Twenty Years in a Sane Asylum

The letter of a psychopathic woman, explaining her life in an insane asylum.

To whom it may concern,

        When a girl is given eternity to do nothing but stare at cold white walls and think, she can’t help but feel overwhelmed by the thoughts that are trapped inside her head, begging to be set free. Emeline has been crying more and more often, begging that I share our tragic story. She would do so herself, but she was never given the priveledge of learning how to write. Consequently, I must bear this burden alone. I implore you to read this very carefully; examine every word and take it to heart. Our story is not one to be taken lightly, and my hope is that action will be taken once everything is understood. 
        I had done nothing wrong. I was not crazy. I was nine years old, and the year was 1855. I was a normal child, and my only fault was being born to a poor family. While mother worked in an assembly line at the textile factory, Father claimed to be searching for work. He lost his job due to injury from a hunting accident, so this was a believable lie, but a believable lie is all that it was. I knew what the reality was, but no one believed me. Every day, an hour after Mother left for work, Father would send me to my room to play with my new marbles that he had bought for me. He thought he could hide me from her, but I could hear her laughter from their bedroom. When I confronted Father, and told him that I would tell Mother if he didn’t stop, he said I was hearing things. He exclaimed that I was hearing voices and would be committed to the New Jersey State Insane Asylum as soon as he could sign the papers.
        I thought he wouldn’t be able to keep me in there. Surely, the doctors would see that I am in fact sane, and would return me to my home; maybe even a better home. So when he turned in the blanche papers with “lunacy” written in blood red ink, I thought nothing of it. I was and still am obviously not insane. I did nothing wrong, so they wouldn’t be able to keep me. It’s immoral and inhumane to keep a sane person in an insane asylum, so surely they would see that there was a mistake. I was horribly wrong. They clamped down on my shoulders with their pale, clammy, talon-like hands and drug me into a cold, white hell! They left me there for what seemed like eternity, alone. I couldn’t help but wonder about the psychopathic murderers that might reside behind the walls of my cell.         Sitting in silence for so long must have caused my hearing to advance, because I began to hear what was happening outside of my cell. The scratching and screaming from the maniac in the next room against those frigid white walls was enough to drive anyone to hysteria. Although I know this to be false, it sounded like she was in my cell with me. Her voice echoed, reminiscent of a ruthless killer in her mid-twenties. I could tell by her screams that she had spilt blood, and that she would no doubt spill more if the opportunity presented itself. While I was pondering this, the door to my cell opened, and I saw a sight that I hadn’t seen since God knows when: a human being. Not just the occasional hand and arm that slipped a poor excuse of nourishment into my cell; a whole, little person. She was an emaciated, quiet girl with a halo of curly blonde hair. As her escort, the nurse, pried the child’s hand off of her white cloak, she turned to address me in her stone cold voice,

        “Elenor, this is your new cell mate.”

I didn’t respond; I couldn’t even look at the nurse. I simply stared at the little girl. She stared back with big blue eyes, and held the skirt of her pink, lace dress. I’d never before seen such a perfect picture of innocence. We stood like that for what seemed like the longest time, just looking at each other. By now I was twenty-seven, and looking at her made it feel as if I had traveled back in time. She reminded me of myself when I was a child, before that wretched asylum stole my childhood. Suddenly the door closed, and we were both startled out of our dream-like state. I decided to try to figure out what her disorder was, if she even had one at all.

          “What’s your name?” I asked as softly and calmly as I possibly could.
          “Emeline. I like pink.”
          “Well, why---”
          “I like to rhyme all the time. Momma got annoyed with me, so she sent me here.”
          “So you did nothing wrong?”
          “I didn’t do nuth’n. Look at my purdy pink button!”
  
