✨ Another sleepless

night trapped in my

own fucking mind. ✨

--- *** ---
--- Later that Day ---

Hours after hours, elapsing after one another together and boding every advancing hour from the day-and-night episode, the heavy rain hasn't even ebbed out in the small city of Massachusetts.

The gloominess of the weather was equalizing the ambitious Monsignor and your homesickness and the scarce delightful wish to depart from one another even though your arranged release was a fact sooner than later.

Even when the British compatriot tried his best meticulously getting you out of his mind once you were out of his sight with tasking himself with collaborating with Sister Jude and Sister Mary Eunice and visiting certain sites where his presence was obligation, the intensifying, everlasting hurricane of thoughts balefully contaminated to imprint timelessly.

Wrenching his sheer pride and sacrifice to behold the genuine pattern of mirth donning your lips after giving you the farewell present for your Briarcliff leave, the vivid memories of your smile, your dainty fingers curling around the single rose's handle and your flattered words, severely touched with stark gratitude and were eroding smoothly, finely.

Just when the holy man got back to Briarcliff in the wee hours of the evening after visiting certain places and stilling his hands on the steering wheel of his jet black cab, thereafter the tiresome buzzing of car engine halted in a stop and the heavy rian slapping roughly the windshield of the cab when he was picking up his own suitcase and hopped out of the car by locking it without thinking twice.

As soon as his tall figure was starkly exposed to the natural phenomenon and devouring God's bitter, unattractively sultry tears of despondence drenching his conservatively wool attires of clergy, subsequently he dashed to the madhouse's stone massive without turning back to his vehicle once again until generous layer of moisture baptized him, coating his attires, chestnut hair and milky skin tone with bitter staining-wetness, drumming monotonously until he towered effortlessly, ruthlessly the massive.

Even when the rain has played its own cards right to drench with modicum of God's undeniable sorrow, fertilizing the plants and nature to flourish into something they're going to escalate with their maturity, at least, the British aristocrat was beyond relieved and sensed modicum of christening even when his body temperature opted to bear the wetness, ominously menacing his flu and health condition to diminish its own healthy percentage with weaker body temperature and affecting certain prominent body parts.

Lingering the small, vulnerably benevolent with graining textures of woefulness smile, he opened the double front door of the old, dilapidating madhouse with an ease and his tall figure maintaining an adequate proximity with the marbled, definedly well-sculptured statue, representing St. Mary and the Stairway to Heaven with a couple of staff members dragging writhing patients, croaking their desperate roars at the top of their brittle lungs, indicating their genuine protest. The pungent reek of urine, death, heavy medicaments, poor hygiene and medical supplies were clung to every surrounder's frame, wafting across Timothy's vulnerable, tiny nostrils.

Once the pious sister of the church was cascading humdrumly the spiral stairs as Timothy was bulked into the violent ear-throbbing ballad of midnight black classy chunks drumming against the concrete, her petite, alabaster hand glittering the gracefully lacquered handrail like an oblong venomous snake, slithering vainly in her own direction and lugging her own weight up to somewhere, his smoky quartz bijous landed on the petite frame, tugging yet his benevolently sly smile.

"Monsignor, what a relief to see ya!" Shortly after the older woman descended the Stairway to Heaven and maintained an appropriate proximity with the younger man, measured in its approximate number of a few inches solely, tugging a huge, sympathetic grin at her opened mouth in wide O, her ivory marbled enamel sheening past his bijous. "Did you send away that little Juliette of yars?" In the interval, her naturally roseate, plumpish lips parted in the scoff, computing its sheer, genuine myriad of sarcasm, oozing of her Boston lilt that illustrated her childish, informal side.

"Jude," The graveness, puncturing Timothy's authoritative timbre thudded his honeyed address to his rara avis without increasing the decibels of his voice, narrowing his eyebrows at her scoff which was clearly offending, in his humble opinion. "Do not call her like that!"

"Then how I should call her, Timothy?" In the meantime, the both pious members of the church ventured in pacing in the abysmal, dim light hallway of the madhouse. "Yar excessively nice to {Y/N} unlike the other patients which you're moderately polite to them. Huh?"

