason skids to a halt, his boots sliding in the thick mud. We have reached the entrance. We need only bolt across a small patch of grass without the cover of the corn.

  He pulls me tight, pressing his lips so hard against mine, I sense his fear.

  “I will return to see you,” he says, giving my shoulders a little shake. “No matter the cost.”

  I nod, wincing. The odds of us making it across without discovery are almost nil.

  Suddenly, a great, black ruckus erupts at the other end of the field. What seems a thousand ravens dive-bomb one another—fighting, gnashing, flashing beaks in aerial battle.

  I stand, dumbstruck.

  “An unkindness of ravens.”

  My jaw drops. “What?”

  “That is what a flock of them is called. An unkindness.”

  “It is anything but. They have created a distraction. Let’s go.”

  We join hands and bolt across the patch, wrench open the door, and hurtle down the lonely hallway.

  “Through here.”

  He fumbles, jamming open a side door, and we are in a parallel hallway I have never seen prior. I quickly surmise it is reserved for staff.

  We fly up a back stairwell, our footsteps echoing eerily, like unseen bats in the dark.

  We slip out into the hallway; the familiar smell of my lavender is not far ahead. My room is near as we walk as quickly as possible without trying to draw attention. Our panting is synchronous as I spy the number matching my room. My wretched, numerical name.

  Twenty-Nine.

  My heart stutters. The door beneath the number opens.

  I lurch sideways, into the open broom closet, but too late—the orderly has spied me.

  Mason has beaten me inside, one hand trying to yank me in, the other fumbling to open a hatch on the floor—our only escape.

  The orderly bolts forward, his footfalls growing louder and louder. I hear his ragged breathing.

  I shake off Mason’s hand and, with my boot, kick with all of my might. He tumbles down into the tunnel shaft, the hatch shutting after his disappearing frame with a whuump.

  Just enough time for me to shut the closet door behind me as I slip back out into the hall to face the proverbial music. My eyes raise slowly, my heartbeat so wild it flushes my face, to meet the murderous stare of a red-faced Alexander cracking his knuckles.

  His smug smile sours my stomach. “Oh, my pet. How I will enjoy this.”

  His fingers reach out, maddeningly slow, and with a relish, he rings the alarm bell.

  “You lie, Twenty-Nine!” Frost’s lips curl back from his teeth, his voice a near snarl.

  “Dunk her again!”

  I hold my breath.

  The sensation of falling, then a freezing cold. It sloshes past toes, knees, to swallow breasts, and then ices my face. The ice seeps through skin to freeze my very bones.

  A convulsive shudder rocks my body as the dunking machine plunges me up and down, up and down, like a frigid, heart-stopping seesaw.

  I break through the surface, slumping over, ice-water torrents spilling from my hair. I hear his voice, marred through the ringing in my ears. “Tell me the truth, Twenty-Nine. You know how I detest liars.”

  I manage a whimper and plunge down again. My heart skips, once, twice, and again-again-again. Fear opens my mouth at the unfamiliar sensation in my chest, allowing the water to rush in. Pain from the bone-chilling cold seeps into my teeth, making them ache. Blackness looms like a dark creature, scurrying up my legs with a deadly tingling, ready to wrap round my head and claim me.

  I lurch upward again on the seesaw, coughing and sputtering, stars flickering in black and white explosions in my vision. My weak body hangs limp. Were not I tied to the dunker, I would slip off and plummet back into the ice bath. I would breathe deep, and it would end. It would all finally, mercifully end.

  I hear the door open, and several sets of footsteps echo through the heights of the antechamber.

  The dunker shudders, preparing to plunge, and my muscles tense in anticipation.

  “Dr. Frost, what precisely is going on here?” Grayjoy’s voice is grave.

  The machine grinds to a halt, and a whimper slips from my lips. As much as I hate to let Frost view my weakness, I cannot stay the sound.

  “Patient Twenty-Nine must be taught a lesson.”

  I watch through the wet curtain of my hair as Grayjoy’s eyes narrow. His gaze rolls over me in doctorly assessment. “How so? What has happened?”