She pulled a small pink button out of her dress pocket. She smiled with pride over her treasure, and I smiled too.              We grew to be great friends over the next few years. After Emeline arrived, I noticed that the scratching and the screaming in the next room had ceased to exist. I suppose the maniac died, or lost her will to disturb the others inside this hell. Although, it didn’t seem like much of a hell anymore. Emeline and I talked about our prior lives, and our future once we were discharged. She could never imagine what her future would hold, but I could. I would go back to my family and prove that I am not insane, and I would take Emeline with me, so she could prove the same thing to her “folks” as she called them. Fate, however, had a different escape planned for poor Emeline.
        Emeline got sick. She got very sick, and there was nothing I could do for her other than offer her some of my food to eat with her own. I watched her slowly deteriorate, and I started to hear the screaming and scratching from the other room again. Another maniac must have moved in. Emeline never heard the wretched sounds, so I deduced that her hearing must have gotten much weaker when the illness set in. She got to the point where she could barely move, and she couldn’t speak at all. I fed her day after day, and meticulously braided her perfect blonde hair. She always loved it when I played with her hair. I held on to the hope that the nurse would one day bring medicine with the food, and that I’d get to hear Emeline’s voice again. To my horror, the wicked, wretched witch never tried to help her, so Emeline died in my arms. I had nowhere to put her, so I laid her cold, pale body in the corner. Too grief-stricken to cry, I wallowed in sorrow and anger.
        I heard a knock at the door and knew it was time for my daily bowl of slop, but suddenly I heard her. I heard Emeline! She told me to get the nurse inside, and to ask her why she would let a little girl suffer. The door opened, and as I saw the nurse’s sleeve, I was filled with rage. I grabbed her cold, white hand and dragged her into the cell. Seeing the color of her uniform made me remember all that I’d gone through. The images of the white legal papers, the white, talon-like hands of the people who locked me in there, and the white walls of my hell hole flashed through my mind. Talking to the nurse wouldn’t be enough. I needed to escape and take Emeline with me. I grabbed the nurse and threw her down. I pinned her demonesque body  beneath me and strangled her until she turned whiter than her uniform. As soon as I felt her body go limp, I left her on the cold, white floor, and scooped up Emeline. I ran as fast as I could down the seemingly endless hallway, and realized something strange. There were no rooms next to mine.
        Finally, we are free. We are free of the hell hole known as the New Jersey State Insane Asylum. I am out in the public, where a sane person like myself belongs, and the maniacal beasts are where they deserve to be. All is right with the world, assuming we were the only sane people in that horrid place. When an assumption of this nature holds so much weight, it can not be left unproven. In light of this, I am leaving this letter at the doorstep of the local police station, hoping that whoever reads it might be kind enough to shut down their institution. It is of upmost importance that every single worker at New Jersey State Insane Asylum receives the death penalty. Otherwise, we will be forced to take personal action.

End them.

Ms. Elenor Symenthe Black
Ms. Emeline Joy Nivison

Author's Note

I will take any and all criticism/compliments thrown my way. I've been thinking about expanding this into a book and making this letter the introduction; let me know what you think!

Reviews

[advance84]

Finally....
" When a girl is given eternity to do nothing but stare at cold white walls and think, she can’t help but feel overwhelmed by the thoughts that are trapped inside her head, begging to be set free."
A gripping line,in my perspective it explores the confinement of a female into her gender role.It's quite a startling sentence
To do nothing is powerful sentence,there's this notion of female virginity,this innocence( by taking that line an dissecting as it if were a book of a thousand pages with that one single line.The powerful beginning is in parallel with the mournful ending(mournful of the end of these 'beasts).It's an incredible feeling of freedom after being constrained
I generally think you've ticked the boxes
1) There's this quite structured contextual reference which compliments the tone of your voice which is a distinct and independent to the other characters.
The idea of wasting away in a mental asylum has a "shock element" to it.
More 2 come.

[advance84]

not quite finished yet(merely the beginning)

[Rosie Brooklin]

Thank you! I love your comments so far and can't wait to see what else you have to say.

