“I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person I’d never seen before in my

life”- Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Up North, taking a left at Sumter St, a bit over the hill, you will find the one place that is solely

composed of grieving women, lunatics, and a few men who drank till they were mad. Florence sat

motionless at the window, gazing out into the desolate winter morning. The last rich amber leaves

shook themselves free of the branches, and ample with rain, the clouds hung over the unusually

empty streets. A couple strolled hand in hand just below her, their laughter in harsh contrast to her

painfully heavy silence, and a familiar yet always excruciating ache settled in her chest. Her mind

drifted to her once promised life, ordinary to most yet aspirational to her. She would’ve met

someone in college, vowed to be with them forever, then watch as her midnight hair turned powder

white, the inevitable signs of time that she yearned to see. She would’ve spent her years taking care

of her children, then their children, and continued her passion for teaching. She grieved the

proximity to perfection. The year was 1928, and Florence often found herself wondering why she

was even alive, if she had to live out the rest of it in this hell. Trapped within four walls of solitude

was a place considered an inferno for people branded “mentally ill,” existing on a fine line between

living and dead. Legally, a psychiatric hospital, but for most, the insane asylum. Barren of

individuality, days here were spent confined. When every so often a demeaning yet somewhat well

intentioned nurse would enter the room, her lips pursed in a manner that suggested scrutiny but

also nervousness, inspect them, and then leave. Devoid of color except for the pasty white color of

the walls and the vivid navy of the gloves that accessorized every doctor’s hands. No matter what

she said, it felt inadequate, and she wistfully watched as they scribbled notes down, the soft sound

of pen against paper filling the room. For the past 2 years, she had been stuck in a perpetual cycle

of hatred, grief, and occasionally hope.

Florence longed to leave, and was afraid that if she didn’t, even death could not offer her salvation.

(Sometimes, I think you exist inside my head)

When Florence dissected her reflection in the mirror, she could see the fatigue that plagued her,

strands of silver that interlocked the more time she went without brushing it, dull brown circles that

engulfed her eyes. The girl in the mirror was not her. She was ghostly, her figure thinned, black hairlifeless. The cerulean gown they were required to wear during inspections felt like plastic against

her bare skin. It made her feel dirty, less of a human, but what else was new?

“Florence”, she stated matter-of-factly, and her voice felt bitter, a hollow of the woman she

used to be. How long has it been since she has heard her own name? No one had spoken to her in

years, other than the mechanical doctors and nurses who checked on her regularly, their attitudes

aloof. When they attempt conversation, their voices are cloyingly sweet, forcibly compassionate,

but she is rigid.

The only thing Florence would’ve died to hear, would have begged God to hear once more, was

Mama. She remembered how it felt to nestle her baby in between the crook of her neck, how his

tiny fingers clung around her hand, like he was made just for her. How he would cocoon in her

arms, staring up at her expectantly- to have that taken away drove her mad. The nursery, which

used to be a cacophony of giggling, hums of lullabies, and rattles, was now silent. She would’ve

given anything to relieve herself of the regrets of her ephemeral attempt at motherhood.

Lord, have I not prayed enough? Have I not kneeled in front of you till my knees were raw, till the

tears imprinted valleys on my face? Praying to wash away my sins? Did you punish my baby?

Above all, had her own body failed her?

The only exception to this rule of doctors and nurses was her favorite, Eleanor, whom she was fond

of. It was little things that mattered- she let her sit in the garden a few more minutes than the rules

stated, and Florence would sit down and let herself admire the roses, feel the earth under her

hands, just so she could ground herself.

“‘Morning Miss Florence. How’re you feeling?”, she would say every morning like clockwork, her

voice carrying a Southern twang.

“Jus’ great ma’am”, and she would attempt a smile, but it came out all wrong when etched onto her

face. Both of them knew this was not true.

“All right. Well. You take care, Florence.”

Eleanor reminded her of her mother, if less harsh. When her diagnosis came, her mother gazed up,

stretched her fingers to the sky, and mumbled a frantic yet feeble prayer.

“Florence, I don’t know what this is. I know you’re not crazy, you shouldn’t be, no goddamn child of

mine is crazy. They’re wrong - they have to be wrong.”

“Mama, I’m not mad. I just- you know, I’ve just had some tough times. But it’ll work out in the end.”

“Okay. Well. I’m not sending my child to an asylum. We’re going to get you the help you need”,

Mama said, feigning hope.

The next month, Florence arrived here. She wasn’t crazy, just grieved beyond madness. By most

people's standards, these were the same.

(Did I dream of you?)

