Bedlam

by Keira Michelle Telford

  “What does this mean?”

  “It’s my name.” Silver watches her draw the blade out from its sheath. “An Ella Cross.” She catches her reflection in the polished steel, noticing her irises have returned to their natural gray hue. “What did you do to me?” She points to her eyes.

  “You’ve been given the Human Betterment Package.” Elena pricks her finger on the tip of the blade, testing its sharpness. “The virus is still in you, but it’s now regulated by the British government and controlled by nanites in your blood.”

  “So I’m … switched off? Deactivated?”

  “No.” Elena puts the knife away, reaching for a tablet computer instead. “We paid the fee for your temporary activation because it’s better for the baby.” She switches on the unit. “But from now on, you’ll only see the violet in your eyes during moments of extreme autonomic nervous system arousal: anger, fear, sexual climax, and so on. You can also flash your violets to see better in the dark, but that takes a bit of practice.”

  “And what’s that for?” Silver gestures to the tablet.

  “I need to make sure you’ve calibrated to the nanites, and that everything’s working as it should.” Elena turns the screen to face her. “These are your biorhythms. The nanites constantly monitor and record all your biological processes. Whenever I need to, I can view certain indicators that tell me how afraid you are.” She uses a stylus to bring up all the indicators for fear, the results displaying instantly.

  Silver’s not afraid.

  “Or how angry,” Elena goes on, changing the selection.

  Silver’s mildly irritated.

  “Or how curious.” Elena selects another set of indicators.

  The corresponding biorhythm levels are pulled up onto the display, the lines climbing upward at a steady pace. A few seconds later, Elena makes a different selection from a drop-down list, these levels remaining low and constant.

  “What’s that one supposed to be?” Silver prompts her. “Is it giving away how much fun I’m not having?”

  “It’s sexual arousal.” Elena holds her gaze, catching a sudden upward peak in her biorhythms as their eyes lock.

  Intrigued, she turns her eyes to the screen, a small incline of the previously stable lines betraying a spontaneous increase in Silver’s dopamine and serotonin levels.

  “That’s interesting.” She leans back in her leather chair and crosses her legs, propping the tablet in her lap. “Let’s explore that, shall we?”

  “Go to hell.” Silver averts her eyes, loathing how exposed she is to this woman.

  “When was the last time you had sex?” Elena forges on, undeterred.

  Warmth spreads through Silver’s chest at the thought of Ria. Only a few hours ago, the Russian brunette had been shivering and moaning in her arms, riding three of her fingers to orgasm. The fuck was brief but intense, Ria’s pleasure unbridled.

  But Silver says nothing.

  Although she’s sure her biorhythms are registering the memory—fluctuating with the echoes of desire, lust, and passion—she refrains from answering. Instead, she challenges Elena with a cold glare.

  “You first.”

  “I had sex last night,” Elena responds to the challenge without pause, refusing to be ruffled. “With my husband.” She shows off a gold wedding ring on her left hand.

  Her candid reply takes Silver by surprise, but rather than let that be the end of it, she pushes the doctor further, aiming to unsettle her.

  “Did you enjoy it?” she asks derisively.

  Expecting to receive a rebuke for her disrespectful tone, she’s caught off-guard again when Elena, her eyes glued firmly to the tablet, tenders another shockingly honest answer, accompanied by a faint sigh.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Silver asks next, now purely out of interest, no hint of scorn.

  This time, Elena hesitates to answer. She recalls, with no small amount of contempt, how her husband stripped off his work clothes, climbed into bed with her, and forced her to fellate him for several minutes before flipping her onto her knees and mounting her from behind. She’d hoped to finish him in her mouth, bringing him to a swift release with a technique it’d taken her eighteen years of marriage to perfect, but he’d had other ideas.

  So, with her face squished into the pillow, she let him have her however he wanted—not that she could stop him anyway—and she closed her eyes, counting the strokes, each one marked by the slap of his sagging testicles against her mound, each one bringing him ever closer to completion.

