Grave Alice

My story isn’t sweet and harmonious, like invented stories. It tastes of folly and bewilderment, of madness and dream, like the life of all people who no longer want to lie to themselves.

Hermann Hess

Grave Alice

Danielle Q. Lee

Published by Danielle Q. Lee

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2018 Danielle Q Lee

Before

Alice

I have heard it said we die a thousand deaths, yet live but once. If that is true, then the past is littered with my corpses, the remains of a once whole and beautiful soul. I sometimes wonder of my many ghosts, those that surely linger within The Sanctuary. Do they roam the dark passages, wailing as they search for something they will never find? Or does my shadowy likeness stalk the living, does it lean over their beds whilst they sleep?

Do I haunt them as she haunted me?

I should resist gazing too long on the past, for if I am not vigilant, the horrors I’ve buried could be summoned to the surface once more, unearthing themselves from the grave, leaving my mind torn between madness and reality.

I often wonder if it was real at all, or if it was just some perverse delusion conjured by my injured brain. Much of it drifts back to me as flashes of recollection, memories trapped within dark waters.

Yet one feeling remains raw and vibrant, engraved onto my spirit: Fear.

One cannot comprehend the immense fear that can be imposed upon a soul— especially at the hands of someone who does not have one .

Part One, Little Deaths

Chapter   1

Disembodied

I awoke to the sound of laughter, uncertain if it was real or a figment of my subconscious.

Muted tones of gold and shadow danced behind my eyelids, sunlight warming my right cheek. It was daytime, the only thing I understood other than the pain. My head, my neck, my face, all were plagued by a constant ache. What confused me more was the lack of pain in my legs, back, and arms. Not only was there an absence of pain—I couldn’t feel anything at all.

My brain felt slow, thoughts disjointed and sluggish. I wanted to touch my face, to see why it hurt so, but discovered instead that my arm would not comply. I attempted to curl my toes, wiggle my fingers, but neither responded to my efforts. Only my tongue, thick and swollen behind my teeth, and my eyes rolling in their sockets, appeared under my control. Everything else was as though dead, leaving me to deliberate the perverse notion of whether the rest of me was intact at all.

A heavy pall owned my emotions, sedated by pain and confusion. Surely this wasn’t real. I took inventory of myself, recalling the essentials as to ensure I was not simply in the midst of a terrible dream from which I had not yet awakened.

I am Alice Winters of Chicago, Illinois, born September 12, 1891. My parents are George and Madeleine Winters. I just turned eighteen…

All of this information came easily to me, lucidly. I was most certainly awake. This was not a dream at all.

Quiet footsteps sounded on the floor. A woman , I thought. There was something about the way she walked, delicately, as not to disrupt.

I willed my eyes to open. Only one obeyed, however, my right, and minimally at that. Blurred and tinted red, everything appeared as though underwater. It took several attempts for my right eyelid to remain open long enough to absorb anything appreciable about my surroundings. Eventually, through a narrow slit, I could discern the stark-white blanket covering my body, my listless form outlined beneath; breasts, legs, and feet resembling a bumpy landscape covered in snow.

I looked from right to left, then back again. The room itself was completely unfamiliar. On my right stood a stocky buffet made of dark wood, its top littered with metal racks holding glass vials filled with contents of varying shades: red, bright green, and a silver substance so thick it looked to be liquid metal.

An open window ushered in the sound of chattering birds and squirrels, a gentle wind disturbing the long, white curtains. Indistinct perfumes wafted in, tickling my nose; a blend of grass, pine, and flowers lingered on the breeze.

I studied the room, taking in as much as I could before a sharp, stabbing pain behind my eye forced me to stop. When the pain subsided, I tried again. In the far left corner, sitting stock-still as though patiently awaiting its next passenger, sat an aged, wooden rocking chair with a patchwork quilt draped over the back. Behind it, ivory paper lined the walls, chocolate-colored crown molding framing the room like a picture. A portrait of a lovely woman in a Victorian dress decorated the far wall, a coquettish smile adorning her lips whilst a lace parasol rested on her right shoulder.

The space resembled a bedroom, and if not for the vials and a tall pole holding a bag of fluid at my bedside, I might have thought myself to be inside a comely hotel suite.

The woman stood before the bureau, unaware of my gaze as she cleaned and tinkered with the area. She was lean, ladylike; her dress plain. Atop her head, amid a neat twist of chestnut-brown hair, sat a nurse’s bonnet.