Communication with the other patients was both infrequent and tedious, until she met Vivienne.

Vivienne was new. The first time they met, she slumped into the nearby chair, and Florence couldhear the percussion of her ribs against the hardwood. She was very thin, traces of her vertebrae

visible under her cotton shirt.

“Do I know you?”

“No.”

And that was it.

The next time they met was at their chores, in which they both were doing laundry.

“Do I know you?”, Vivienne said, tentatively. She wrang a skirt, and drops of water fell on the

sweltering concrete.

“No.”

Florence pricked her finger on a thorn and sucked it, ruby red streaming on her skin, all the while

Vivienne stared impatiently at her. Florence turned to look at her. She admired the curve of her

eyebrow, her seemingly permanent yet somewhat forlorn smile, the way her blonde curls framed

her face. The epitome of beauty, almost perfect except for a blue black bruise on her upper neck,

disguised by her hair. The arch of it clawed onto her flesh revealed a hand.

“What are you here for?”, Florence asked, her curiosity piqued. Vivienne seemed so normal.

“Oh, you know. I didn’t want to marry a man,” she said, “That was reason enough.”

“I’m sorry.

” The sun swelled above them, glowing shades of yellow and orange. Florence felt almost

no sympathy for Vivienne, in reality- this was how many women were brought here- but she wanted

the conversation to end.

“No point in that now, is there?”

Her lips curled and her gaze melted like she was reliving something she desperately didn’t want to.

“Don’t ask too much about me. What ‘bout you? Lot of people here are the same. Lonely women,

drunkards.” Florence has a fleeting urge to hit her, her patience almost snapping. Vivienne smiled

slightly, like she knew Florence was agitated and wanted to dwell on it.

“No. I don’t know why I got sent here. You don’t want to know more. Best if you keep your mouth

shut.” Even the idea of bringing up her baby felt repugnant, like she was fishing for shallow

sympathy to cover up her misery. Truly, everyone here was lonely, and Vivienne would soon learn

she wasn’t the exception. They went back to their chores, aware of both their stares piercing into

the other, sensing both disdain and curiosity.

(I think I need you more than you want me)

Right before bedtime that day, a lively Eleanor walked in, nodding her head with each step.

“Eleanor?”, Florence called out.

“Yes ma’am.”

“You know Vivienne? Blonde skinny girl? The one who jus’ ended up here? She was talking to me

yesterday, when we went out for laundry. You were there.”

At this, the nurse’s face dimmed but so subtly Florence thought it was a trick of the dark.

“No ma’am I do not. It’s getting late, I think. You can dream in your covers.” She rolled her cart

away to the next patient, exchanging a smile with their scowl.

Strange but not the strangest she had experienced. On the bright side, Vivienne could now be just

hers.Over the next few months, Florence formed a bond with Vivienne, gradually but surely. She

memorized the way Vivienne’s eyelashes fluttered, how her face looked when she laughed, the

slight crow’s feet framing her eyes. Vivienne told Florence about her fiancée, a man who evoked

nothing but deeply rooted loathing and contempt in her. How when his eyes sparked during an

argument, she knew the room would be destroyed within a few minutes. Someone who she

couldn’t imagine growing old with. At night, they whispered covertly to each other, terrified of

waking up the other patients.

“You ever thought of our families?”, Viviene started, staring up at the ceiling, “I do. ‘Specially my

father- he didn’t want me coming here, said I was just sad and women who entered the asylum

were mostly senile wrecks. My fiancée did though. Never got over the fact I never liked him.”

And at that, Florence, who lay deceptively asleep, would give her a shh. It never worked, of course.

She thrived off of attention, consuming it like a drug until she drowned in it.

“Maybe I’ll feel better in the morning”, Vivienne said, and tossed and turned until she wore herself

out. Florence in a daze noticed the imprint of the bruise on Vivienne’s neck was now gone.

(I think I captured you; the essence of loneliness)

The morning after, they were being served breakfast in the dining room, following their daily

inspection. “You know”, Vivienne adeptly started, her eyes alarmingly wide, “I think we might be the

only normal ones here.” She kicked a bottle on the floor, a scratched out Bardinet on the label.

Alcohol was banned here. However, the absence of it was aberrant. Florence was now staring at

Vivienne’s hair, a chestnut brown compared to her earlier blonde- probably lighting, she assumed.

“There’s probably a lot of us. ‘Specially the women.” And in the interval of time between them, they

both knew what Florence was referring to, the undermined struggle of those, especially the women,

of the hospital.

She was writing a letter, addressed to her mother, at the time. Her pen worked briskly, and she

wished she could write everything she wanted to convey. Her mind was spiraling.

