A Serious House on Serious Earth

My cell was a modest ten by ten concrete square. I had a small window but I had to balance on my toes to see out of it. All I was able to see was sky. My bed was a thin mattress on a short metal frame. It made an annoying squeaking noise every time I moved. The pillow, sheets and blanket were a sanitary white. Positioned in the far corner was a grim looking toilet and sink. I was thankful for the short brick barrier in front of toilet which provided a small amount of privacy. The door was made of thick metal and could only be open with a specialized key card, which only the doctors’ and guards carried. When I looked out of the small square window in the door, all I saw was another similar white door across the hallway, which was painted a bleak, pale yellow.

I took a seat on the stone floor at the end of the bed after I tested the durably of the door by kicking it a few times. The room was cold and smelled faintly of bleach. I once again folded my bear feet under me since the guards felt it was necessary to confiscate my shoes in fear that I would strangle myself with the strings. After a few minutes, I found myself immensely bored. Surely they didn’t expect me to remain in this room for the rest of my life. That thought alone would likely make me lose my mind. Then I remembered that I was supposed to relish being alone, as part of my mental illness. But, seriously, they could at least give me a book or something.

I was in the mist of reviewing our plan for the fiftieth time when the door creaked open. An older orderly, escorted by two armed guards walked into my cells. With the appearance of the guards, I felt it was stupid to struggle as I was once again handcuff, but this time my hands remained in front of me. I was roughly pulled to my feet by the biggest guard and the orderly locked shackles around my ankles too. “Well, that’s no fun.” I words slipped from my mouth in a rather loud whisper. I guess they didn’t appreciate being kicked in the face too much.

I was lead down the hallway and out of the cell block. The orderly, who was a middle-aged man with thinning red hair, walked in front while one guard kept a rather tight hold my arm and the other guard brought up the rear. We took the elevator, which I believe was in need of repair because it slow and shook constantly, up three floors to the fifth floor. Our journey ended at a door marked Dr. Arkham. I mentally cursed my luck. How did I manage to be assigned to the chief psychiatrist in the facility? The one who ran the damn place.

I kept my head down, as not to appear interested, as the orderly knocked loudly on the door. Jeremiah Arkham, the great-nephew of Amadeus Arkham, the founder, was only thirty-seven years old but he was already a highly accomplished psychiatrist, or at least that’s what the file said about him. He had apparently written numerous articles and conducted numerous researches on mental illness. Arkham was a tall, thin man with thick framed square glasses and dark, short hair. He was wearing a collared shirt and slacks under his long, white lab coat. His appearance and white, thin smile unnerved me a bit. There was something not quite right with Jeremiah Arkham.

I was pulled into the room by the guard and forced to sit on a metal chair which was bolted to the floor. It was clear the room wasn’t Arkham’s official office. The furniture only consisted of a chair for me and a chair for the shrink. Though, the room was considerably more cheerful than my cell. Random posters and diagrams lined the walls, reminding me of a high school classroom. It was brighter too since the blinds to the two large windows for pulled open, allowing the noon sun to shine into the room. The guards and orderly departed after attaching my chains to the chair, preventing me from even standing up.

I kept my head down and remained silent as I waited for Arkham to address me. My plan was to remain silent during very session with my shrink. And if I did say anything, I would lie. Silence and lying were the only cards I felt comfortable to play. “Ms. Victoria Bradley. How are you today?” His tone was relaxed as he flipped though my file.

I just got put into an insane asylum. How do you think I am? I remained silent with my eyes downcast.

When I didn’t answer, Arkham looked up from my file and looked me over. He waited another minute or two in hope of an answer until it became clear that I wasn’t responding. “Victoria, this –“

“That’s not my name.” I said in a rude and agitated tone. I kept my head down.

A few seconds later, after scanning my file, the therapist continued. “Marie, then. This would be a lot more beneficial if you participated. We are going to meet every day during your stay here. Now, you can either let me help you or you can sit there in silence for half an hour. What’s it gonna be then, Marie?” It sounded like Arkham had to repeat his little speech quite often. I assumed silence wasn’t an uncommon event during therapy sessions.

I kept my silence. When it was obvious this would be a one way conversation, Arkham, who appeared slightly annoyed, removed his glass and placed them in his pocket. “Okay. Since you refuse to speak to me, I’m going to continue to address you by your proper name.” He closed the file and knocked on the door, while never taking his eyes off me. The door opened and the familiar guard walked him. “Please take dear Victoria here to the common area. I think she could use some social interaction.”



Clearly, this was my punishment for not answering questions. The common area was the entire north end of the fourth floor. It looked very similar to college common areas; only instead of students it was full of insane people. There was a small television screwed into the wall, a ping pong table, a small reading area, and numerous shabby sofas. About seven guards were placed around the perimeter of the common area, in case someone’s insanity got the best of them.

I found myself a seat on an empty couch in front of the television where I sat with my legs pulled up to my chest. Every few minutes, my eyes would drift from the television screen to a different inmate. Most acted predominantly normal but I noticed that a few were muttering to themselves. A couple had nervous ticks. I was left alone until someone else took a seat on the couch next to me. She was a small woman with bright red hair, which reminded me of my own, only hers was long and well kept. The woman was probably only a few years older than me and was rather good looking. She, at least, didn’t look crazy.

At first, I didn’t think she was going to acknowledge me. “Are you new here?” She said in a polite voice after looking at me for a minute. I simply nodded yes. “Hi, I’m Pamela Isley.” She extended her hand for me to shake but I just stared at. My possible rudeness was forgotten before it was even noticed when a man, another inmate, picked the remote up and changed the channel. Even though I could only see his back, I knew who it was. “Hey, I was watching that!” The woman said angrily, standing up.

“And now you’re watching this.” The man said matter-of-factly. He had yet to notice me.

“Change it back!” Pamela said. She reached for the remote which was still grasped in the man’s hand.

“Nope, nope, nope, nope, don't want to.” The man said mockingly, which only caused the woman to become even more upset.

“Guard!” Pamela screamed at the top of lungs, which was seemingly completely ignored by the rest of the inmates.

A guard stepped forward from his place by the window. “What’s the problem?” He asked in a rather bored voice.

“Don't look now, Sonny Jim, but the Plant Lady has gone whackers again.” The man sang before erupting in a fit of laughter.

“He started it. I was just sitting here.” The woman protested.

But it didn’t matter because the man had thrown the remote into the air. “Never mind. I’ve already seen his episode. I hate reruns.” His mood was apparently affected as his tone became less comical. And then he turned around.

The Joker hadn’t changed much in the past three years. His hair was still green but cut shorter and his make-up was still a smeared mess. The orange uniform made him look even more clownish. When his eyes met mine, a wave of recognition flowed across his face, followed quickly by a smile and a laugh. This laugh was one of his more high-pitched, eerie laughs which sent a surge of shivers down my spine. Even though I wanted to get up and run away, I kept my position on the sofa and returned the Joker’s stare.

“Speaking of reruns, hello there my dear Marie.” The Joker leaned over me and lifted a finger to my nose, which he pushed as if it was button. “It’s nice of you to join us.” He then doubled over in another outbreak of laughter.

“Get out of my face, clown.” I said smoothly once the Joker had recovered from his fit. But his recovery was brief. My defiant statement had caused an even more intense series of laugh, one which caused his to grip the arm of the sofa for support. I then became aware of the lack of distance between us so in order to remedy that, I extended my leg, which hit the Joker in the upper chest and caused him to fall backwards.

My violent physical contact earned me an escort back to my cell. I could still hear the Joker laughing as I was practically carried to the elevator.