Bedlam

by Keira Michelle Telford

  The woman—a frail twig of a young thing with straggly brown hair and scars of self-harm all over her forearms and inner thighs—already has the two-inch neck of the bottle embedded in her flesh. Squatting directly under the shower head, her knees spread wide, she’s jiggling the mouth of the bottle around in her opening and squeezing the base rhythmically, squirting jets of the creamy liquid into her cunt.

  “Oh, for god’s sake! Not again!” Elena grabs the inmate by the hair and drags her forward, reaching between her legs to wrest the shampoo bottle free. “Won’t you ever learn?! This never ends well!”

  The soapy bottle comes away with a loud pop as the vacuum breaks, the frightened woman shrieking at the top of her lungs, large globs of shampoo running down her thighs.

  Elena keeps hold of her, forcing her against the shower wall, away from the streaming water. “If I look, will I find anything else shoved up there?”

  The woman snivels, cowering, nodding sheepishly, so Elena thrusts a hand between her legs and drives two fingers inside her, expeditiously feeling around her spongy, slippery flesh for any foreign objects.

  “Who’s a silly girl?” she asks then, adopting a bizarrely motherly voice.

  Blubbering uncontrollably, the inmate jabs her own chest.

  “That’s right,” Elena praises her in the same soothing tone, her words laced with warmth and sensuality. “You’re a silly, naughty girl.”

  Delving deep into the woman’s sex, Elena’s fingertips finally make contact with something rough. A piece of cloth? It’s buried so far into the woman’s vaginal canal that it’s partially wedged in her cervix, and Elena struggles to get a grip on it.

  In the adjacent shower stall, she can see Silver staring at them.

  Seemingly more concerned with the scene unfolding in front of her than she is with her own nakedness, Silver leans on the dividing shower wall, one hand propped on her hip, her body in full view—much to Elena’s detriment.

  Overcome with a wretched, unspeakable lust, Elena’s eyes drop to Silver’s crotch and she begins to frig the woman’s sopping cunt furiously, causing her slit to bubble and froth as she stirs the shampoo with her fingers.

  The woman cries out, but she’s definitely not in any pain. On the contrary, she’s now relishing every second of this impromptu grope.

  Realizing that she’s losing her concentration—and perhaps also her mind—Elena closes her eyes, refocuses, and at last pinches the sloppy piece of material between her fingers, pulling it from the woman’s body with one swift downward tug.

  It’s a small rectangle of cross-stitch fabric, and stitched into it is a half-completed, badly-sewn butterfly from yesterday’s occupational therapy session. Saturated with the woman’s fluids, the crumpled aida still has a needle woven through the center of it.

  “Revolting.” Elena grimaces at it, releasing the woman to the floor. “Now clean yourself up.” She exits the shower stall, drops the butterfly in the trash, and turns to confront Silver’s disapproving frown. “Do you want something, inmate?”

  Silver shakes her head.

  “Good.” Elena thieves Silver’s towel, using it to wipe off her foamy, cunt-soaked fingers. “You have four minutes left.”

  Silver bites her tongue and tightens her jaw, unwilling to give Elena the satisfaction of a reaction, her anger simmering as the priggish doctor walks away with her lips curled into a smug smile.

  When the four minutes expires and the water shuts off, Silver wraps herself in her towel and scoops up her clothes, looking everywhere for her undies.

  They’re gone. Did Elena take them? Silver smirks and glances up at the doctor, who’s now doing her damndest to avoid making eye contact.

  “Naughty girl,” Silver muses to herself. “Naughty, naughty, Elena.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Elena steals a few minutes alone in her office, eating her lunch privately before her presence is required in the refectory to oversee midday mealtime for the female inmates.

  Picking halfheartedly at a cold chicken salad sandwich, she regards the propaganda poster on the wall in front of her.

  Homosexuality threatens YOU.

  Her stomach flip-flops, a wave of nausea rippling through the pit of her stomach as her mind wanders back to the shower room, the vision of Silver’s shameless nudity now permanently imprinted in her memory.

  The swell of her breasts.