  Fortunately, it didn’t take long. It never does. He’s a good man, for the most part, but an appalling lover. Selfish and careless in bed, it’d never once occurred to him to perform cunnilingus on her. Not that she’d want him to.

  His unskilled tongue.

  His saliva slopping all over her.

  His prickly face.

  She shoves the thought aside.

  Finally, “Quid pro quo, Ms Cross.” Elena looks up from the tablet. “I’ve opened up, now so shall you.”

  Silver nods, utterly perplexed by this line of questioning, but willing to play along nonetheless. “If you must know, you perv, I had sex a few hours before I was arrested.”

  “With your husband?”

  Now it’s Silver’s turn to hesitate. “No.”

  “Then with whom?” Elena prods her for more information than she wants to give.

  “Why?” Silver’s eyes flit to a framed anti-gay propaganda poster on the wall facing Elena’s desk. “What difference does it make?” Her eyes linger there.

  Homosexuality threatens the future of Great Britain.

  Homosexuality threatens humanity.

  Homosexuality threatens YOU.

  Remembering that same-sex relationships are outlawed in this country, her hackles raise and she taunts Elena deliberately. “Are you thinking of asking me out?”

  Elena follows her eyeline over to the poster. “Is there a reason why you’re being so defensive? You needn’t worry. Everything you say in this room is completely confidential.”

  Silver’s skepticism grows. “Why am I here?”

  “These sessions help me to personalize your treatments.”

  “Treatments?” Silver shakes her head. “I’m not crazy.”

  “Your situation is unique, I know.” Elena regards her closely. “You were brought to me simply because Bishopsgate is one of the few institutions in the Northside that’s authorized to take in non-residents. Your mental health wasn’t a factor in your admission, but since you’ll be held here until everything is in order with your citizenship, I feel I have a professional duty to rectify any issues that might come to my attention during this time.”

  “I’m not your patient,” Silver snarls.

  “Actually, for as long as you remain a ward of Bishopsgate Asylum, you are.”

  “But there’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “Then answer the question,” Elena insists. “Who was the last person you had sexual relations with? And do bear in mind that I’ll know if you’re lying.” She taps the edge of the tablet with the stylus.

  “Fine.” Silver leans forward. “I had sex with a beautiful Russian woman. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “Are you gay?” Elena remains aloof.

  “No.”

  “But you like women?”

  “You tell me, Doc.” Silver cocks her head, trailing her eyes up Elena’s legs. “What do my biorhythms say when I look at you?” She keeps roaming upward, lingering at the doctor’s bust before making the final trek to her face. “Do I like what I see?”

  Another incline appears on the screen in front of Elena, this one significantly more pronounced, and she feels heat rush into her cheeks.

  This behavior cannot be condoned.

  This behavior must be curbed.

  Silver’s breath catches in her throat, the pain in her chest almost impossible to bear. Her nerves tingle and sting from head to toe, her muscles cramping, her irises flas
hing violet as the nanites in her blood kick in to combat the shock of the ice bath she’s plunged in, courtesy of two Bishopsgate orderlies.

  Submerged in glacial water up to her neck, chunks of broken ice under her, around her, and on top of her, she clutches at the metal rim of the tub, her extremities shaking, her teeth chattering.

  Shooing aside the orderlies, Elena leans over the tub, her expression grim. She seizes Silver’s wet ponytail and yanks her head up, ensuring her full attention. “I thought you could use a cold bath.”

  “Really?” Silver speaks through gritted teeth. “You looked like you were getting a little flustered yourself. Are you sure you don’t need me to ice your cunt?”

  Elena dunks her fully under the water, holds her there for several seconds, then tugs her back up. “Let me make myself very clear: I don’t tolerate insubordination.”

  “Let me make something clear.” Silver spits water. “I don’t break.”

  Elena shoves her away. “We’ll see.”

  After hissing those parting words, she strides out of the room, her heels clinking on the tiled floor, her hand dripping.

