A Danny Phantom x DC crossover Inspired by this prompt from @greenmango-kai
Arkham
Fucking Arkham
Arkham Arkham Arkham
The insane asylum
For the insane
Of course
Of course he was in FUCKING Arkham. Because where else would he be right? Studying to be an astronaut? Hahaha fucking Nope. Maybe an engineer? Nu uh. Flying free as you like as Phantom? No fucking chance. Because he, Danny Fenton, was clinically insane.
Obviously. Obviously he was insane. Obviously because ghosts Don't exist. No. Nope. MmM. Especially not vengeful ghosts that kidnap half dead kids and try to make them kill their murderers. No, no that's crazy talk.
Hahahahahaha haaha ha shhhhhhutup shut up shut up shut up Shut Up Shut UP "SHUUUT UUUUUP" Danny screamed at the gaggle of restless ghosts that sobbed, and yelled, and laughed around him. It didn't help of course. But! Hahaha bonus though! He didn't need to worry about anyone calling the cops on the screaming crazy kid in the dorm, no, because he was already In the place the Dumb Fucking Cops put you AFTER being called on the screaming crazy kid.
Fucking Arkham.
With all the damned assholes trying to tell him he's crazy, trying to psychoanalyze him and find what horrible trauma of his past could have triggered this episode. Apparently "I died" didn't cut it here.
God Jazz would be so disappointed in him. But Jazz, well, Jazz didn't have to deal with ghosts harrassing her all the time. No, no Jazz was Nice, and Normal, and fully Alive. No, Jazz didn't have to run away from home! She gets to live with parents that actually Love her! ALL of her! They didn't even try to hunt down and exterminate her even a little!!
No, no she got to go to school and get good grades, and make lots of friends, and didn't have anyone screaming in her ear to Fucking kill the got damned psychopath Clown next door.
No. That was just Danny.
It wasn't all bad though, he'd been admitted under a threat to self risk, and if he could prove he was no longer a risk to himself he could leave. He could leave. He could leave. If he could Just get a little bit of sleep maybe he could get a hold of himself enough to leave this shithole.
Okay shithole might be an exaggeration. He'd been fortunate enough to land in The Actual Batman's pet project asylum. The place being well funded was a massive fucking understatement. The food was good, his room was private and secure, and the staff were all well trained and vetted Heavily. So when he'd (slightly manically) explained that he has a phobia of needles and being treated like a lab rat would absolutely make him spiral they had actually listened!
Insane. But like. In the unbelievable way. Like that shit is not how Real Actual insane asylums function. But apparently Batman having a vested interest really meant something.
Now if only the damn bat didn't have such a strong moral compass and had just killed the Damn clown...
Why'd it have to be clowns. Why the fuck is it always got danged creepy ass clowns. They're supposed to be funny! That's literally their entire purpose! Why then. Why. Does Danny have to keep dealing with these fucking creep shows!
They were creepy. But they weren't what Danny was afraid of. No. Nonononono. It can't be as simple as just that can it. No. Danny gets to be scared of becoming a murderer or really truly permanently losing his fucking mind. Both options were fucking terrifying actually. And he was stuck here until he figured out another option. Stuck here with all these traumatized ghosts that just won't "Shut UUUUUUUP. OKAY! Okay okayokayokayokayokay shut up and I'll listen okay? OKAY? SHUT UP. one at a time. One at a time and I'll listen. I'll hear you out okay? I'll listen. And then... And then I'll see what I can do"
Gloriously the wailing quelled to an almost bearable level as a small wavering shadow of a child stepped forward and took the first turn at recounting his passing at the hands of the man that slept on the other side of the facility.
The nurse on shift noted the usual outbursts of yelling and slammed fists that came from their newest resident had calmed over the past hour, and when checked found the child laying calmly, crying softly, and muttering to himself. They made a few more notes as the shift passed, hopeful this change was for the better and might mean some much needed rest for the boy.
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Decided I'm going to continue this one so feel free to subscribe to updates here
Part 2
If you enjoyed this post please leave a comment, I really love getting them! If you're not sure what to say just comment a lil emoji, I'd love to get one of these guys ❤️🥹🔥☠️😯, or one you feel suits the post.
my friends immediate reaction to finding out i had BPD (told them + sent symptoms since they asked) was to say ‘to an asylum with you!! lobotomy time!’
TW — Asylum/Hospital setting, mental disorders, medical malpractice
Inspired by Fran Bow, Sparklecare, Pure Trance, and other such things; I had an idea for a Dandy’s World AU that centers around a hospital setting
I feel like a lot of people don’t like asylum or hospital AUs because they are full of exaggerated or misinformed ideas of what mental illness is. I tried not to do that, though I’m not a professional so I still might be wrong about some things. I don’t want to take this idea too far in fear that it might be distasteful, but I do want to share this idea to see if others like it too.