  Her stiff pink nipples.

  The trimmed strip of blondish hair leading down to her core.

  Ugh.

  Disgusted by her own weakness, Elena pushes the rest of her sandwich aside and leans back in her chair, taking several deep breaths. Aware that her palms are clammy, she runs her hands over her hips, her fingers grazing a small bulge in her jacket pocket.

  Silver’s panties.

  Her stomach turns upside down. Feeling arousal seeping between her thighs, she dips into her pocket and pulls out the undies, rubbing the soft fabric between her fingers. Manipulating the garment, she bares the gusset, exploring the light white staining there, tempted to bring them to her face.

  To smell them.

  To taste them.

  Crumbling under the pressure of such a forbidden desire, she lifts the soiled cotton to her nose, wanting so desperately to inhale Silver’s scent …

  Brrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

  The lunch bell jolts her, the fright of the sudden interruption causing several tears to break loose and tumble down her cheeks. Her hands shaking, she balls up the knickers and tosses them into the wastebasket, infuriated with herself for coming so close to doing something so despicably filthy.

  Forcing the clinical psychiatrist in her to take over, she reaches for the computer tablet on her desk and switches it on, bringing up her biorhythms, trying to get a better sense of how this passing madness is affecting her.

  She’s anxious.

  She’s afraid.

  She’s aroused.

  Her blood pressure’s elevated and her heart rate’s through the roof.

  She shuts the tablet off.

  Knowing that she can’t allow these unhealthy feelings to take hold, she props her elbows on her desk and buries her face in her hands, wiping her tears away.

  Silver stares at her lunch tray. There’s an unseasoned pile of mashed potatoes next to a dried-out slab of chicken breast and a small mountain of peas, coupled with a slice of slightly burnt cornbread in a small dish beside the main plate.

  Silver pokes at the lukewarm chicken. She’s never eaten fowl before, and if this is anything to go by, she doesn’t feel as though she’s been missing out on much. It looks wholly uninspiring. Still, it’s better than nothing.

  Scanning the room for a place to sit, she spots the woman from the shower sitting alone, her head hung over the table, picking at her food.

  Silver slides her tray into the space opposite. “You mind?”

  The frail woman angles her head up, giving a quick shake to indicate ‘no’ before dipping back down to focus on her food.

  “You okay?” Silver pulls out a chair.

  The woman bobs her head up and down: Yes.

  “You don’t speak?”

  More shaking.

  As Silver ponders how to have a meaningful conversation with someone who never says a word, she gets to grips with the flimsy plastic cutlery, breaking a prong off the fork with her first attempt to spear a piece of the chicken.

  The woman giggles, watching with amused interest as the snapped prong lands in a passing inmate’s mash, and Silver shares a smile with her, happy to have provided some hilarity in an otherwise pretty dismal day.

  “So what’s your name, Giggler?”

  Sucking her lower lip between her teeth, contemplating how to answer, the woman spoons a pile of peas off her lunch tray and arranges them to spell out the word Abby on the tabletop.

  “Hi, Abby.” Silver smiles. “Wanna know my name?”

  Abby nods, a glimmer of excitement sparking in her eyes as Silver rearranges the peas to
spell her own name. Delighted by this, she’s in the midst of responding with a poorly spelled ‘I lyke yoo’ when another inmate walks by their table, pushes her face into her mashed potato, and pilfers her cornbread dish.

  “Hey!” Silver rises from her chair, leaping to Abby’s defense. “Give that back.”

  The cornbread thief—a heavyset woman with a shaved head—stops in her tracks, giving Silver ample time to read a sign that’s pinned to her back: I had nits again.

  Without saying a word, the nit-infested inmate turns to face Silver, picks the cornbread out of the dish, and stuffs it into her mouth, getting more crumbs on the floor than she does down her throat. When she’s done, she takes the empty dish and upturns it on Abby’s head, making her wear it like a hat.

  “That was a bad idea.” Silver walks around the table and picks the dish off Abby’s head, assessing its weight.

  “What business is it of yours?” The bullying thief gives her a push.