  As she steps out into the deserted hallway, she presses her wet hand below her ear, relishing the chill as her slender fingers wrap around the nape of her neck. Slumping against the wall, she closes her eyes and whimpers, shuddering as droplets of ice cold water cascade from her hand onto her neck and trickle down her chest, disappearing between her breasts.

  These feelings cannot be condoned.

  These feelings must be curbed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dripping wet and shivering, Silver is shown to a twelve-by-twelve room with a single bed and a writing desk. The cornflower yellow walls are peeling, revealing some old floral wallpaper beneath the paintwork, and the light blue ceiling is covered with thick, dusty cobwebs.

  A small, circular drain is set into the sloping concrete floor, allowing the whole room to be power washed when necessary.

  If an inmate pisses or shits on the floor.

  If an inmate finds a way to slit her wrists.

  An orderly chucks a coarse wool blanket at Silver, then slams the door shut.

  Silver hears it lock.

  “Hey!” she yells at him. “You’re locking me in here?!”

  A small hatch in the door slides open. “Doctor Lavergne wants you to spend the rest of the day in silent contemplation,” the orderly explains. “You’ll join the general population tomorrow.”

  “Bitch,” Silver grumbles, dabbing her face dry with the blanket.

  Her fingers and toes numb from the ice water, Silver struggles to strip off her clothes—or her blues, as the orderlies call them. First, she peels off her scrub top and wrings it out over the drain, draping it over the writing desk to dry. She does the same with her pants, and the white undershirt, then huddles on the bed in the blanket, wriggling under the thin sheets, her skin blotchy and red.

  Though it’s little more than a thin mattress covered in a plastic sheet, the pillow a lumpy, bumpy cloth pouch stuffed with scraps of old material, it’s adequate enough for her needs. Sure, she’d love some memory foam and a thick, snuggly duvet, but when it comes to making do, she’s an expert.

  Besides, it’s only temporary.

  Two weeks.

  That’s all.

  Two weeks, and she’ll be back with Ria.

  Ria.

  Ria.

  Ria.

  Exhausted, she slips into a fitful sleep that’s punctuated with dreams of her Russian lover, memories of her estranged husband, Alex, and thoughts of her father, whose death she still hasn’t fully mourned.

  Come nighttime, Bishopsgate falls eerily quiet. Save for the faint, pitiful sounds of sobbing drifting through grates in the walls as some of the other inmates cry themselves to sleep, the building offers up nothing more than the occasional creak and groan.

  Pipes in the walls expand and contract.

  In the basement, the morgue furnace is fired up.

  As dawn approaches, the inmate in the neighboring cell starts talking to herself, griping about the stodgy, tasteless porridge usually served at breakfast, and Silver lies awake, listening to her complaints, watching a spider dangle from the ceiling.

  Clinging to a thin strand of its silk, it sways back and forth in a cool breeze whispering through a crack in the small frosted window set high up in the wall. Through that crack, Silver can just about make out the sounds of engines, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, workmen’s tools, and the waft of a nearby bakery.

  She’s in the city, that much she can tell.

  A short while later, a screeching alarm sounds through the female wing and the orderlies make their rounds, flinging open doors and kicking the inmates out of bed.

  “Time to shower,” the gruff, bearded orderly at Silver’s door declares, affording her no pleasantries.

  Keen to have a proper wash for the first time in several days, Silver rolls out of bed and pulls on her blues, cooperating without fuss as she’s manhandled into formation with the rest of the female inmates.

  Made to form a neat, single file line against the wall until the telltale clacking of a woman’s high heels on the linoleum floor heralds Elena’s arrival, silence is demanded and strictly enforced by the orderlies—and they’re not shy about physically reprimanding anyone for disobedience or unruliness.

  Groomed pristinely, as ever, Elena walks down the line looking straight ahead, acknowledging no-one. When she gives the signal to the orderlies, the line starts shuffling forward, inmates entering the shower room one at a time, each receiving a towel from the orderlies as they pass the doorway.