Dandy’s Care is a separate world where, instead of a museum, Dandy and his friends were meant to be for a children’s hospital to treat the sick and ill. They were meant to be comfort characters to patients and were meant to support them during their stay. Like in Dandy’s World, the hospital shut down due to unspecified sanitation issues. Dandy, also known as Dr. Dandicus Dancifer, slowly became more and more starved for activity. He started targeting his friends, making the hospital into an asylum for them. He changed their characters, changing his friends into patients. The toons have no memory of their former self, only knowing their diseased and ill present self.
The staff is made up of the main toons. All of them are nurses and Dandy is the main doctor. They all act like their former selves, though they have no memory. I didn’t want to draw all of them so just imagine Astro and Vee in these uniforms.
Read more to see other toons (not all of them drawn or thought of yet, don’t attack me ;-;) ↓
Razzle and Dazzle, the only ones that I thought of completely because I already drew them before. They’re the reason why I made this entire thing anyway.
They are just experiments by Dandy, who wanted to see if the two could live together if they were attached. They used to love each other, now they don’t. Razzle is no longer looking for comedy, Dazzle is no longer looking for hope. Both are only set on the idea of revenge against Dandy for making them this way.
Life is hard when you can only feel the sensations on one half on your body, they can barely walk and can only stand or sit. They take many painkillers as their wounds take a long time to health properly. They wish they could escape this place and just die already, but they’re stuck and forced to live for as long as Dandy wants.
Razzle is a lot more violent now. He is prone to biting and scratching the staff. He hates doing all the lab tests and medical procedures, he hates being near Dazzle, he hates being stuck in this living hell. Razzle is the reason why they’re not allowed near sharp or blunt objects.
Dazzle became paranoid, scared of any noise that happens. He’s terrified of Razzle because of how violent he can get, he hates him too. Dazzle cries a lot, he cries until he can’t everyday. Dazzle wishes he could just die already, he thinks everything is scary and out to get him.
Shrimpo is thought to be a patient that had anger issues and aggressive tendencies. According to Dandy, he was admitted for being violent in public, although this is only part of the fake story that Dandy gave him. Shrimpo was forced to get a lobotomy, unethical but who cares. Dandy sure didn’t.
He’s still in the recovery phase, so he might be a bit loopy. Once those bandages are off, he’ll be as right as rain. Shrimpo is a wanderer around the hospital as he’s no longer a threat. He’s allowed to leave his room and go out in the play yard but only if a nurse is with him.
Shrimpo doesn’t really have much going for him. His thoughts are scrambled and he only cares for things in front of him. Although the lobotomy made him more passive, it doesn’t mean he’s any better in terms of motivation. Shrimpo certainly has no drive for anything anymore, he doesn’t mind but it gets in the way of his health as well. The staff needs to remind him to go to the dining room to eat or to go take a shower, because otherwise he’ll forget.
Boxten was made to believe that he has had problems with insomnia ever since he was little, of course it’s not true. He takes sleeping pills and melatonin, but it only seems to worsen his nightmares. This makes him skip his doses to avoid sleeping, repeating the cycle over and over.
Boxten is afraid of imaginary things that might get him. He thinks they’ve already in his head, eating away at his brain and giving him nightmares. Of course the only thing the nurses can see is his music box. Boxten has lost all trust in the staff since they couldn’t see or feel the things he can.
In my original notes, it said that Boxten might have psychosis.
Well that’s all the once I’ve drawn, I don’t really have the motivation to make every single toon. I have a couple of ideas though
— Goob somehow survived a terrible accident, but both his arms needed to be amputated making him armless. He suffers from brain damage and internal bleeding. He doesn’t seem to have any change in his personality, still as joyful as ever. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism
— Tisha has severe OCD which damages her mental health. She’s constantly worried about everything that happens around her, making her super aware of her surroundings. She could be a danger to herself and others as she sometimes has very aggressive thoughts but can’t control her actions. She unintentionally hurts herself because of her OCD, such as washing her hands so many times that they start to bleed.
Not for a toon, but I did have an idea for an added addition to the hospital. Maybe there’s a twisted reform center where the staff try and heal twisteds back to their normal self. They would clean the ichor from them but since the ichor is also inside of them their personalities don’t change as much. Twisteds such as Finn and R&D might be too far gone though, they would have to be disabled for life. I might draw this idea because I think it’s kind of cool, I definitely will if people also think this is interesting.
Alice was sitting in a cell, on her bed. She couldn't believe she was admitted AGAIN, and she was transferred this time. She was alone here. Nobody she knew was here. She didn't know where she was, but she didn't even care.
She wasn't wearing her normal outfit, and her hair was cut to just a couple of inches. She had bandages wrapped around her arms. They were bloody. She had been zoning out when it happened. Ash. Black ash had begun falling in her room.
She blinks. Once. Twice. It wasn't stopping. She supposed a fire had been going on outside, putting ash in the air and coming in through her window. She steps off of her bed, gathering some in her hands, and begins drawing, on the wall. What happened next happened so fast. The door opened, and her head snapped to the sound. The orderlies saw the wall and the ash and grabbed her, beginning to pull her out of the room.
