There is a reprieve this night in the asylum, and Sally does what any sane person would do — she clings to it with all her strength. The weight that sits in her chest melts away, allowing for one starving breath. The scent of sweat and dusty linen is willed from her mind, replaced with memories of tomatoes and fresh soil. Her feet take her down the hall, heels clicking, echoing into an expanse of shadows. She does not allow herself to see the stains on the walls or the fracture in the window's pane. She could draw them from memory but, for this moment, they cease to exist.
As Sally reaches the end of the hall, she peers into a patient's room, illuminated by a blade of moonlight cutting across the floor. A young girl, sitting atop the bed, flinches at the oncoming shadow. Only as Sally walks into the moonlight does the girl release her grip on a bundle of sheets. Sally offers a sympathetic smile to her... the Anxious Girl. The asylum's file lists her name as Marion, but the staff have codes for each patient. The Catatonic Boy, the Sweaty Codger, the Anxious Girl. Everything they are summarised into two words.
Sally sits on the edge of the bed, braiding the Anxious Girl's dry, brittle hair. Did you visit the community room today? The Anxious Girl hugs her pillow. I stayed here. A light moan carries through the hall, the first indication that peace will soon be broken. Sally does her best to ignore it, weaving one strand of hair over another. Did you know that room has a chair by the window? You can see the robins building a nest in the trees. The Anxious Girl looks to the hallway, her shoulders tensing as she listens to the distant moan. Sally gently rubs the girl's shoulder, wordlessly offering her sympathy. They sit for a short time until a scream carries through the hallway.
Sally marches down the hall to the source of the scream. Patients, each in their own rooms, react, an interlude of cries and shrieks joining in, accompanied by the thumping of a head slamming into a wall. The volume builds, louder and more chaotic, until finally, as if reaching a crescendo, a patient howls. Sally rushes into a room, moving towards a hideously scarred woman, restrained to the bed, whose scream slowly dies into soft, mirthful laughter. Did you enjoy the song, sweet nurse? I call it Concerto of Lunatics.
The asylum is wide awake now, alive, anxious, the scattered shrieks and moans of patients ricocheting through the halls. Sally's chest tightens, as she struggles to breathe. Why... why must you rile them? The Broken Woman smiles beneath the swath of bandages over her scarred face. Through two small holes, mismatched eyes—blue and orange—sparkle. Oh, sweet nurse, what are the jesters for if not a laugh? Sally knows to step away, knows there is nothing to gain from arguing, yet she cannot restrain herself. They are humans and, sick as they may be, they deserve sympathy. This is a line Sally has told herself many times over the years, though that is all it has become—a line; a series of carefully rehearsed words pushed through chapped lips. Perhaps this is why the Broken Woman chuckles as if trading quips with a friend. They deserve sympathy? Most have contributed nothing but pain, and the others have contributed nothing at all.
Sally makes no attempt to suppress her disgust as she looks at the Broken Woman's smile. You would criticise your fellow patients for bringing nothing to this world, yet what have you provided? The Broken Woman awkwardly sits up on her bed, pulling at her restraints like a restless marionette. I have provided more to this world than a thousand missionaries. When I saw sickness, I did not coddle it, feed it, wipe the tears from its eyes—I cleansed it! The Broken Woman sees she has Sally's attention. If we want humanity to survive, we must be its custodians, sweet nurse. And yet... we have allowed an infection to fester—the evidence pervading these walls. The Broken Woman pauses, allowing her point to settle. Shrieks and moans from the mentally insane echo through the halls.
Sally feels her nerves tighten with each chaotic noise that comes her way. She has little desire to argue, yet duty compels. Are you not within these walls too? Would that not make you part of the infection? The Broken Woman smiles as if expecting this question. I am the solution, condemned to the halls of the infected. Like you, I was a nurse. But I served not the patients but the greater good. With one simple injection I removed the weak from the gene pool. I watched them in their death throes, knowing my actions were backed by honest science so few have the strength to trust. And do you know what the courts called me for following logic? Insane!
The days pass, but Sally's unsure how many. She always finds herself back in the asylum, tending to the frantic, the violent, the feeble. Down the hall, the Bad Man has slipped his restraints again. Like a wolf, he shows no motive but to prowl for the weak, and it appears he's found his prey. He drags the naked body of the Rancid Son by the ankles. Blood spills from the Son's head. Sally does not know if the man is dead. Calling for help, she sprints down the hall with a syringe filled of sedatives. There are no other nurses to come to her aid. Financial restrictions have seen to that. She considers that she is running to her death this time, but there is something involuntary in her movements, as if she has become a spectator. The Bad Man lets go of the Rancid Son's ankles and turns his attention to Sally. He fails to notice Harvey Kavanagh, the plump orderly, round the corner behind him. Harvey slams The Bad Man into the floor as he's done to so many patients. Sally jabs a sedative into the Bad Man's neck. The Bad Man sags in place and with a look of bewilderment falls to the ground.
The decrepit hall is silent. Sally looks over the scene at her feet. Kavanagh's sizable frame hefts up and down as he catches his breath, thick arm slung over The Bad Man who rests peacefully. The Rancid Son, either unconscious or dead, lies beneath them with Kavanagh's boot pressed against his nostril. The smear of blood from his head goes on for thirty feet down the hall before curling into an adjacent room. Sally laughs to stop herself from screaming.
Sally finds herself in the Broken Woman's room. The mismatched eyes of the Broken Woman appear sympathetic as the sunlight shimmers over them, yet she speaks with sharpened words. Shame about that bloody disturbance yesterday. Boys like that are made a certain way... not built for civil society. The big, brutish one, well, it is as plain as the skin on his face. And the other, oh, the other one hides it well. But have you looked at his family name? That will explain everything.
Sally wills herself to think of a gentle lake, lilies and—no... all she can see are the grimy asylum walls and bloody bandages. There are no gentle breezes to distract her, only the Broken Woman's voice prodding deeper. Did you not have a husband, sweet nurse? I recall the newspaper article... hand to heart, my dear, I cried at his unfortunate death. You would have had beautiful babies. To now be here, a widow of pure genes, serving the filth of the world—such a turn of events.
Sally gets up, leaving a bandage half-wrapped. Her feet shuffle imprecisely as she moves for the door. She tries to push her thoughts away, knows she shouldn't think it, but—it is such cruelty. Her love was pure, her husband pure, and those who live in these halls are anything but. Yet these sick, twisted beasts, receive the care and attention deserved to the man she lost.
Her throat catches on each breath. Her vision blurs. She wants to run but knows it's no use. No matter where she goes, she always finds herself back in these halls. With swirling thoughts, one stark realization breaks through: it is not she who keeps the insane confined to these halls, but the insane who confine her.
She falls to the unforgiving floor.
YOU ARE READING
The archives
Horrorthe archives from dead by daylight that's it I dont own any of the art that is in this book
