The Asylum Confessions Novels & Stories

who tries to stab her father to death can't be expected to abide by the abbey's near-shackle rules, and after only one day, Evelyn is confined. Asa was very familiar with the confinement room, a boxy little dark room filled with rats, cockroaches, and a few other vermin that smelled of decay. There was only one narrow, rectangular window to feed the food trays. While Evelyn was confined inside, Asa would be outside meticulously chanting scripture. It was part of the preceptor's job. "Shut up, dumbass."

“If I’m going to let go, why don’t I let go knowing I did all I had to get rid of her?” My brows furrow. What Natalie says is finally starting to make more sense to me. Asami is insane. “After all, S hates me. You detest me. No one in the world cares about me and Owen. . . I don’t even know what he’s up to.” A cackle leaves her lips. “It won’t be long till I’m back in that asylum again to be punished. Wait, an asylum? What does she mean? I want to ask but this situation reads not to. I don’t like how she’s trying to connive me to digging deep on what’s transpired in her life since we parted ways.

Some lines are never meant to be crossed. These stories exist for the ones who cross them anyway. Married couples who invite a third into their bed. Best friends who stop pretending the tension is innocent. Priests, neighbors, roommates, strangers on overnight flights — people who know better and do it anyway. Every story is raw, relentless, and unapologetically filthy: the first forbidden touch, the night everything breaks open, and the quiet, irreversible aftermath when no one wants to go back. If you have ever wanted to watch someone you love take someone else… or be the someone else… these pages are for you.

Even from where I was sitting, I could see the age of it, the wear on the cover, the way it looked like something someone would keep hidden for decades. "This journal," Kian announced, "was discovered in James Ashton's private safe during the investigation into his trafficking operations. It contains detailed records of Mr. Ashton's encounters with women over a period of thirty-five years. Names. Dates. Descriptions. Actions performed. All documented in Mr. Ashton's own handwriting." Pembroke was on his feet. "Your Honor, I object. This is...." "Sit down," the judge said sharply. "Let him finish." Kian opened the journal to a marked page and began to read.

He stood in court and claimed that I was the one who pulled the trigger, that I was mentally unstable and dangerous. The good news was that I avoided prison. The bad news was that I ended up somewhere far worse. The asylum destroyed people slowly. Everyone looked at you the same way—like you were disgusting, broken, less than human. After enough time passed, even I started wondering if maybe they were right. Maybe I really was crazy.

He was wearing the exact same indigo shirt Matthew had on when we lost each other—his favorite silk scarf fallen nearby, the one he never left home without. What followed was the darkest stretch of my life. I knelt in the family chapel for eighty-one days and nights, surviving only on bowls of watery oatmeal slipped to me by a kind servant. The day I walked out of that chapel, I became the cheapest whore in the brothel. My clients were either middle-aged matrons past their prime or wealthy women with cruel appetites. They took out their rawest desires on me—with whips, with brands, with torture devices I didn't even have names for.

“Did you even bother to ask if it is reversible or were you too busy playing the martyr.” Luz’s jaw clenched at the accusation, a muscle twitching in his cheek. The question hit a nerve, striking at the core of his self-loathing. For six years, he had deliberately avoided seeking answers, telling himself ignorance was safer than knowing there was no hope. “I did not ask,” he admitted quietly, his voice stripped of its commanding authority. “Because I was afraid. Afraid that finding out it was irreversible would break me completely.” His fingers tightened slightly on her waist. “I have seen what happens when Corrompido get to close to people–. So, I told myself it was better not to know.” The

Detective Taylor stated coldly, "Murder is punishable by execution." The moment my mother heard that, she collapsed to the ground. My mind went blank. This couldn’t be real… I had been in Ashford Hollow. The person in the footage… even his mannerisms were identical to mine. What the hell was going on? "Detective Taylor, you should take this murderer away now," Dr. Langford said from the side. "Wait!" Something flashed through my mind. "I have an alibi!" Detective Taylor raised a brow. "Explain."

I had no interest in listening to him any longer. “Didn’t you say your arm was gone? It looks perfectly intact to me.” As soon as I finished speaking, his other arm thudded to the ground as well. Amid his agonized screams, parts of his body were torn away piece by piece until he was reduced to nothing, executed in the cruelest way possible. With my vengeance complete, an indescribable sense of satisfaction filled me. Queenie Aasen, who once cared for the world and acted with selfless righteousness, was gone.

Tonight the church is empty and I’m sitting in his confession booth with my heart in my throat and my underwear already wet. The wood smells like incense and furniture polish, and when he settles on his side of the screen I hear his breathing change because he knows it’s me before I say a word. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” “How long since your last confession?” His voice is tight, careful, the way you handle something that might break if you hold it wrong. I give him the easy sins first because I want him comfortable. Missed mass, took the Lord’s name in vain, never visited my grandmother enough.