She struggles, screaming, managing to break free for a few minutes. She stumbled and began to run down different hallways. She wouldn't get far. She was grabbed again, this time being lifted up and carried. "Change of plans, Alice. We were going to do regular treatments, but because of what you did, we're just going to punish you." He speaks, and pulls her down the hallways, and through a room marked hydrotherapy. Alice was retreating back into her mind.
He ties her down with the chains, locking her in the ice water filled bathtub. He moves to look at her face. "We want you awake for this." He said, shaking her. She was shaking, now. Her vision blurred as he stepped back, and her sight cleared up again. She was dripping wet, cold, and sagging in her chains. She was alone. A figure enters the room, and she looks up. He undoes the chains, helping her out of the tub. She looks up at him as he pulls her close, wrapping a thin towel around her. They began speaking. It couldn't be made out what was said, but he leaned in, as they spoke. Then he carried her out, back to her cell.
"Rest. You'll need it." He speaks, laying her down on the cot, and leaving the room, coming back with a blanket. He places it over her, up to her chin, and leaves, closing the door. Light lit up the room when she awoke. Sunrise. She pushes the blanket off, and gets up, stripping off the still damp nightdress she was wearing the night before. She pulls on a clean one, and pulls the blanket back around her shoulders, gathering warmth. The lock clicks, and an orderly walks in.
"You.. You aren't supposed to have that. You could hurt yourself with it. Give it here." The man speaks, and Alice shakes her head, backing away. The man walks forward, snatching it from her. Alice kept a hold on it and he yanked it, hard, shoving Alice back. He moved, going to leave the room, but Alice was on him in an instant, running up and jumping on his back for the blanket.
He stumbles, grabbing her arms and slamming her into the wall. She hits the ground with a dull thump, going to get back up, only for the door to slam in her face.
"Let me out!" She screams, rattling the door. She was pissed, trying to get the door to open. She backed away, and slammed her weight into it. She slides down, crying. Though she stopped, eyes clouded over as sadness turned to rage. Pure rage.
She was staring at the smudged drawing from the day before. It had been scrubbed. She gets up, walking over to it. Like it never even happened. Her fists clenched, and she went around the room, pacing. Finally though, she decides to try any way to break herself out. She picks up a wooden chair, throwing it at the glass window to her cell. The glass didn't break but the chair did. She huffs, picking up a table from nearby, throwing it at the glass. Nothing. She screams, frustrated, before hearing a soft beep.
She turned to the sound, seeing the camera on the back of the room, obviously feeding video to the security team. The orderlies would be sent back.. her eyes narrowed, and she turned to the half broken table, ripping a piece of wood out of it. She gripped it like a weapon. She made eye contact with the camera, and swung, knocking it to the side. There was a jingling at her door and it opened, an orderly walking in. "The hell? Put that down! I said put it down!" The orderly spoke. The camera could still pick up sound, she knew. There was an audible struggle, ending ín a yell from the orderly, then, silence.
Alice drops her weapon once the orderly that had come to her room was put down. The amount of blood.. she hadn't seen this much blood since she'd killed Pris Witless, and she wasn't even fully aware for that one. At least she wouldn't be blackmailed anymore. She approaches the body of the orderly, turning them over and searching their pockets. Cigarettes.. not useful.. money.. that could be useful.. she pockets that, and keeps searching. Keys.. oh that one was useful. She twirls the keyring on her finger, making her way to the door when it opened. She stops, getting into a defensive position.
Teaser: This room was so cold, her teeth chattered. Perhaps the presence of a few other bodies might have dispelled the horrid chill, or even kept at bay the nightmares—horrible ones, dark and sinister, filled with screams and the blood-flecked ghost of Will’s face.
Bree awoke from an ordeal that vaguely resembled sleep, curled into a ball and shivering, her face stiff and sticky with dried tears. The night had passed slowly, filled with constant interruptions from heavy-footed nurses. Each time, they’d noisily opened her door to peer into her face. Checking, it seemed, to ensure she was alive and calm and who she said she was.
From what she understood, Baden was paying handsomely for a private room, but she had to wonder if a shared dorm wouldn’t be more pleasant. This room was so cold, her teeth chattered. Perhaps the presence of a few other bodies might have dispelled the horrid chill, or even kept at bay the nightmares—horrible ones, dark and sinister, filled with screams and the blood-flecked ghost of Will’s face.
A basin of water was delivered, its arrival foretold by footsteps and the scrape of a key unlocking her door. Bree shivered through her ablutions, splashing her face and drying it with a yellowed towel that scraped her skin. Smoothing her hair with an old hairbrush made her skin crawl; she tried not to fixate on how many other locks it had brushed before. The morning nurse, a smiling woman whose black hair was braided away from her face and tied with a pink bow, provided her with a coarse, grey dress. Bree did not object, even though it was as hideous as her slip and equally uncomfortable. It, too, was stamped with its inventory number and Greyhurst’s name.
First, property of Baden Hatchett; now, property of the asylum.
“Come along, Mrs. Hatchett,” said the nurse in a sweet, accented voice when she was done. “Shall we see what they’ve made for breakfast?”
It seemed impossible that this kindly girl could be in the same profession as the blonde gossip from the day before.