  “You don’t wanna do that,” Silver warns her.

  “No?” The chubby woman gives her another shove. “Why not, love?”

  It’s all over in a matter of seconds.

  Silver cracks the base of the dish on the inmate’s nose, using enough force to snap the cartilage, then kicks her feet out from under her, dropping her to the floor before any of the Bishopsgate orderlies even realize there’s been a dispute. In fact, they don’t make a move until one of the other inmates sees blood pouring over the bald woman’s round face and lets out a murderous scream.

  Unconcerned, Silver tosses the blood-smeared dish onto her floored adversary’s chest. “I told you not to do it.”

  Abby, chunks of potato still smooshed on her face and in her hair, watches all of this with wide eyes, gawping at Silver—her hero. But before she has a chance to show her appreciation, three orderlies swarm Silver and pull her away. Two more heave up the bully and drag her off to the infirmary.

  Once the situation’s under control, Elena comes forward.

  “Well, well, well.” She squares up to her newest inmate. “It looks like you’re determined to cause me grief, aren’t you?”

  Silver tries to shake off her subduers. “Call off your dogs.”

  “Why ever would I want to do that?” Elena reins in all emotion, appearing cold and hard. “You just attacked another inmate.”

  “I was putting her in her place.” Silver sticks another spin on it. “Isn’t that what you like to do here? I basically just did your job for you.”

  “How kind.” Those words carry no feeling. “I do have such a terrible burden here, and a lot of unpleasant tasks fall into my lap,” Elena goes on. “Like that dreadful business this morning in the shower.” She drops her gaze to Abby, running her fingers through a few locks of the timid inmate’s limp brown hair. “The poor thing just can’t be trusted.”

  “That poor thing has a name,” Silver snarls.

  “I know.” Elena holds her arms out. “Abby, darling, won’t you come here?”

  Dutifully, petite Abby slithers out of her chair and pads to Elena’s side, flinging her arms around the doctor’s waist—a response which Silver finds utterly perplexing.

  “There, there,” Elena comforts her. “All’s okay.” She hooks Abby’s chin with her forefinger, tilting her head up. “Have you been a good girl since this morning?” she asks, using the same motherly voice she’d put on in the shower.

  Abby nods.

  “Are you sure?” Elena asks in a tone that demands honesty.

  Abby nods fervently, almost proudly.

  Nevertheless, Elena turns her to face Silver. “Since you’re so keen to alleviate my work burden, why don’t you check this time?” She gives Abby a gentle push forward.

  “No.” Silver tries to take a step back, but the orderlies prevent it. “She already told you she hasn’t done anything.”

  “She doesn’t always tell the truth, though.” Elena dismisses Abby’s assurances. “Quite often, she doesn’t even remember.”

  In a rare moment of uncertainty, Silver stays silent. Sensing that whichever way she plays her hand, Elena will find a way to twist things in her favor, she hesitates to say anything for fear of making the situation worse.

  Pouncing on that reticence, Elena places her hands on Abby’s shoulders and nudges her closer. “Oh, come on now. Don’t be coy.” She reaches around Abby’s waist, tucks her fingers inside the waistband of her blues, and tugs them outward, inviting Silver inside. “It’s been a few hours. Anything could be lurking up there by now.”

  Unable to discern what it is that Elena wants or expects from her—which would therefore enable her to do the very opposite—Silver smothers her indecision. Recalling Abby’s reaction to Elena’s touch in the shower, and hoping that means she might be receptive to this, she puts her arm around Abby’s waist, and draws the slight young thing into a tentative hug.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers in her ear. “Close your eyes and relax, okay?”

  Abby nods, clutching onto Silver’s shoulder, preparing herself for the violation.

  Glaring fiercely at Elena all the while, Silver slips her hand inside Abby’s blues, works her way through an untamed tuft of pubic curls, and eases two fingers between her labia, tickling her sensitive flesh.

  Moisture comes quickly, and it’s not long before Abby’s clenched fists loosen up and she starts pawing on Silver in a different way, mewling in her arms, nuzzling her neck.

