Steam rose from the floor of the communal shower. The girl stood beneath the shower head in one of the stalls, the hot water soaking her body as it fell from above. She was alone save for Greta, the orderly who was impatiently waiting by the entrance, staring at the girl as she stood motionless while the water dripped from her body onto the tiled floor. A single, grimy bulb in the center of the room shone, casting jagged shadows across the walls and floor. Greta, with a sudden cold shiver running up her spine, hastened to the immobile girl and yanked her from under the stream. The girl didn’t so much as flinch at the harsh grip of the older woman. In a fierce whisper Greta commanded the girl to move and shoved her forward as she shut the water off and clumsily wrapped the girl in a shabby hospital gown. Pulled forward by the orderly, the girl began a slow progression out of the room as her long, soaking hair seeped water onto the thin white gown revealing her withered body underneath.
It had been weeks since Greta had seen her eat a proper meal and the doctors had begun feeding her through a nasogastric tube as her condition became catatonic. As they made their way to the girl’s room, Greta recalled how she first came to the institution. The girl had been admitted after an incident involving fire. That’s all Greta knew, and that’s all the higher ups allowed her to know. The girl came to them in a frantic state, often screaming in her sleep, and hardly ever making any sense. Greta had overheard the doctors say that was normal for someone who suffered from post-traumatic stress. Crazy little bitch, thought the woman spitefully. She recalled one of her more violent outbursts in which the girl had clawed at Greta’s face. She still bore the scar which ran from the top of her left brow to just above her lip. The girl’s nails had dug so deep they drew blood.
Now, almost a year later, the girl’s behavior had shifted completely. She was like a doll made of wax, always having to be put in different positions. It was usually Greta’s job to make sure the girl got up and moved so her muscles didn’t atrophy, but the fear of being hurt again constricted Greta’s own mind. Embittered by the attack, she made sure the girl was as uncomfortable as possible. She would force the girl to stand in corners for the entirety of the morning, only after she made sure to awaken the girl in the most abrupt and unpleasant manner. Sometimes she would throw water on her, other times she would slap her awake. This was her revenge and she made sure to exact it no matter how miniscule the punishments were. However many ways she hurt or mistreated the girl, her behavior never changed. She was as unresponsive as usual and the doctors were concerned, believing the withdrawal to be dangerous. If the catatonia continued despite the medication administered through her nasal tube, they would have to consider electro-convulsion therapy.
“Serves her right,” mumbled Greta as she led her ward through the blindingly white halls of the institution. They passed through the dubbed Hall of Open Doors, where patients were free to roam and interact. These were the depressed and anxious who could still hold a conversation. They were in and out of treatment constantly and Greta was sure at least half of them were just drug seekers looking for their next hit. Upstairs, where the girl’s room was, was the Hall of Locked Doors. There, the patients weren’t allowed much freedom. They were the real loony ones. The ones who would give anything to be free.
When they got to the girl’s room, Greta shoved her inside and pushed her onto the small cot in the corner of the small space. The rest of the room was devoid of furniture and decoration. The walls of the room seemed too close together to Greta, always giving her the creeps, the taupe paint peeling and revealing the concrete beneath. The girl stared straight ahead, facing the wall, but her eyes didn’t see the crusty paint, but rather beyond it as an unknown vision played in her mind.
Greta had no way of knowing the girl’s ears couldn’t hear the demands that she lay down or feel the heavy hands on her body as the orderly shoved her down on the cot. Couldn’t hear the vicious insults spewing from the rotting mouth of the older woman; the taunting of her name, “Crazy Katherine, can’t even take a piss by herself,” as the catheter that she needed every night was inserted into her body. Katherine’s mind had become jammed, always playing and replaying the same scene. The only thing she was aware of was the vision of flames rising in front of her as she screamed out in rage; and after, as the smoke cleared and the ashes blew around her in the wind, a chorus of screams joined her as the charred body of the girl was found amidst the ruins of the burned down cabin.