In the dining room, Bree quickly found her way to Mrs. Strickland, certain she would need the encouragement to choke down her food when she saw what was being served: unbuttered bread and bowls of watery oatmeal striped with thin drizzles of molasses.
“Remember what I told you yesterday,” said the older woman, sipping daintily at her tea. Bree’s eyes filled with tears when she tasted hers. Will’s voice came to her, complaining about a different cup of tea; now she, too, knew what tea tasted like when it was made with care and love—and when it wasn’t.
“How long have you been here?” Bree asked, trying to take her mind off the lamentable bill of fare.
Mrs. Strickland’s face fell. “Almost three years.”
Bree nearly spilled her tea into her lap—not that it would have hurt much, considering that it was lukewarm. “What?” Her face drawn but collected, Mrs. Strickland nodded. “But—I thought—Dr. Armstrong said a few months—”
“For some, yes.”
Biting the inside of her cheek, Bree put down her teacup and took the woman’s hand. “I…I’m so sorry.”
Why on earth should this gentle woman have been locked away for so long? “Wh…” Fearing to pry, she cut herself off, but Mrs. Strickland grasped her question nonetheless.
“My husband and I have different ideas about how children ought to be raised.” Mrs. Strickland’s gaze, clouded with sorrow, fixed upon something on the opposite side of the room. “It was a battle I couldn’t win, since… Well, perhaps you know better than most. The law is not on our side, is it?”
Recalling Baden’s voice as he declared her forcible commitment entirely lawful, Bree shook her head.
“Some things are beyond our control, regardless of how hard we try,” said Mrs. Strickland. “Or how valiantly we fight.”
Something shivered and trembled inside Bree’s chest. That simply couldn’t be true.
But she thought of herself standing helpless, frozen, and silent as Baden walked away.
“We do our best,” said Mrs. Strickland, “with the lot we’re given. We keep going. We…” She glanced around the room, and for a moment, Bree could see the anguish swirling around her like mist. No, not just anguish; there was anger, too, and determination. Quiet, subdued—but not extinguished. “Survive.”
The rest of the meal passed largely in melancholy silence. When it was done, however, Mrs. Strickland got to her feet and informed the nurses, in a voice as reasonable as any Bree had ever heard, that she would take the new girl under her wing, if you please, and so Breanna Hatchett would accompany her for work in the sewing room. To Bree’s astonishment, no one scoffed or objected; in fact, the pink-bowed nurse beamed and said she thought it was a marvellous idea.
The sewing room was a surprisingly bright area filled with natural light and quietly chattering women. Work, Mrs. Strickland said, was part of the healing regimen at Greyhurst. Thus, much of the day would be passed with needlework, sewing clothes, pillowcases, sheets, and more.
“Saves them a great deal of money to have us do it,” Mrs. Strickland whispered with a roll of her eyes, and Bree couldn’t help but return a cynical laugh.
It was undeniably a relief to have something to occupy her mind: in every moment she wasn’t working, she fretted about whether Will was safe. If, as her slim silver needle wove in and out of her fabric, he was being locked in chains, carted away, or put to death. If each loop of her thread perfectly mimicked the deathly coil of a noose.
The first day ebbed into a second, and then a third, settling into a routine: rest, meals, work. The nightmares did not fade, nor did her sleep improve: if it wasn’t the nurses disturbing her with their stomping footsteps, it was the cries of poor souls elsewhere in the asylum. Bree burst into tears the first time she was jolted awake by a haunting, woeful scream.
Even so, her days passed in what might have been pleasant mundanity—if not for the ever-present terror that the next morning would be the one when a nurse or doctor burst in bearing news that those wicked Iustitia aecum thieves had been caught and put to death.
She was on her second pillowcase of the day when a nurse summoned her, announcing that she had a visitor. Bree’s mouth went dry. So, Baden was back. Perhaps bringing her belongings, perhaps some extra clothes.
Perhaps tidings of misery and death.
Squaring her shoulders, Bree followed the nurse from the room, her mind racing. Today, she would not face Baden with terror, hysteria, tears, or ravings. She would overpower him with strength of argument and soundness of mind, and she would convince him she had been wrongfully detained. Then, the moment she was free, she would find Will—and make sure Baden never laid a finger on him again.
It was a fine plan, or it would have been had Baden Hatchett been waiting for her.
“Breanna?”
Alice Wright stood stiffly in the parlour, twisting her fingers together. Her hands shook.
“Alice,” Bree whispered.
The afternoon light was weak and silvery. Spilling through the window, it glinted off Alice’s dark hair, and even though it was a miserable, grey sort of glow, she looked as beautiful and put-together as she always did.
Judging by how Alice clapped her hands to her mouth, Bree knew the light did not have the same effect on her.
Fleeting glances in the mirror had revealed an unpleasant truth: although only a few days had passed, her appearance was already deteriorating. There remained not a whit of shine to her hair; her skin was growing sallow; ringing her eyes were circles of dolorous, ashy grey.
Altogether, she looked positively frightful.