  Mason is beside him, chest nearly heaving, his face a taut mask of pain. His hands clench and unclench with barely tethered rage.

  Frost’s lips part in a bitter smile, his knuckles whitening on his clipboard. He stalks back and forth, fathomless eyes flicking between Grayjoy and I.

  “Firstly, she was caught out of bed last night, wandering the corridors.”

  Grayjoy’s lips press into a line.

  “Secondly, she knows something about her roommate’s disappearance and, as usual, adamantly refuses to cooperate.” His icy gaze halts, glaring, and my guts contract, as my eyes slam closed. I wish to never look on them again. They are dead, lacking emotion. A corpse’s eyes.

  “It is vital you assist us, Twenty-Nine,” Frost goes on. “Why, a killer may be roaming our corridors this very moment.” He paces, faster and faster, the words tumbling forth. “I find it curious three of the five missing happened to live in your very room.” He bellows the last word, veins bulging in his neck.

  I risk a glance at Mason. His expression is unreadable and impassive but his eyes burn with anger. His hands now shake. Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments, but it is enough. His eyes blaze. If he reacts, strikes out—even leaves—Frost will suspect us, will sense his attachment.

  He must remain quiet or he risks expulsion—and never seeing me again.

  Mason’s lips press together as the shaking travels from his hands to engulf the whole of his limbs.

  Grayjoy scoffs, his face reddening above his gathering beard. “Twenty-Nine is indeed adventuresome, at time deluded, but incapable of homicide. That is not what you’re suggesting, is it, Frost?”

  Frost shrugs, playfully tapping his lip. “Perhaps not. But she does deserve to be punished, all the same.”

  Grayjoy moves to my side to take my pulse. He pushes my hair back from my face, his warm hand comforting against my freezing, puckered flesh. Then he walks to Frost’s side, growling low in his ear; I strain but am unable to hear.

  Mason mouths the word steady. At great peril. Any orderly might see and report him straightaway.

  Their conversation is a steady rumble until Grayjoy’s voice suddenly rises, his stoic resolve shattering amidst clipped tones.

&nb
sp; “See here, Frost. She is near exhaustion. You do not need another death at this asylum. Already the board threatens to shutter the doors.” He gives Mason a small jerk of his head to free me. “She has had enough. Allow me to question her later. Need I remind you, she is, after all, now under my jurisdiction.”

  Frost’s face flushes beneath his raven-black beard, but he nods. He quickly spins to stalk toward the exit.

  “Take to her room.”

  Jane

  My body shudders, a freezing convulsion rattling my teeth behind my lips. I feel a sudden pressure, and the cold mercifully recedes as I realize someone has added another blanket to my bed.

  I open my eyes slowly, before blinking madly in the candlelight. I exhale in relief. Mason stands, hands deep in his pockets, staring up at the myriad of sketches and musical compositions that paper my walls.

  I vowed when I was but a wee girl of five that I would cover each and every inch of the horrid institutional green color by my nineteenth birthday. I have nearly succeeded. My birthday came and went, and only a few spots of green remain, poking through my sketched memories like the asylum’s morbid, probing eye—ever watchful, ever ready to sound the alarm.

  Mason is transfixed, one set of pictures holding his attention.

  “Do you like them?” I whisper. I clear my throat. It is hoarse from the purge of water and ice. I wish not to think of it, to speak of it—of Frost, of that room.

  Anything else is preferable.

  His eyes drop, as do his shoulders. He slowly turns, his eyes fixing me under their gaze.

  “Jane, I am so very sorry. I wished to help.” A sweat breaks on his brow. “It was nearly impossible not to help.”

  I nod. “I know. It was best you did not. If he suspects anything, anything at all, he will banish you. He has made it his personal mission to deny me all happiness. It has always been such.”

  His hands clench open and closed. His words are broken through gritted teeth. “I do not know if I could muster the restraint again.”

  I try desperately to change the topic. When he thinks on me, I do not wish it to be pity.

  “Do you like the sketches, then?”