  “May I?” Silver probes her opening, seeking permission.

  Abby lifts one of her feet onto the seat of her chair, opening herself up, giving Silver full access to her.

  “Thank you.” Silver penetrates her, inciting a moan.

  Returning her eyes to Elena, Silver performs a cursory sweep of Abby’s sex and finds nothing out of the ordinary. Yet, instead of pulling out, she keeps going, stroking and tapping Abby’s insides until she’s a whimpering, shivering bundle of limbs, barely able to keep herself upright.

  When Elena realizes how Silver’s turned the tables, thwarting her attempt to inflame discomfort, her mood sours. Moreover, imagining herself in Silver’s arms and being on the receiving end of such tender ministrations, is more than she can bear.

  “Separate them,” she barks to one of her orderlies.

  Abby squeals as she’s forcibly pulled away, her arms outstretched, trying to get back into Silver’s embrace.

  “What’s the matter, Doc? Did I do something wrong?” Silver feigns ignorance.

  Refusing to acknowledge her, Elena addresses one of her orderlies. “I think perhaps it’s time we showed Ms Cross how we treat our most aggressive and disruptive patients.” She starts walking away. “Throw her in the hole.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Following the prick of a needle, Silver isn’t conscious of anything until she comes round in a cramped, gloomy, subterranean space. Smaller than the room she spent her first night in, there aren’t any windows and it’s perpetually dark, making it impossible to mark the passing of time. A rectangular piece of foam serves as a bed, there’s a steel bucket provided for necessary toilet needs, and a slot in the door allows for the delivery of meals.

  The first thing she realizes about her person—when she tries to scratch her nose and finds the action impossible—is that she’s strapped into a straitjacket. The second thing she realizes is that she’s naked underneath. Her bare bum is pressed against the cool, damp concrete floor, and she’s chilled to her bones.

  It’s inhumane.

  “Sonofabitch,” she grumbles, trying to shift into a more comfortable position.

  Her efforts are to no avail, and she only succeeds in turning herself around one hundred and eighty degrees, her head now pointed toward a small grate in the wall.

  Shuffling closer, wriggling inch by inch like a poorly coordinated worm, she puts her face to the grate and tries to see through to the other side.

  Nothing but blackness.

  An indeterminable amount of time later, food arrive
s. She’s forced to eat like a dog, tearing into it with her teeth. Water is provided in a light tin cup, which she soon learns to pick up with her teeth, tipping it to pour the liquid into her mouth.

  This happens time and time again.

  She tries to keep track of the different meals, differentiating between breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but the task proves impossible. Occasionally, she thinks she hears voices. Once, she held an entire conversation with a purple elf called Hillroy.

  She hears Ria’s voice from time to time, and that becomes a welcome change from the other voices, most of which are annoying and insist upon telling the same bad jokes over and over.

  At some point, she discovers how to flash her violets so that she can see in the dark, but she quickly learns that’s little improvement over complete sensory deprivation. The walls are filthy, covered with scratch marks and streaked with blood. The floor is no better, and the state of the foam mattress doesn’t bear thinking about.

  Darkness is preferable.

  When the door to the isolation cell finally opens, she’s lying curled on the floor, staring off into nothing. She’s vaguely aware of someone checking her pulse—determining that she does, in fact, still have one—and then the pressure around her midsection is released.

  No more straitjacket.

  Her arms flop limply to her sides. She hasn’t got enough strength to stand, so two orderlies heave her up and lift her out, dumping her naked form onto a tiled surface that smells faintly of chlorine and bleach. Her hair is dirty and unkempt, her eyes dark and sunken, and her forearms are stinging with pins and needles, normal sensation gradually returning. Then, she’s blasted with water.

  The powerful jets of tepid water hit her body with such force she feels as though she’s being pummeled by a battering ram, and she huddles on the floor, her teeth chattering, her limbs trembling.

  After the hose down, she’s fed a hot meal to regain some strength, then she’s allowed to take a shower, cleaning and grooming herself properly and thoroughly, scrubbing the isolation room off her skin.