“Oh, Breanna,” Alice squeaked, darting forward and embracing her tightly. “What’s happened to you?”
Bree swallowed swift, smarting tears, unsure whether to be mortified or grateful that Alice bore witness to her imprisonment. Had Baden told everybody, then, that she was mad? Whenever anyone spoke the name “Hatchett” from now on, would it immediately be followed by condoling coos of, “Oh, that poor dear! Did you hear? Do you suppose they’ll ever let her out?”
But Alice merely murmured, “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know he would—I didn’t know it would come to this.”
Baden hadn’t come, but Alice had.
Baden wouldn’t help her—but perhaps Alice would.
“Please,” Bree said dizzily, her heart beginning to thrum faster. “Alice, please, you must listen. I’m not mad.” She swung her head around, cognizant of how perfectly paranoid she must look even as she insisted she was sane, but what she wished to say next, the nurses could not overhear. “I need your help.”
“Breanna, I—”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be in here,” she interrupted. “Please, listen. I’m not insane. Baden, he—he’s just trying to protect his reputation, don’t you understand? Because—because I—”
Because I fell in love with someone else.
“You must find him,” Bree whispered. “And warn him.”
“Wait—”
“Please!” Bree squeezed her friend’s hands. “You have to warn…”
Will. But what meaning would that name hold for Alice? None. Fox. Why should she recognize that name over his real one? The thief—my thief. But wasn’t that much the same as confessing her crimes?
Bree froze as she realized she had not a clue of how to word her plea.
“Breanna,” said Alice gently, cupping her cheek, “perhaps you might listen to me first.” She turned to the nearest nurse, who, to Bree’s great trepidation, was Miss Dugford. “I wish to walk with my friend.”
“If you want to go outside,” said Miss Dugford sullenly, “you’ll need an escort. She roamed her gaze over Alice’s smart outfit and lofty expression—and apparently concluded that this was a fine lady who was not to be crossed or trifled with. Bree nearly collapsed with relief.
“Fine,” Alice sniffed. “Then we shall simply take a turn about the room.” With a haughty toss of her hair, she laid a hand on Bree’s arm and tugged her along.
The softest whisper tickled her ear: “I have news, but play along for a few minutes, all right?”
Alice prattled on for those few—yet agonizing—minutes, filling the air with questions. How had Greyhurst’s staff been treating her? Had she been sleeping? Was there anything she needed? Why on earth had Baden not yet sent any extra clothes? Unacceptable. Rest assured, she would arrange to have some dresses sent immediately.
After two and a half circles around the room, one nurse, clearly bored, began to plunk away at the piano in the corner, making what Bree thought was quite an unnecessary racket. A new light glowed in Alice’s eyes.
“I was sent here,” she said softly, her eyes on the musically-minded nurse, her face perfectly calm, “but it wasn’t your husband who told me you’d been committed.”
Bree stumbled to a halt. “What?”
“Shh,” Alice admonished. “Enjoy the lovely music, won’t you?” The tune was far from skillfully played, but it was loud—and distracting.
“Who sent you?” Bree whispered.
“A terribly rude young man.”
As it sank in what this meant—the only person Alice could mean—Bree’s eyes filled with tears.
“Stop reacting!” Alice said quickly. Raising her voice, she said, “Now, Breanna, I know you’re terribly homesick, but—” She wavered. “Remember, we all just want what’s best for you. No doubt you’ll be feeling much better soon.”
Will. He didn’t hate her after all.
“He sought me out,” said Alice quietly, “all for you.”
Washed away by these words was the conviction that Will despised her for dooming Jamie—but Bree’s relief was accompanied by horror. “He did?” When the constables could have found him at any moment? “Was he all right?”
“Well, I thought he was rather vulgar. But…” Alice nodded. “He seemed unhurt. Only…upset.” After a pause, she added, “And really quite incorrigible.”
Although she laughed, Bree’s throat ached with gratitude. Will, her Will—so reckless. Too reckless. “Alice, you have to warn him. Baden wants him dead. If you see him again, you must send him away. He can’t be caught.”
Alice’s face fell as she laid a hand on Bree’s arm. “He knows.”
“He—how?”
Whispering even more quietly now, Alice said, “A new arrest warrant. It says he’s done…terrible things. Awful things. To you.”
Bree’s hands moved of their own accord, taking hold of the end of her braid and combing through the ends. Every muscle seemed to tremble. “Alice, it’s not true. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.”
“So he insisted,” Alice said. “As did his friend. A woman.”
Colette was trying to help her, too? Bree pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to keep her sobs reined in.
“It’ll be all right,” said Alice soothingly, passing another worried glance around the room, apparently determining that Bree’s distress had grown too conspicuous. “You’ll be right as rain before you know it.” She took Bree’s hand again.
Something circular passed from Alice’s palm to Bree’s.
Quiet as a falling petal, Alice whispered, “I’m here to seek a way in, and I think I’ve found it.”
Without giving Bree an opportunity to react, she burst into loud, cheerful chatter. “Now, let’s rest for a few minutes before I go. Shall I tell you all about the literary society? No doubt you’ll be joining us in no time.”