"You didn't even give her a second chance even to listen to her story and give her some credit she isn't delusional at all." Even when the clergyman opted to defend {Y/N} and his cussing optimism and realism blended altogether, thus a heavy sigh elaborated the Bostonian's ribcage, darkening her glance which were a successful way to tighten her stare at the younger man's charming facial attributes.

"She even showed signs of verbal aggression and yar defending her?"

"Nobody isn't a saint, Jude! She isn't a saint neither." Suddenly once the pairing stormed off to check on Doctor Arden and his ongoing experiments, the blonde stifled a frustrated, furious groan after tugging her lower plump lip between her creamy-coloured front teeth. "Even the electroshock therapy idea for her punishment was far from adequate and it's going to make the things worse for an innocent girl like her. Just imagine what kind of insanity we'd burden her shoulders with." In the interim, the young man manipulated one of his virginally marbled, strong hands' fingertips to daub the generous, sticky layer of perspiration, glazing above his dark thick eyebrow." It's really unnecessary since she's been through a lot."

"You're worshipping her and talking about her as if she's yar God." Cold-blooded gasp rolled from her pink mouth, lowering her gaze to transmute it into a glance at her classy chunks hovering beneath the cemented flooring, she elaborated to flare her tiny, flexible nostrils.

"That's absolute untrue! I just find her innocent in that case." Once the business partners composed themselves beside the door and vacillating tirelessly sweaty who's going to rap on the door, animating alarming noises to keep the former Nazi war criminal's wits about his recent visitors. "Jude, in fact, that you're in charge of this facility, it doesn't give you the right to judge some patients and treat them as if they've caused any harm to you." What it was shredding the younger man's flimsy heart on trillions of glassy, crystalline pieces and overflowing a rich cataract of heartbreak and frustration was how the Bostonian was harshly, brashly judging and labeling labels on {Y/N} without even daring to listen to your story and subsuming the recollected piece of information into her mind with ocean of thoughts. Moreover, the British aristocrat hasn't anticipated anybody to be brashly and impulsively judgmental towards you behind your back and he's always deemed Jude as his own rare bird with one of a kind character, outstanding discipline, sheer intelligence, authentic charisma and youthful appearance and keep dolling up herself with sufficient quantity of cosmetics, powdering her facial skin and hydrating and fertilizing its glossiness even though they're pretty futile, factly, she's a devotional woman of the cloth. Unlike the majority of the diligent nuns, the Bostonian wasn't sharing partly anything in common with them and her presentable toff self-consciousness pressurised her due to her former lifestyle to smarten herself with trimming her long mop of aureate luster tresses with shortening with a few inches from their excessive growth and natural, healthy fertilization as well, besides evading any bids with her rapid hair growth and esthetic bloom through elapsing weeks and months.

"Who is going to knoc-" When the former licentious jazz nightclub singer's berry-coloured tongue lubricated the vowels and syllables thickly to drip from her mouth in vague stammer, suddenly the senior doctor's office door swung opened, his tall, gracefully elder slender figure standing beside the shorter, younger uninvited guests. "Doctor Arden!" Sternness punctured the nun's timbre, emphasizing Arthur's professional title, squinting up his lapis lazuli, oozing of intimidating moonless tenor's reverence, coating densely his indiscernible jet-black pupils, amplifying his nonchalance's climate of his eyesight.

"Sister Jude and Monsignor, I haven't been expecting you so far!" Stepping aside to allow the both pious members of the clergy to set a foot in his austere, expansive office, the both smaller frames staked with their own very presences the office, glimpsing in each corner and angle of the grim site, in case, the Bostonian wasn't quite fond of the former Nazi war criminal and even more it admonished her to fence with her boss about him, bringing it as a top somehow on their coq-au-vin Friday dinner night a couple of nights ago. Further, the former licentious nightclub singer has always regarded the arcanely enigmatic, hideous doctor of science as nothing than cynical character who profoundly obscures galore of gloomy secrets of his own infamous past and reputation which haven't encountered the absolute reality of its foes, hungrily coveting to discover who really is Dr. Arden into their eyes after surreptitiously devising to sneak into his personal belongings or at least possessions to collect modicum of information about his detrimental inner antagonist, mirroring his manipulated silhouette escorting him and veiling his tall figure. "What brings you there in this part of the day?"