  Steam is spilling out into the hall, the showers set on a timer and already running. Inside, the entire room is tiled: the floor, the walls, and the ceiling. The sunshine yellow tiles are in fairly good shape, but the grout is black with mold. Individual shower stalls are separated by four-foot-high dividing walls with a small ledge at the far end to store a towel and your clothes.

  No curtains.

  No changing rooms.

  No privacy.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Silver mutters under her breath.

  Elena stands at the head of the room, her hands clasped in front of her, and as the other inmates strip and start lathering themselves up, it becomes clear that she intends to stick around for the duration.

  “Is this how you get your kicks?” Silver challenges her, gesturing to the lack of privacy. “You like to watch? Or are you just here to make sure no-one drops the soap?”

  Ignoring the derision flung at her, Elena surveys the room, her face betraying nothing but the boredom of routine. “You have ten minutes. Don’t dawdle.”

  Clear that her jibes aren’t going to provoke a reaction this morning, Silver steps into an empty stall, plops her towel on the ledge, and sheds her blues, stripping to her underwear. Ultimately, she’s eager to get clean, no matter what the conditions.

  In the periphery of her vision, she watches Elena pace through the room, looking in on all the shower stalls, making sure no-one’s up to anything mischievous. No doubt she’s ready to dole out punishments for anyone caught spending too long soaping up their girlie parts.

  Not interested in showering under supervision, Silver turns her back to the room and lets out her ponytail, shaking her hair loose. She’s about to remove her undergarments when she becomes aware that the rhythmic clicking of Elena’s heels has stopped.

  She’s being watched.

  Weighing her options, she sees only two viable choices: she can either keep her back turned and deny Elena her cheap thrills, or she can turn to face her audience, playing up her nudity for all it’s worth.

  Concluding that any attempt to hide herself from view might lead Elena to think that she’s nervous—or worse, that she’s intimidated—Silver opts for the latter tactic, deciding to test the limits of Elena’s self-control.

  To that end, she pivots and locks eyes with the voyeuristic doctor. Sl
owly and purposefully, she reaches behind her back and unclips her bra, letting the straps slip off her shoulders. Cupping the fabric around her breasts, she gives both assets a squeeze, baiting Elena, daring her eyes to wander.

  And they do.

  Though Elena’s fists are clenched at her sides, her body rigid with unease, her eyelids flutter and her lips part slightly, seduced by the unveiling of Silver’s nakedness.

  But only for a moment.

  “You’re wasting time,” she snaps, jerking her eyes up. “Get a move on.”

  Fascinated by Elena’s extreme reactions to her, Silver lets the bra fall away, her breasts spilling free. “Better?” she asks, letting Elena feast on her again.

  This time, the doctor’s gaze sticks.

  She follows Silver’s hands lower, as if hypnotized, unable to look away as Silver splays her fingers over her stomach and waist, sliding them down to her hips. There, Silver hooks her thumbs over the waistband of her panties, tugging first on one side, then the other, bringing the plain cotton undies down one solitary inch.

  Then two.

  Then three, gradually baring the top of her landscaped mound.

  Before she exposes herself completely, Elena panics and averts her eyes, clinging to the last dregs of her sanity. Voices in her head scream for her to take action—at the very least, to act responsibly and banish temptation from view by retreating to safe distance—yet she remains rooted to the spot.

  Something warm and soft hits her chest and she peeks down, finding Silver’s knickers flung at her, caught on the phoenix brooch, dangling over her left breast.

  Taking great care to conceal a tremor in her hand, Elena picks the undies off her jacket. She’s about to return them to their owner—along with a scathing reprimand and the threat of severe castigation—when her attention is drawn by a faint whimpering and mewling emanating from the other side of the room.

  Upon turning—exploiting the distraction to secretively whisk Silver’s dirty knickers away in her pocket, her body angled to obscure the motion—she catches the inmate in the opposite stall trying to insert a shampoo bottle into her vagina.