Louder Than Sirens ➳ Larry

day three

day three

The sound of faint, crackly, static-filled music plays through the speakers of an old radio. The song echoes throughout the asylum's tight hallways, amplifying as Louis approaches the room at the end of the north wing. His heeled boots click along the tiled floors, littered with small shoeprints and unidentifiable smudges. Dark mold collects in the corners of the walls, spreading downward like an infectious disease.

Briefly, Louis pauses in the middle of the hallway and snaps a picture of the dark, dreary corridor. His camera strap hangs securely around his neck, tapping against his chest in sync with his movements. He can hear the music growing increasingly louder when he approaches the final door, number thirty-six, which was left wide open. He glances inside subtly, squinting his eyes.

Patients in white gowns sit across the room around circular tables, scribbling with crayons on old, faded paper. Others are molding with dust-covered clay, creating pots, figurines, or various abstract shapes. Messy artwork decorates the bricked walls. Paint splatters scatter across the tables' wooden surfaces.

Sunlight streams through a nearby window, creating a rectangular patch of brightness on the reflective floor. Outside, a flock of blackbirds perch on a leafless tree, clinging to the oak's wooden skeleton. The sky is a light shade of grey, almost white, making the outside world appear gloomy and dreadful. For once, the asylum's interior seems more cheerful than the outdoors.

"Mr. Tomlinson?"

Startled, Louis stands up straight and adjusts his suit, tugging on the hem to unwrinkle it. A red-haired nurse stands inside of the art room, staring at him with a curious expression. She's positioned next to a table of patients, but fortunately, they're distracted with their own unique works of art.

He clears his throat. "Sorry for eavesdropping. I was just, uh—"

"Relax," the nurse chuckles, walking towards him. She's young and beautiful with ruby lips and freckles. "Would you like to come see our patients' artwork?"

Louis smiles softly. "Yes, of course. Thank you, Miss."

"No need to be so formal. My name's Sandy."

Louis gives a soft, breathy laugh. "Thank you, Sandy."

She nods and beckons for him to follow. She walks back towards the circular table. A Rolling Stone's song plays on the radio nearby, resting on a windowsill. Louis looks over a patient's shoulder and examines his art. He's fairly old, probably in his forties, but he has the mentality of a child. He's scribbling like a toddler with wax crayons, creating messy tangles of reds and blues and greens.

"I'd like to apologize on behalf of the other nurses," Sandy murmurs. "I've noticed they've been giving you a hard time."

Louis just waves his hand dismissively as if it's no big deal. But truth be told, it is a big deal. He's noticed the other nurses' lack of openness, lack of kindness, lack of respect towards him. It's beginning to interfere with his investigation. He feels like he's stuck at a dead end. He can't fulfill his responsibilities without their cooperation.

"But thankfully, we're not all stubborn," Sandy says cheerfully. "Personally, I actually think this investigation is a great idea."

"You do?"

"Of course. It'll bring attention to our financial problems. We need more government funding, sir, and you have a direct connection."

Louis frowns. He knows the asylum has more issues than a simple lack of money. It's abuse, neglect, and corruption. It's something dark and evil and secretive. Perhaps the asylum's low income creates undesirable living conditions, but Louis knows there's something else happening here. He can sense it in the patients' lifeless, soulless, hopeless eyes.