"We just wanted to make sure if everything is fine, Doctor!" Shortly after scanning in a glimpse and capturing the petty details in snapping their eyelids with blinks even examining them in a scrutiny after interacting to certain objects, their journey resumed to the unwelcoming laboratory with its superlative amalgamating reek of urine, human sweat, heavy medicaments, human flesh, gore and bleach swiftly and smoothly whiffled past their noses.

Notwithstanding how the British compatriot wasn't very fond of Jude's methods of punishment towards the lunatics, anyway what it assembled them and forming a coalition was their sheer skepticism about Doctor Arden after acknowledging an accident, befalling one of the patients who was strapped on Dr. Arden's patient bed and the barbarous experiments and binding his physical freedom with railing the dynamic roller coaster of sore pain, agony and the real notion of torture even disquieting him, Frank urgently informed his beloved boss about the prequel of the patient's torture an hour ago, although his subtle journey inside Arthur's office and laboratory, while he's checking on the patients in the common room and conversating his favorite innocent woman of the cloth Sister Mary Eunice.

"I'd like to know what on world brings you there instead of excusing yourselves and investigate every petty detail that I possess." The harshness in his northern lilt of the senior doctor emphasized his true nature of mild irritation, his mammoth, stiff and unnaturally pallid hands shoved in his smart slacks' pockets, entering in his lab even barely wrenching widening his ocean blue orbs at the sight of his foe aiming to the repository territory and swinging opened the door after turning the door handle, the vista of a handful of doors converging her caramel brown cabochons, glinting skepticism and contempt whilst maneuvering her clammy-coated-clad fingers dexterously to fix her wool, conservative wimple, dithering which door to open in first place. In the meanwhile, the younger man was surveying in a perusal the lab location with his smoky quartz cabochons, his heart rate increasing rabidly rapid due to his sharp intuition of something spontaneous befalling him or at least betiding to encounter and looking into the face of evil.

The lacing elasticity of the silence, stretching the adults in a deformed triangle and summoning hushing shadows and demons to chase them even hatch their demons altruistically, infernally to not keep them calm at all at the moment. The haphazardness of the lunatic's morose croak, excoriating his throat dumbfounded the holy woman throbbing alarming dispirited tones into her ears drew her attention in no time and reaching her trembling hand to the door handle of the one of the doors, subsequently her gape landed on the armless mutilated body of a patient, visually in the beginning of his forties with light-heavy wrinkles uncommonly accenting his scabby, still beauteous facial attributes, vibrantly contrasting the luxurious cluster of emotions which were welling into his blanched silver-mottled-lapis lazuli-clad irises, gawking jadedly, dispiritedly at Judy. Further, his shabbily slovenly auburn unruly, discolored in lacking gloss strands framed his round, full profile with its length peaking to his neck and his skin tone was unhealthily pallid, far from the natural, healthily silken pale. He stood 5'11 beside the petite-frame of the former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer with her humble 5'5 for an average lady. Last but not least, his body structure was crucially leaning to ungracefully skinny physique, modicum beginnings of bulging bones beneath his tiresome patient outfit. His name was Joshua Sam Plympton. The genuine reason why he's committed to the ill-famed madhouse was his fanatic and feeble obsession with underaged ladies and women without their consent even being charged of sexually harassing and sedating them even murdering them by turning them in horrifying sex dolls for his own carnal pleasures.

"Help me, Sister!" Suddenly Judy shafted her smoky quartz embers in stark perturbation and overwhelmness at the disturbing prospect of the mutilated inmate, his weakened in the knee caps areas legs and manipulating them to move them in the severe, sore pain after his tremendous writhes while being fettering his wrists, throat and ankles, lurching stubbornly and awkwardly, almost losing his balance due to his armless body. "This doctor is a sociopathic sadist!" Then her mouth opened in an unbelievably wide O, indicating her naked mortification, availably readable across her blanched facial attributes, a bittersweet lump seething up in her feminine Adam's apple, ballooning until she ushered her throat muscles to swig it momentarily, gesturing with a hand her love interest to follow her.