They rested upon a poorly cushioned bench by the window. With a furtive glance around, only half-listening as Alice described the literary society’s current book and detailed her husband’s latest travels with the military, Bree glanced at the item in her palm.
A roughly carved coin, decorated on both sides: on one face, a tree with ringed roots, and on the other, two letters.
I.A.
Praying her shaking hands wouldn’t cause her to drop the precious gift Will had sent her, Bree slipped the coin into her stocking. She would not allow the nurses to see it, to find it, to parse its meaning—or to take it away.
His meaning, unwritten but clear: I’m coming for you.
“Don’t forget what Mr. Hawthorne said,” said Alice suddenly.
Bree frowned, trying to remember which quotation from The Scarlet Letter her friend meant.
“‘Do anything…’” Alice began, and Bree’s heart lifted.
“‘Do anything,’” she recited, “‘save to lie down and die.’”
“A dear friend once told me that,” said Alice, wiping her eyes. “I’m still trying to determine if she was wise or foolish, in the end.”
For the first time in days, when Bree laughed, it felt neither heavy nor forced. “You know,” she said, “I think you’d get along with him rather well. Once you got to know him. My…friend.”
Alice raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know about that. He frightened me, at first. And the way he curses!” Still, her lips turned upwards. Slightly. “Perhaps I shall have to take your word for it.”
Interrupting the contemplative silence that fell between them, Dr. Armstrong approached. Although he retained his usual mild demeanour, he seemed pleased. “You’re smiling, Mrs. Breanna.” If Alice found it indecorous that he referred to Bree by her first name rather than her last, she did not say so, although her mouth twitched. “I’m delighted to see that. Your friend’s visit has done you good.”
“Yes,” said Bree, praying he could not detect a suspicious amount of exuberance in her expression. “It certainly has.”
“You’re a doctor here?” asked Alice, getting to her feet.
Imperturbable and unoffended as ever, the doctor merely said, “I’m Dr. Armstrong, assistant physician.”
With sparks in her eyes, Alice strode up to him, held out her hand for a shake, and said, “Dr. Armstrong, my name is Alice Wright, the wife of Major Roger Merritt Wright of the 34th Regiment, and I would like to return to your hospital for a visit of a different sort. I noticed you have a lovely piano in the corner there, and I was touched by how—er—pleasing it was to have some music this afternoon.”
Bree blinked, wondering where Alice was leading this conversation, for no one with any taste would find the nurse’s playing pleasing to the ear.
“I was thinking,” Alice went on before he could interject, “of how nice it would be if I returned with a—erm—friend to play some music for the patients here. Might we discuss this?”
“Oh…” Dr. Armstrong appeared to give her proposition earnest consideration. “I suppose we could bring it to Dr. Richards and see what he says.”
“Splendid,” said Alice. “I’m sure he’ll agree that it would be ever such a nice thing to do. Music is simply delightful for the soul, isn’t it?”
Dr. Armstrong agreed, sending an affectionate look toward the shabby piano.
“Do you play, doctor?” Bree asked, a little surprised and genuinely curious.
“Well, not anymore,” he said, and she was rendered quite astonished, almost charmed, when his face turned red.
“Oh, but you did!” said Alice delightedly. “Why, then we simply must arrange this visit! Please, Dr. Armstrong, take me to see Dr. Richards right away.” Without giving him a chance to refuse, Alice gave Bree one quick embrace, bade her farewell, and led him toward the door. The sound of her airy laughter drifted away, more beautiful than any music.
In the blink of an eye, she was gone.
Bree stood still, heart pounding and hands tingling. Had that really just happened? Had Alice been there, slipped her an Iustitia aecum coin, promised to help her, and then vanished? It seemed impossible.
Yet the coin in her stocking insisted that something had been set in motion, a firm foundation laid.
For a plan.
For, she dared to hope, the plan that would see her once again set free.
***
If Bree went to dinner with her heart soaring, it did not take long for it to plummet.
“Madam Lawbreaker had a visitor today,” said Miss Dugford loudly toward upon seeing Bree. “Didn’t you, Mrs. Hatchett? Did you have a simply lovely time with your friend?”
Biting down hard on the tip of her tongue, Bree nodded and brace herself for whatever stinging remark or hissed innuendo was coming her way.
“I’m astonished,” said Miss Dugford. “The poor girl must not know what manner of people you associate with the rest of the time. Did you deceive her, too?”
Bree ignored her. Finding her prey dissatisfactory, Miss Dugford turned away, shifting her attention to a younger girl instead.
“Look at this! How shameful,” she said mockingly, pointing to the girl’s half-eaten meal. “You must eat up. It’s not healthy to eat so little, you know. And it’s so terribly ungrateful of you to leave half your food on the plate.”
The girl stared down in distaste at her lump of boiled beef, mumbling, “I’ve eaten my fill.”
“Are you quite sure about that?” Miss Dugford sighed dramatically and addressed another nurse. “These rich girls, wasting food like it’s nothing. Disgraceful!” She tutted, and the girl’s face flushed deeply, her eyes filling with tears. “Or perhaps her condition is worsening. A healthy young girl in her right mind wouldn’t refuse such a meal, would she?”
