𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐍𝐎 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐊 𝐀𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐌. It should have been a place of refuge from the storms that hurt and weathered the mind, a place of safety and sanctuary, a place to be welcomed into with open arms that will hold on until the entire self is soothed, content to simply dwell in those tranquil moments—the pillar in the hurricane. And yet, it was anything but.

In truth, the asylum would have been more aptly named as a house of torture, for the removal of any hope of real love is such. Proof lies in the bare walls and bare floors, reflections of what the place really was, as if the building itself was trying to tell the miserable staff what they had built and perpetuated. Then there were the windowless rooms, the lack of real light, the doors without handles—if the asylum was truly an asylum, it would be akin to the rich's fancy retreating homes, all soothing and quiet and calm, void of screams without meaning at any given moment of the day. It would be the manifestation of empathy to soothe a person's entire being, and there is no sanity or goodness to unearth when one simply declares a jumble of words if the actions tell another story.

The only thought running through the nurse's head at the moment was that lunatics never had any common sense, but then, that was exactly what unhinged the facility—lack of common sense. The newest inmate at Milbury Hospital was not unlike many of the others, but if he had any sense, he would be taking advantage of yard time to exercise with the others under the beautifully shining sun, doing himself some good instead of insisting he didn't belong.

"Let me out!" he demanded for what seemed like the thousandth time, his tone angry as he protested vehemently, "I am an English gentleman and I do not tolerate such treatment of an upstanding British citizen!"

The nurse paid little attention to the man's demands, and he continued. "I demand my rights as a faithful subject of the queen. Let me out of this blasted coffin, I say!"

"It is not a coffin, Mr. Kippersalt," the nurse patiently corrected, staying focused on her knitting needles as she sat quite comfortably in a wooden chair beside the door, employing a soothing but bored tone, "Perhaps it resembles a coffin, but you can see quite well that a coffin would not be built in such a way to allow you to breathe freely. You are not in any difficulties—"

"Not in any difficulties?" the man interrupted her with a barking laugh heard very clearly from inside the confines of the restraining box, causing the nurse to frown and lay her knitting needles in her lap in favor of reaching for a pad of paper and a pencil. "Not in any difficulties in the horrid device?" he exclaimed, letting out a rather high-pitched laugh.

The man had been confined to a utica crib—an ordinary bed with locked hinged top—shortly after his arrival, having fought with the keepers and blackened the director's eye in an attempt to escape, and the nurse had seen several similar cases of the man's behavior in the past. "You are not physically indisposed," she assured him, "And surely the crib is preferable to a straight-jacket."

The man scoffed amidst his barks of laughter, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "A crib? Is that what this fiendish device is called?"

The nurse watched Mr. Kippersalt carefully, fingering the pencil in her hand. She had to keep a close eye on him, she knew, for despite his apparent delusions he was unexpectedly quick for someone of his build, as well as resourceful—he'd managed to get as far as the asylum's fence when trying to escape. The pad in her hand was empty save for the date and time, but this was no longer the case.

Laughing in hysteria.

The notes she was taking would make their way into Mr. Kippersalt's case book as soon as she had a chance, but for now, she merely sat and observed, taking notes when she saw fit, stating that the man had actively resisted putting on the asylum's standard grey wool uniform while his things were carted away for safekeeping, how he had refused food, how he exhibited some standard of intelligence, as well as a dozen other mentions of his bodily functions that needn't have been included if not for his protests at being in such a situation.

"A crib is far too pleasant a name for a device that cheats me of my freedom," he declared, his unnerving laughter quieting as he stroked his beard, as if deep in thought, "When are you going to let me out?"

The nurse nearly scoffed herself, but held her tongue. The asylum's doctor, an addict to laudanum himself, hardly troubled himself with the likes of the patients other than to medicate them. "After the doctor has seen you."

"Doctor? I am a doctor!" the man began to howl with laughter once again before abruptly ceasing and banging his fists on the top of the wooden contraption, "This is outrageous!"

Insists on pursuing grandiose delusions.

The nurse set the paper aside and took up her knitting, hoping her silence would cause the man to calm down, but with little success, and the noise made her lose a stitch in her knitting; much like being married to the director of an insane asylum, losing a stitch could be most vexing, seeing as how there were dozens of responsibilities to be done and chores to be had at every turn, never a quiet moment to oneself to take a walk somewhere far away or dine in peace.

The nurse sighed as she searched for the missing stitch on the floor, picking it up and answering the man with a slight edge in her voice. "You know that is not true, Mr. Kippersalt. Your admission papers clearly state that you are a shopkeeper, not a doctor."

"For the last time, my name is not Kippersalt! There has been a terrible mistake! Why is it so difficult for anyone in this hellish place to listen to what I have to say, and to understand that I most certainly do not belong here?"

"I have been in this field for thirty years, Mr. Kippersalt, and patients often believe a mistake has been made, but this was never the case," she commented—it never could be, what with all the sums of money exchanging hands—well-aware of how the man was straining his neck to watch her from the crib, "Take a man like you—many have come here declaring to be William Shakepseare, or Napoleon—"

"I'm telling you the truth!"

"—and some of the poor souls are eventually cured," the nurse continued, ignoring his interruption, because a part of her knew it would anger him further, "But some are confined here for the rest of their lives. Is that what you want, Mr. Kippersalt?"

"Stop calling me Kippersalt!" he shouted, shaking the bars of the crib once more, his thin moustache bristling and spraying with spit as he did so, "My name is Watson!"

"We have a Sherlock Holmes in the next room," she answered shortly, becoming quite tired of the man's games, "Shall I ask him if he's willing to vouch for you?"

Watson wanted nothing more than to bang his head on the bars of the coffin-like box, but he knew it would only further the nurse's belief in his alleged insanity. "You are the one who is mad, I say, I am John Watson! All you have to do is telephone Scotland Yard and ask for Inspector Lestrade, he will confirm my identity—"

"I'm afraid that simply isn't possible," the nurse said, gathering her knitting needles and paper and pencil, shaking her head as she glanced back at the man, a spark of pity filling her chest as she surveyed him. It had been two days since his arrival and Mr. Kippersalt was still raving just as passionately as he had been on his arrival; there was absolutely no way the director would make such inquiries, seeing as how doing so would be renouncing the considerable fee he had been given and letting him go free.

The nurse was on her way out when she noticed the lack of noise coming from the man, and she turned her back to the door to see if he had calmed down at last. Despite laying on his back, it was not difficult to see his defeated and thoughtful expression from across the room, his body cramped in the confines of the crib, only allowing the most miniscule of movements.

It was a sad case, really. The nurse had dealt with many lunatics in her experience, but she felt particularly sorry for this one, for losing such intellect in society was truly a shame. He seemed as if he could have done some good in the world, if only he were in his right mind.

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄

Okay, so first thing's first, obviously because this takes place during the early 20th century there's gonna be some stuff that isn't viewed the same way it is now. I think I did a fairly good job hinting at the predicament "Mr. Kippersalt" is in at the moment, so if you caught that, noice!

I hope I wrote this alright and not offensively, on one hand I want to be historically accurate and I don't wanna sugarcoat anything, but at the same time I also don't want to offend, you know? So let me know how I did

Thanks for reading!