My heartbeat hesitated as reality set in.

This is a hospital.

Shock choked me. I pulled in a deep breath of air, bringing with it an odour I’d not previously detected. While the room smelled clean, it was marked with something else, a peculiar scent loitered beneath the sanitation; something tangy, coppery…

Blood.

A dark instinct told me it was mine. I was broken, my body a stranger I was unsure I wanted to reacquaint myself with. Everything I had ever known was gone, destroyed by some unknown endeavour.

A storm of emotions bombarded me, so many I could not even separate them by name. Blood raged through my veins. I wanted to hit something, punch someone until they felt as I did. Or just to feel. To feel sensation, even pain, where only deadness now resided. I wanted to scream, cry, be consoled. I wanted to stand up and run out of the room; but there was nothing I could do. Incompliance. I was a prisoner of myself, held captive by invisible irons.

What had happened to me? When I searched my memories, only terrifying glimpses played before my mind’s eye. Echoes of screams, shattering glass, the sense of tumbling and rolling over and over—the sky, the ground, the sky—eventually converging into one.

Smoke. Blood. Blackness .

I winced, not realizing the pain it would induce, my entire face on fire with the slightest movement. A scream rose into my throat, pulled from the depths of my soul, but dissipated into a wet, pathetic gurgle as it attempted to move beyond my lips.

The nurse spun about, her hand over her mouth. Oh! Miss Winters! You’re awake! She moved to my side, her face becoming clearer. She was younger than I had assumed, not much older than myself. Nineteen? Twenty, perhaps? Oh, oh! I have to find the doctor! I’ll be right back!

I closed my eye once more, willing myself into unconsciousness to escape the nightmare to which I’d awakened. As I slipped into oblivion, I again heard the disembodied laughter.

Only this time, I knew it had come from within.

Chapter 2

A New Existence

Good morning, Alice, a male voice laced with a Southern twang greeted me, stirring me from a light doze. I almost responded, but quickly reconsidered, the memory of my last movements still too fresh. I’m Dr. Kellogg.

Instead, I willed my one, good eye open; peering through the narrow slit in an attempt to view my visitor. I was met with gentle brown eyes, a nest of silver hovering above each. A thick moustache sat atop his lip like a white caterpillar, the tips shaped to a point around his smile. His chin was hidden by a short, snowy goatee. Seated on the bed beside me, I noticed he was examining me, running his hands along my collarbone, over my ribs, pushing on my hips—I felt none of it.

The young nurse who’d been there when I first awoke, stood behind him with an expression of joy, as though my recent awakening was a miracle. Perhaps it was. I considered this for a moment. Why was I not dead? My current state would suggest I’d been through something horrible and yet here I was. Had I been saved? Had I been spared a tragic death by some miraculous intervention? An angel?

An angel. I might have scoffed had I been able. An embittered thread stitched a thin, jagged line across my heart. What kind of miracle renders a life broken, shattered beyond repair? I wished this supposed guardian angel had asked whether or not I would have wanted to die peacefully—or live as merely a shell of what I once was.

I looked to the doctor and the nurse, now chatting amicably, laughing about an incident in the dining room as though I wasn’t even there. I pleaded with Dr. Kellogg, sending him telepathic messages, screaming them, I’m here! It hurts! Where are my parents? What happened to me?

How was I to communicate? How could I tell him how I felt? My soul squirmed inside its heavy, lifeless cage. I felt a small part of me die. The facets of a seemingly indestructible diamond began to crack—the first of countless little deaths, I would come to learn.

Alice, Dr. Kellogg addressed me finally, his voice soothing my torn spirit. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, and we are attempting to heal you as best we can.

Terrible ordeal? I rolled my good eye inside its socket, frantic to convey my inner chaos. I wanted to take him by the shoulders, shake him, scream at him. I needed to hear everything that had happened! Where were my parents? Did they survive? Were they as mangled as myself? Or had they been given what I so desperately desired at the moment: a reprieve from the pain, confusion, and loneliness. Despite the pain, I tried to pry my lips open—to beg for clarification—but they remained sewn together.

I felt oddly jealous as I considered the notion of my parents’ demise. What had I done to deserve this existence? What karma had I induced that had left me a cripple, my soul sealed within a prison of leaden flesh? Was this my future? Staring at the ceiling, forever contemplating the fairness of my situation?