"He mutilated ya by chopping your arms from yar torso?" Meanwhile, the auburn-haired gentleman managed to bob his head in solemn agreement, whereas zipping his chapped, pallid-pinkish lips in a desperate purse.

"Sister, what's going on?"

--- *** ---

--- A Several Hours Later or So ---

--- 29th of October, 1964 ---

Within the elapsing hours after taking a shower, catnapping in the afternoon hours, phoning your friends to arrange a Halloween house party in the German-Canadian compatriot's two-story mansion which was privately owned by her immensely wealthy family, besides having a healthily mouth-watering dinner meal to compensate the low-quality, scant meals twice daily which you had in the madhouse, you could hardly blink your eyelids for a split second to collect modicum of rest throughout the nocturnal episode.

Sitting by yourself in the partly ebony living room on the conveniently leather sofa, transfixing your {E/C} bijous on the plugged radio in the plug to reproduce tunes, vibrating its gear technology, while you're donned in nothing else than a large-sized T-shirt with beauteously embroidered black polka dots, texturing and matching peachily with the mint green cotton fabric's attire, pairing it with black comfy panties, securing your pubic area warmly with dab of swaddle, gently grazing your hips.

You couldn't get out of your mind yet the ambitious Monsignor and his benevolence what galore of wonders he bewitched you with in the period of a handful of days through your chaotic journey in the ill-famed mental hospital for criminally insane. Furthermore, you glanced at the single midnight black rose which was motionlessly swaddled in its indigo floral vessel in the middle of the kitchen table, overspreading its pleasant vibes your overall household. Notwithstanding how small was your apartment for a few people solely like a happily married couple with whether one or two children, your household was rooming a bedroom, a living room, a kitchen, a corridor, a bathroom and two sufficiently extensive balconies, linking with your bedroom and living room in tandem-clad shaped.

"The doctor of science of Briarcliff, Doctor Arthur Arden has been arrested a couple of hours ago as a sequence of Sister Jude and Monsignor Howard finding an armless patient, being victim of his inhumane experiments such as mutilation." Once the radio journalist nonchalantly, professionally touched the spotlight on the radio news announcement in three o'clock in the morning, all of a sudden you snapped widened in panic your {E/C} embers, blazing vibrantly with glossy inquisitiveness and bewilderment though you've seen even encountered the doctor of science of the asylum like once or twice even striking you with his enigmatic, calm and sassy nature even though he didn't seem to be a good person at all, in your humble opinion. You stifled a mere, idle yawn after managing to lug your hand over your mouth, narrowing your glassy, jadedly red-rimmed gawk at the retro radio. "What it emanated of the unspeakable horror of Briarcliff was one of the security guards has found the mutilated patient in the doctor's laboratory. Furthermore, he discovers the victim of the inhumane experiments just an hour before the members of the church started their persistent investigation in Dr. Arden's office and lab." Despite your inward victorious smugness of Jude and Timothy's final decision to inform the authorities about the leery former Nazi war criminal and his recent prey of his experiments, the name of the aspiring Monsignor still lingered in your eardrums, sinfully sweetly chanting melodious tunes after it frostily stuck on your tongue tip, your fingertips uneasily, inanely drummed against the oak wood table on your right side.

The insomnia was swaddling you frostily in its own suffocating embrace, scarcely arranging your release from your vortex of thoughts, buried in the underworld's infernal outskirts with its demons and shadows, cloaking your physical and mental agony with balkily staying awake as much as possible. You still can't dump your thoughts and most of all recollected memories of the only priest who dared to take a good care of you even grant you a farewell present for your compassionate and diplomatic personality after dedicating sufficient amount of his trust to you after your interacts throughout the advancing hours.

Suddenly a rap on the door snapped you out of your idle condition, shaking your head as your iron-willed silken strands bounced and jerked in the choir. Your heart rate increased significantly unnaturally at the unexpected uninvited guest, standing beside the front door of your flat and anticipating eagerly playing his own cards right.

The lowly droning radio yet chanted the radio news in the loneliest hours of the early morning, cusping with the late night.