The girl ducked her head and said nothing. A tear dripped off her chin, splashing against the wooden tabletop.
“A woman in her right mind wouldn’t go anywhere near this meal,” Bree said.
Sharp intakes of breath up and down her table reminded her that talking back to any of the nurses, but especially this one, was ill-advised. At the moment, however, Bree didn’t care. She didn’t want Nurse Dugford’s attention, either, of course. But the poor girl looked so forlorn. So helpless.
If no one ever said anything, then what would it take to make that horrid woman hold her tongue?
“How extraordinarily impolite!” said Miss Dugford, crossing her arms. “Didn’t you ever learn to mind your own business? Really, Mrs. Hatchett, you ought to be a bit more agreeable. More grateful. You’ve been given such a lovely place to stay while our kind doctors do their best to cure you of your nympho—” She paused dramatically. “Well, as I have a sense of propriety, I won’t say it here.”
Bree’s throat threatened to close up and choke the very words out of her. But instead of fixating on her atrocious meal, she looked up and met Miss Dugford’s gaze. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. Perhaps you should say it.”
The nurse merely clicked her tongue and drifted away. “See? She is a hopeless case.”
“Don’t do anything untoward,” Mrs. Strickland said, clinging to her arm. No doubt she could see Bree’s fingers clenching into fists. “You’ll only regret it.”
Bree forced her breaths to calm.
It was a relief when Dr. Armstrong, making his rounds through the room, paused next to her, a smile on his face. “I must say, Mrs. Wright was very persuasive. We shall have a concert tomorrow.”
“What wonderful news!” she said, her mood buoyed by the sudden smiles beaming around her. “That will be lovely, I’m sure.” For everyone, of course, but especially, if Alice’s whisper was any indication, for her.
Oblivious to the plot he’d unwittingly abetted, Dr. Armstrong smiled again, lightly patted her hand, and moved on.
From where she stood, Miss Dugford watched them with her eyes narrowed. Bree threw her an indignant glare, resolving to keep her spirits undampened.
In this endeavour, she was successful—until it came time to exit the dining room, when Miss Dugford slithered toward her again.
“You seem quite taken with Dr. Armstrong,” she said coolly. “Everyone sees it.” Beneath the glow of the gas lights, her green eyes glittered menacingly. “How terribly improper. He’s a physician. A professional. Are you looking for special treatment or something?”
“I’m not taken with anyone,” Bree said through gritted teeth. “He was just telling me about tomorrow’s concert.”
Something about today felt different; a crueller gleam burned in Miss Dugford’s gaze.
Bree knew she should duck her head and walk away. The coin in her stocking whispered to her softly: if only she could hold out, suffer just a little longer, her imprisonment would soon be over, and the gaping hole in her heart would soon be filled.
Miss Dugford giggled, shrill and girlish—more a caterwaul, a banshee’s scream. “Well, I’m no doctor, but it certainly seems to me that you’re utterly incurable. Married to such a prominent, respectable gentleman with a good job, then running off with a thief? Now throwing yourself at Dr. Armstrong? Why, there’s no fixing such deplorable promiscuity, is there?”
Hot, tingling prickles swept up and down Bree’s entire body.
“Your poor husband,” Miss Dugford sneered. “And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but your poor crook, too. I wonder what they’d say, seeing how you conduct yourself in here. No wonder your constable hasn’t come to visit.” Her head tilted to the side. “And your thief, well, he can’t, can he? He’d be arrested before he made it through the gates.”
Bree heard Mrs. Strickland calling her—Let’s go. Come away. Go on to bed.
“Be quiet,” Bree said, “and leave me alone.”
“But you know…” Miss Dugford continued, still tittering. “Supposing he could. Perhaps he wouldn’t be surprised at all. A man like that, straight from the gutter—why, I’m sure he’s very used to whores and trollops. Just like y—”
The slap of Bree’s palm against Miss Dugford’s cheek echoed through the entire dining room.
Aside from the gasps of alarm that rose among the women who had borne witness, there was only silence.
“How dare you?” Bree demanded. “You don’t know a single thing about me.”
“Did you see that?” Miss Dugford screeched. “You all saw that, right? She hit me!”
“Mrs. Hatchett, really!” one of the other women said. Perhaps it was Mrs. Strickland, horrified, disappointed. Perhaps it was someone else. Bree didn’t care.
Because Miss Dugford, clutching a hand to her bright red cheek, opened her big mouth again.
“Looks like Mrs. Hatchett’s time consorting with the scum of the earth was even more influential than we thought.” Her face contorted into a grimace—animalistic, bloodthirsty. “Were you always a violent little cow, destined to end up here from the start, or was it that Wardrew man who taught you?”
The name no one else was supposed to know struck Bree more fiercely than any blow.
Bree did not realize she had leapt for Miss Dugford until two pairs of arms grabbed her and dragged her away.