I know you must be confused, and suffering greatly from your injuries, but know that we are pioneers in our field and will do our damnedest to make you well again. He smiled at me as he patted my insensate arm, his eyes sincere and brimming with unshakable passion. The nurse clasped her hands together, eyes glistening.

Dr. Kellogg rose from the bed, leaning on a cane as he limped towards the door. The nurse followed him, inquiring in a low voice, Do you think she…understands you?

He turned to gaze upon me, as though I were a stunning work of art in the making, clay to be sculpted. I could not say why, but a flutter of fear arose within, as if some pre-cognizance had suddenly stirred. With a slow nod, he replied, Possibly, it’s hard to say if her brain was permanently damaged. Only time will tell. Until then, he added, eyeing the youthful nurse with paternal sternness, we should refrain from upsetting her in any way, understand? She nodded around an uneasy smile as he left the room.

My brain? Damaged? From what? How?

I searched my thoughts, scanned my memories as if flipping through a book of photographs, pages blurring as they flickered past. Was I okay? Was my brain as before? But before what ?

Oh, you are so fortunate, Miss Alice! The nurse prattled as she fiddled with the needle in my arm. It was connected to a long tube stemming from a bag filled with clear liquid on a lanky wooden pole. Dr. Kellogg is the best there is! You are so lucky to be here. You’re a special case, you are. Yes indeed.

I tried to frown, anything to express my need for her to continue. Even more than I desired my body back to the way it was, I craved human contact.

And just wait until you meet his associate, Dr. Devlin! She blushed, pressing her fingertips to her mouth as though attempting to catch the words she’d just spoken and stuff them back in. She leaned over me, eyes glittering as she whispered, I shouldn’t say so, but he’s perfectly delicious to look at! A right feast for the eyes, if I do say so myself. She winked, blue eyes shining. I watched her, sharpening my senses as to absorb everything about her: the way she moved, spoke, smiled; so I might relive it later when the hours advanced as slow as molasses.

The nurse hummed as she adjusted my bedding, lifting and tucking the white blanket under my appendages, cocooning my inert form. Again I was shocked at the lack of sensation, the complete numbness of all I used to own and control. How could something attached to me have no sensation at all? How could all that thick, warm blood pump from my heart, feed and nourish my arms and legs, yet they felt nothing? No hot, no cold, no touch nor pain? Anxiety rose within, clawing at me, and I had to take a few slow, deep breaths to calm myself.

Satisfied with my bedding, the nurse then walked to a closet on the right side of my bed and retrieved a clean pillow. She gently lifted my head, stuffing the pillow behind me. Startled, I realized my head did not suffer the same paralysis as the rest of me; I savored her touch, the way her fingers moved through my tangled hair and cupped my head. I pretended they were the hands of my mother, lovingly tousling my curls as she pinned them into a fashionable style. A pang of sadness rang through my heart, summoning a vision of my mother lying in a bed similar to mine. Was she somewhere in this building? Tucked away in another suite, suffering as I was?

There, the young nurse said with a self-satisfied nod and smile, rescuing me from my dark thoughts. Now you can see a bit better.

And how! Just a slight adjustment in the angle and I was able to absorb so much more around me. I attempted to meet her eyes, to thank her with just a look.

Elizabeth, we need you in Room 16, a firm female voice called from the doorway. I strained my eye to the left, glimpsing the back of another nurse just as she vanished down the hall.

Elizabeth .

I felt an irrational thrill with the discovery of her name. I sang it over and over within the confines of my thoughts.

Elizabeth frowned, sighing as she smoothed her apron and patted her chestnut hair for any strands that may have escaped her bonnet. Never a moment’s rest in this place, I tell you, Miss Winters. It’s just run, run, run! Go, go, go! She gave me an exasperated smile. Now don’t get me wrong, I love helpin’ people, but just between you and me, she leaned in, lowering her voice, I think they’ve bitten off a bit more than they can chew around here.

Hands on hips, she arched backwards, wincing as her spine released a quiet crack. I felt a stab of envy, wishing I could move as she did, feel my muscles work once more, joints aching after a long day’s work. A fleeting rush of anxiety went through me as I realized I was beginning to forget what it was to move, to feel, to dance and work and play. My mind remembered, but my body was falling into a chasm of amnesia, as though it had never been able, as if I had been born this way. It reminded me of times when I had fallen ill with a cold, how my nose would run, my chest congested and raspy, a relentless tickle plaguing my throat and making me cough; I would forget what it was to be healthy, to be free of symptoms—but then, miraculously, when I was well again, I couldn’t quite recall what it felt like to be sick; or at least, my mind seemed to misplace the unpleasantness and I went about my merry way.

