I'm Not Crazy (American Horror Story)

Home Sweet Home

k i t

It was déjà vu. Taking me out of the back of a van in a straight jacket, reporters' camera bulbs flashing brightly into my eyes, questions of why I had done what I did flying through the air like disease. It had all happened before. And, like before, it was not me. I was not crazy. I didn't belong in here with the dirty, neglected misfits who had been tossed out like spoiled milk by their loved ones. I had done this once before, and I would come out clean again. I was not crazy.

Upon entering the asylum, I was surprised not to see Sister Jude waiting for me. I recalled hearing she had gone missing, but I assumed she went on a trip for a time or something of the sort. Had they still not found her? Instead of the tight, strict face I had expected to see, there was a cheery looking young woman. I hadn't ever seen her before. New staff? Young staff? Strange. I had only been out of Briarcliff for  eight years or so, tops. How had it changed so much?

"You must be Mr. Walker." She smiled. What the hell was going on? Good treatment? I thought this was a mental hospital, not a mental hotel. Or maybe she was the mental one. "Guards, if you'll take the gentleman to my office just at the top of the staircase, that would be wonderful. Leave him there and I will -" Another lady, young as well, interrupted her speech, her face flushed and out of breath.

"Sister Alice! Cell 87 had a meltdown. We can't get him down." I could see the tranquilizer syringe glinting in the pocket of her habit.

"If you'll just bring him up to my office, I shall be up to meet him quite soon." She smiled once again, following behind the other woman. The halls were all empty. It was dead silent.

We arrived at a familiar door. This used to be Sister Jude's office. One of the guards opened the door, and the other pushed me in, muttering a "Go".

The leather cuffs binding my hands together pinched my skin. When the door slammed behind me, I was completely alone in the room in which I had been whipped until I bled. The room where I had been tortured and punished like a dog and screamed at until Sister Jude was blue in the face. Now that she wasn't here, the walls screamed for her: welcome back, Kit Walker.

I sank into the cushioned chair positioned in front of the desk, the whole atmosphere of the place falsely cheery so people would only feel half bad dumping the people they loved here. We didn't know what else to do, they would mutter, crocidile tears being swept away with monogrammed handkerchiefs. We've run out of options.

I was stuck in here because it was a hell of a lot cheaper to kick me under the rug than throw me in jail. In here, they could keep me quiet. No unwelcome outsiders dared enter Briarcliff after the Lana Winters mishap. I was on my own.

The door to the office swung open behind me. The woman from before straighted her headpiece before entering, another cheesy smile on her face. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Walker. I had some business to tend to."

No, of course, it's fine. I know all about this business.

She sat in the chair behind the desk, shuffling some papers around. "You've stayed with us before, haven't you?" I said nothing. She just nodded and continued to shuffle her damn papers. "I think for old time's sake we'll house you in your old cell. How does that sound?"

Fan-fucking-tastic, lady.

She called to the guards, and as they grabbed me, I noticed something missing. The room felt empty and off. I didn't know what it was - did they paint the walls? Clean the windows? Polish the floors? Rearrange the furniture? Furniture. Bingo.

The wardrobe was missing. All of Sister Jude's precious canes, whips... they were all housed in a wardrobe here, and it was gone. I could only hope this new nun would be violence-free, although I couldn't trust my thoughts - I was, of course, crazy.

Those in their cells banged on the doors as we walked by, crying out and screaming. Ahh, the sounds of home.

The hallways started to become familiar, and I wanted to kick myself when it brought back memories from my stay here before; with the memories came nostalgia. I was nostalgic about being trapped in a mental asylum because I was wrongly accused of being a serial killer. Maybe I was crazy.

The guards slowed their walking and came to a stop in front of a cell door. The hallway was dark, very dark. Too dark to see, even. But when they threw me in the cell and closed the door behind me, leaving me in almost complete darkness, I couldn't help but feel that it was my cell. I couldn't help but feel like I was... home.

The walls here didn't scream. They whispered.

Welcome home, Kit Walker. Welcome home.