Bound by Madness

I married Tom Hayden when I was 20 years old. He was the love of my life. Our marriage was bliss. No one bothered to tell us we were too young. We were too inseparable. We’d met at 15 and had been so completely infatuated with each other, there was never a question we’d be together forever. Everything was perfect—until my 22nd birthday.

That was the day April Sunday, Tom’s close family friend from childhood, was in a horrible accident. Tom blamed me and had me committed to an asylum for the criminally insane. I was punished for a crime I didn’t commit and held there for three months before he finally came to get me.

By then, April had become his personal assistant. They were inseparable. It took two more months before I reached my breaking point.

It was obvious, at least to me, that April’s goal was to shatter my marriage, but Tom refused to speak to me anytime I brought up April. I finally served him with divorce papers. The next day, I was sent back to the asylum.

It’s been nearly two years since then. I’m still trapped here. He visits me monthly, but I barely speak to him anymore. Sometimes I want to but I can’t. Our visits have become conjugal.

My stomach rumbles painfully as I lie curled up in bed. I skipped breakfast. I couldn’t gather the courage to leave my room. I’m afraid of the man at the end of the hall—he’s convinced I’m his dead wife from 40 years ago. He’s obsessed with sending me “back to my grave.”

Even if I manage to avoid him, I still have to face the women in the breakfast hall—the ones who try to burn me with tea. I don’t know their names, but it seems they’ve formed a terrifying little cult. I’ll eat dinner instead. I’ve learned there’s a safe window to leave my room. As long as I hit the right marks, I should be okay.

Most residents don’t bother each other. And even if they do, they know how to fight back.

“Chloe Samson.”

I freeze at the nurse’s voice. I’ve gone by my maiden name since I came back to the asylum. Tom hated that, of course, but if he’s going to call me crazy, I can act crazy—at least until they all address me properly.

A hand touches my shoulder, trying to pull me up from bed. I resist. It’s too early—barely past lunch. If I go out now, they’ll get me.

“Mrs. Samson,” another nurse snaps, annoyed. “You can’t spend the whole day in bed.”

They usually leave me alone, as long as I take my meds at 7:00 a.m. and 7:00 p.m. They bring those to my room, I don’t have to leave. Which means… this isn’t routine. Why would they make me leave?

My body goes stiff. He’s coming.

Has it already been 30 days?

My stomach churns.

“You need to eat lunch, Mrs. Samson.”

I bury my face in the pillow, but more hands pull me away.

“No! Stop!” I cry, thrashing. “You can’t—”

My eyes are closed, but I know the voice that greets me in the hallway.

“Ah, there she is,” Hank.

The pyromaniac.

He burned down two churches and a bank before being admitted. He peers into my room as the nurses drag me out and carry me to one of the day rooms.

The sunroom. All windows. Littered with board games and art supplies.

“Stay here,” one nurse says, dropping me onto a cushioned wicker sofa. Another places tea and scones on a table beside me.

“She never comes in here,” Hank says, following us. If I saw Hank on a TV show, I imagine he’d be my favourite. I think I’d find him too unhinged to take seriously, and I’d find him funny. I cope by pretending this is a show. A comedy. Nothing will hurt anyone. In reality, he’s my nightmare and I’m in hell.

I try to stand, but the nurses push me back down. Once—before all of this—I might have been strong enough to resist. Not anymore.

Hank steps into my view, smiling wide. His eyes crawl over my body.

“Please get him away from me. Please,” I beg the nurses, trying to pull free.

“Will you drink this? Eat?” one nurse asks sharply.

Hank bounces on his toes, grinning. “Is this the tea that makes her fun and obedient? Is it?”

It is.

They drug the tea—muscle relaxers.

They fear Tom’s wrath if I fight him during his visits. They fear what I might say to him. That’s why I’m here. So I’ll stop resisting. So I’ll submit.

“You can eat willingly, or we can force you,” the nurse warns. “But if we have to force you, we won’t watch you when we leave.”

I shudder.

My hand trembles as I reach for the scone. The drugs go down easier with food. I eat fast, wanting Hank gone as soon as possible. He’s only gotten to me a few times—but each one was awful. I still feel his hands. His mouth.

The first time he nearly succeeded, I fought back. They locked me in isolation for 60 days.

I was only cleaned and released for Tom’s visits.

Things got worse once Tom started announcing when he was coming. Before, when he visited randomly, they were more cautious.

The tea is sour. It’ll kick in soon—ten, maybe fifteen minutes.

I pray the nurses were late this time. I need to talk to Tom. I have to beg him to let me go. But if I can’t speak…

The nurses start chatting with each other. I can’t hear them.

Then I see them enter the room—two girls from the unnamed group. Their eyes land on me immediately.

Hank’s still watching, eager.

I try to stand. The nurses push me back down.

“I want to go outside,” I say.

“And get lost again?” a nurse scoffs.

The last time I was left outside was right after a visit from Tom. They’d drugged me and sat me by the river to “relax.”

It rained. The nurses left. I wandered off, disoriented, and got pneumonia. It took them two days to find me.

Sometimes I wish I’d died out there. I thought I would.

“You stay put. We’ll get you a puzzle,” a nurse says. She slides a small table in front of me and spreads out half-finished pieces. One nurse stays to help. Then she leaves too, ignoring my pleas.

I can tell I’m not alone in the room yet. Somewhere behind me is a nurse or doctor. Hank’s eyes shift—nervous at first, then bold. The two girls whisper in the corner. Watching.

I can’t feel my legs. I can’t run. My hands piece the puzzle together as the drug settles in.

I see the moment the nurse leaves. Hank’s eyes stop flickering with caution.

I knock the puzzle table over, trying to stand. I buckle. He shoves me back.

“No—” my voice is weak, “sto—”

His hands are on my arms, his mouth at my neck.

“You remind me of my sister,” he whispers, tugging at my gown.

“Ew—” I squirm.

He grabs my face, trying to kiss me. I push.

Then another hand throws him off.

Hank crashes over the table and hits the floor.

I look up—and flinch.

Tom stands over me, glaring.

“This is what you do all day?” His voice is cold. “You couldn’t wait a few hours?”

I try to explain, but my lips don’t work. My hands go up defensively.

Dread. Panic. Fear