This revelation terrified me, as I knew I would not likely ever be normal again, what if I was to forget completely what it was to be me, the girl I was before?

Yes, you are very fortunate, you are, Elizabeth said, piquing my interest. I’d almost stopped breathing for fear I’d miss what she had to say. How could she consider me fortunate? There aren’t many in this place with their own room. Many of the sickest patients, like yourself, are placed two, sometimes three to a room. You’re special though, aren’t ya? She winked at me, leaving me perplexed as to why I’d be given exceptional treatment.

Elizabeth! someone bellowed from the hall.

Elizabeth started, her cheeks flushing. Back in a bit, Miss Winters! she called over her shoulder, closing the door behind her. I felt a thorn of disappointment pierce my heart.

Alice! Call me Alice! I shouted inside my thoughts. She had no idea what her presence meant to me, what merely acknowledging my pathetic existence did for my soul.

I replayed her words inside my head, over and over like a broken phonograph. You’re special though, aren’t ya?

What did she mean? Why was I different?

A childish thrill embraced me as I entertained the possibilities. Perhaps they’d mistaken me as royalty? Or maybe they had caught word of my father’s blossoming wine business, Winters’ Winery, and thought me an heir to some extravagant fortune? Of course, we weren’t rich by any means, but not poor either.

The atmosphere in the room shifted, cooler and emptier without Elizabeth to enlighten it. Shadows thickened and corners darkened as the sun moved towards its nightly refuge. Loneliness consumed me then, in the evenings. Memories of happier times haunted me, danced before my desperate eyes as they searched the dwindling twilight for distraction. My sight misted over, tightness building in my throat. I would have given anything to go home then. To be anywhere but the hospital.

For some reason, that dark yearning was strangely familiar—then I remembered.

Blackhurst .

Chapter 3

Blackhurst Asylum

With great reluctance on my part—and little else to occupy or distract myself with—my memory drifted back to all the times I’d visited Granny LeBeau in the asylum; her mind lost, withered body devoured from the inside out by some unseen monster. The Wisconsin hospital, home to hundreds of the mentally insane, teetered on the edge of a bluff overlooking the sinisterly christened, Devil’s Lake.

As a child, protected from the rumors that swirled around the institution, I was blissfully unaware of the evil whisperings. Later on at school, however, I learned of the dreadful experiments and unspeakable treatments performed there on a daily basis.

Lobotomies: a lengthy spike inserted near the tear duct, piercing the brain as to rid the patient of evil thoughts, depression or anxiety. Ice water baths: nearly drowning the patients for hours, days even, bringing their bodies to hypothermic temperatures. People chained to walls with dog collars, electric shock therapy for women charged with neglecting their domestic duties at home; patients kept in strait jackets for weeks as punishment for masturbation; the list of horrors went on forever.

We often went to see her during the holidays, not that she ever noticed or would likely remember, but we respectfully made the effort. It was a lengthy journey, even by steam engine, from our hometown in Chicago. My mother and I usually embarked on the trek alone, without my father. He often stayed home under the guise of tending to his new business, though after a few visits to the hospital myself, I was certain he simply couldn’t stand to be among the sick and insane. I didn’t blame him, but I was undoubtedly envious he was not forced to attend.

Even as a small child, I was in awe of the enormous building, imposing cement walls wreathed the facility like a giant moat. The asylum was split into two sections: one for the men, the other for women and children. Thick metal bars were all that separated us from the men’s side, their filthy hands reached for us, mouths ajar, exposing blackened, rotting teeth. Their heads had been shaved right to the skin which accentuated their wild eyes, making them appear larger and predatory in nature.

I recall questioning my mother about this, taking hold of her hand and pulling her down to my level so I might ask her in a whisper, Why are they all bald, Mama?

With a hushed reply, she said, I believe it’s to keep the lice away.

Afterward, anytime I saw a bald man, inside or out of the asylum, I felt irrationally itchy.

Two male orderlies outfitted in white uniforms, each with a thick, black Billy club affixed to their belt, escorted us through the main entrance. To our immediate right, a pressing mob of male patients ogled us, their appearances twisted and distorted as they pushed their faces between the bars, hands