“How do you know his name?” It was her voice, she knew, crying out like that, but it came from somewhere far away, impossibly far. The voice of a woman gone feral, panicked and overcome.
And trapped.
Miss Dugford couldn’t know Will’s name, yet she did. Which meant that someone, somewhere, had told the police, and the police had told the rest of the world. Was it Jamie? Had he buckled under the pressure Will had suffered so keenly to withstand? Had someone else informed on IA? Or—worst of all—had the others been caught?
What if, at that very moment, Will was in chains again?
“How do you know?” she cried, tears already streaming down her cheeks.
“Everyone knows!” Miss Dugford snarled, scrambling away. “Wardrew, Marks, Haris! You just haven’t heard because you’re locked up like the bloody lunatic you are!”
Every name—revealed.
All her allies—doomed.
“That’s quite enough!” Dr. Richards bellowed, but Bree barely heard him.
She had consoled herself with the conviction that even if every constable was looking for a man with red-brown hair, hazel eyes, a tattoo, and a price on his head, Will was still protected by his anonymity, and that his name and whatever history remained attached to it would stay hidden long enough for him to get away.
But if everyone knew…
Something pricked her arm. It hurt—but it paled in comparison to the ache inside her soul.
“To your room at once, Mrs. Hatchett,” said Dr. Richards coldly, as a pair of nurses urged her to walk.
They didn’t understand. They couldn’t.
“Perhaps she is mad after all,” said Mrs. Strickland sadly. “She seemed such a sharp little thing.”
How could any of them understand?
“Come on now, Mrs. Hatchett,” a nurse said. “Don’t fight us. We’re here to help you. We know you’re upset. You’ll be all right soon. Just come along.”
It was not until she was almost at her room that Bree realized she felt strange. Not the kind of strange that came with having her soul shredded to ribbons—that remained.
No, this sensation was unfamiliar—limbs growing heavy and weak. Eyes growing dim. Mind growing foggy.
“What did you do?” she whispered. “I feel…”
“I know, lamb,” said the nurse, patting her cheek. “You were distraught, and violent, and you slapped Miss Dugford, didn’t you? That wasn’t kind, but anyone can see you’re suffering. You need rest. The chloral will help you sleep, that’s all, and you’ll feel better in the morning.”
“And then we shall have a conversation about standards of behaviour in this hospital.” Dr. Richards’ voice. Drifting from somewhere behind them.
“Are you with it enough to get into your nightgown?” the nurse asked. “Or do you need help?”
“Don’t touch me,” Bree said. She was crying. Was she? She wasn’t certain. She had been so happy. So hopeful. Earlier. Why? Alice. Colette. Music. A plan.
That Wardrew man. Everyone knows. Whore. Trollop. Bloody lunatic.
“Please leave me alone,” she sobbed when the nurse drew closer. “Don’t touch me. Don’t.”
The invisible spectre of Dr. Richards sighed heavily. “Just wait until she’s out,” he said. “Then you can finish up and help calm everyone else down.”
“Please,” Bree said. “Please. Please.” What was she crying for? Pleading for? She wasn’t certain.
She was so tired.
“You’ll be all right, Mrs. Hatchett.”
A lie, Bree knew, but the room faded, and she knew nothing more.
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Oh btw if you were going to make a modernization of Dracula, the best way to adapt the asylum plotline would be to put it in a psych ward or mental institution. Most of them are just modern asylums, and Seward could get away with all his abusive bullshit in one.
Don’t try to tell me “we don’t have a modern equivalent to asylums anymore.” Yes we do. They just rebranded.
Saying this because that one fucking post really annoyed me.
being within the walls of the asylum, she didn't have windows. just blank walls and a bed that was worn. not to mention, she was always under some kind of medication they would either inject her with or make her take orally. due to these with a mixture of her powers, she would start hallucinating. however, there was one hallucination that would come regularly.
she would imagine a mythical being. one that would fly her away to the sky. where she could live amongst the stars and moon. a place away where there are no walls. no doors. somewhere no one can come near her and hurt her. away from the torture that she would deal with daily. "you're safe, minah." they would say. "no one will hurt you." but then she would wake and find herself laying in that rusty bed staring at the ceiling.
during the day, she would drag her feet down the hall when it was time to walk around. eyes would be hazy, as if nothing would be there. that was usual the case when she was under. but when it would fade out? that's when the demons would come haunting her. all she could see as she would begin screaming. causing a scene until someone comes injecting her again. and then the being would appear in her brain. the same thing happening. picking her up and taking her to the sky. "no one will hurt you."
now, this wouldn't just happen when she's asleep or in her room. it would also happen during treatments. especially during shock therapy. they would bring her to the room, put the headpiece on, then shoot electric waves. her body would feel all the pain. to the point she's almost screaming and crying. but what kept her at ease? she would shut her brain off and feel that being with her. wrapping her up and holding her. "you're safe minah. no one will hurt you."
but reality would hit all over again. accepting the fact that she will never be in the sky. surrounded by stars. feeling the reflection of the moon. just this never ending torture. and this mythical creature isn't real. just her mental escape.