“Mama. I’ve been wanting to tell you this for some time, and every time I bring it up it’s to no avail. I

want to leave. I need you to tell George about it, get permission from the state.”

She crossed her husband’s name out with a heavy hand, then kept going. Vivienne’s

prying head approached her, nodding with approval. “I’m going to work on convincing the doctors

here, those medical people, even if I have to do some kind of evaluation. Goodbye.

Love, Florence”

At some point in time, Florence had been ignited by the sudden urge to leave, not new by all

means, yet now potentially possible. Vivienne only exacerbated this urge. She maintained, with a

face glowing in awe, that it was possible to leave legally, that someone, anyone could recognize

their cognitive ability, that they were smart women who didn’t require help from this broken system.

Over the years, Florence’s stubborn ambition of leaving had slowly withered down, until all that was

left was one goal: survival. But now, she felt its resurgence.

“It’s possible, you know. To leave. We jus’ gotta prove it to the doctors, and then the state.”

“I don’t know. I mean, I suppose. The doctors first, but they don’t like us anyway. Thinks we’re

some kind of fools or lunatics like the rest of them.”Animosity was not uncommon among patients, so why not doctors too?

“There’s some kind of paperwork first. And then I’m sure we can prove sanity, I mean look at us-”

she gestured in the space between them, and let out a slight laugh of disbelief, if desperately- “Of

course we’ll get out.”

Now this, this is what sealed the fact of her insanity. Florence wished it was as easy as convincing

the abundance of medical professionals of their capacity. For her, the most obstinate, strong-willed

people would be her own family, whom she built a deep mistrust of during her years here, and vice

versa. They clung to this ideology of her perceived madness, maintaining credibility as her closest

relatives. She prayed they were not involved.

Vivienne gave her an encouraging smile and Florence wanted to bathe in it.

(I think I’m going insane)

Through evaluations, paperwork, and visits from the state, she petitioned for her release. Doctors,

who though she knew felt scraps of sympathy, were not of use. They fell with persuasion over time,

though Florence wondered why they wanted to keep patients prisoner in the first place- it was

implausible that the doctors actually liked them. At her evaluation, she was sat in a chair,

questioned immediately

“Now why do you think it would be best if you left?” The doctor asked, his stale breath permeating

the air.

She willed herself into thinking he wasn’t being serious. After all, he saw the downright misery of

everyone around them. The way they were destined to live through the day and die at night, live and

die until someday it was permanent. Though their definition of living was debatable.

“You know I see a lot of you every day. Just some desperate folks who couldn’t last a minute

outside. Spent their life here drinking and spent their life outside drinking but only one led to

madness. Sometimes it’s for the best, being here.”

“Doctor. You’ve known me for years, never once in my life have I hurt a fly and not once have I hurt

myself. I’m going to be fine.”

He shook his head and scribbled his signature.

“You remind me of someone I know. My niece, I think. She didn’t fare too well in the real world. Just

know whatever you think, that’s not how life outside is like.”

Florence’s eyes shut as she heaved a sigh.

“Vivienne told me you’d sign it. Been here a few months and know you better than me.”

“Vivienne? Hm, well, sure. Probably a Vivienne somewhere in here.”

Eleanor walked by, her uniform dragging on the linoleum floor. She gave Florence a hesitant but

encouraging smile, then the doctor. Then through the door she heard a laugh, soft yet pronounced.

No one else turned around, but Florence knew it was Vivienne. A smile tugged at her lips while the

rest of her body felt ecstasy barely tethered to reality.

Sometime a few weeks later, she heard her name yelled out,

“Florence Miller?”

Hesitantly, she walked down the staircase, and nervous footsteps assumingly from Vivienne

followed. The hallway willed itself into an arch for her, cutouts of sunlight beaming through the

windows. Now all Florence can feel is a pounding dizziness that enveloped her entirely. Her heartbeat and sank rhythmically, her forehead now cloaked in sweat. Downstairs, the nurse caught a

glimpse of her, and held out a grim hand clutching a yellowed paper.

“I believe this arrived for you.”

“Thank you.”

Florence hitched her breath as she opened the stained paper. Her fingers trembled; this was the

outcome of 2 years of suffering. The nurse absent-mindedly gazed at her, her eyes curious but not

invested.

“Not fit for release: emotional instability, incapable of safely interacting with outside world”

Signed underneath was her husband’s signature, and then the state’s. Her shoulders collapsed and

the paper broke free of her shaking hands- Vivienne was gone now, and Florence was left to

wonder what the price of her survival would be.