[advance84]

Hey Rosie just an update, making good on my promise
To whom it may concern,
When a girl is given eternity to do nothing but stare at cold white walls and think, she can’t help but feel overwhelmed by the thoughts that are trapped inside her head, begging to be set free. Emeline has been crying more and more often, begging that I share our tragic story.
Comment : Here I really like the narrator’s pov, is starting to undergo change, the switch from a narrator(from a third-person perspective, to the more personal “our story”, it parallels very well , as you’ve mention the third person perspective and a close like to eternity. Very powerful here. I would love a more succinct metaphor on the line(“trapped inside her head, begging…”) perhaps something along the lines of “ Her constant war games were gnashing against her”. But open to interpretation I guess
She would do so herself, but she was never given the priveledge of learning how to write. Consequently, I must bear this burden alone. I implore you to read this very carefully; examine every word and take it to heart. Our story is not one to be taken lightly, and my hope is that action will be taken once everything is understood.
Comment : I love this actually, referring to the first paragraph actually , I’ve assumed Emeline , is living in the joyous days of childhood, would love to see a connection of her expression, of what this story is, what sensations ( maybe are kinetic, how would you best demonstrate this in your writing ? ) . She scraped against a particular toy etc etc. I’m sure you’ll have better ideas


I had done nothing wrong. I was not crazy. I was nine years old, and the year was 1855. I was a normal child, and my only fault was being born to a poor family. While mother worked in an assembly line at the textile factory, Father claimed to be searching for work.
Comment : Would love to see an expansion on this search for work.
He lost his job due to injury from a hunting accident, so this was a believable lie, but a believable lie is all that it was. I knew what the reality was, but no one believed me. Every day, an hour after Mother left for work, Father would send me to my room to play with my new marbles that he had bought for me. He thought he could hide me from her, but I could hear her laughter from their bedroom. When I confronted Father, and told him that I would tell Mother if he didn’t stop, he said I was hearing things. He exclaimed that I was hearing voices and would be committed to the New Jersey State Insane Asylum as soon as he could sign the papers.
Comment : Hmm not sure I’m understanding correctly what the father is hiding, just a weird connection with the Mother, but I’m sure you’ll able to examine this conflict

I thought he wouldn’t be able to keep me in there. Surely, the doctors would see that I am in fact sane, and would return me to my home; maybe even a better home. So when he turned in the blanche papers with “lunacy” written in blood red ink
Comment: I think my subjective opinion, is that written in blook red ink is maybe cliché, but I’m sure there’s something clever you can do with this.
, I thought nothing of it. I was and still am obviously not insane. I did nothing wrong, so they wouldn’t be able to keep me. It’s immoral and inhumane to keep a sane person in an insane asylum, so surely they would see that there was a mistake. I was horribly wrong. They clamped down on my shoulders with their pale, clammy, talon-like hands and drug me into a cold, white hell! They left me there for what seemed like eternity, alone. I couldn’t help but wonder about the psychopathic murderers that might reside behind the walls of my cell. Sitting in silence for so long must have caused my hearing to advance, because I began to hear what was happening outside of my cell. The scratching and screaming from the maniac in the next room against those frigid white walls was enough to drive anyone to hysteria. Although I know this to be false, it sounded like she was in my cell with me. Her voice echoed, reminiscent of a ruthless killer in her mid-twenties. I could tell by her screams that she had spilt blood, and that she would no doubt spill more if the opportunity presented itself. While I was pondering this, the door to my cell opened, and I saw a sight that I hadn’t seen since God knows when: a human being. Not just the occasional hand and arm that slipped a poor excuse of nourishment into my cell; a whole, little person. She was an emaciated, quiet girl with a halo of curly blonde hair. As her escort, the nurse, pried the child’s hand off of her white cloak, she turned to address me in her stone cold voice,
Comment : Very vivid here , “As her escort the nurse”, I would love to see an expansion of the nurse , can we build some dimension onto her attire, we’ve got a good representation of normalcy, the “un-normal” ( children, from a structural point of view , there’s feeling of this normal creeping into how the first-person refers to cell. It’s really maybe a macro structure reverting into a micro structure, “The Ayslum “ goes to my cell , personified and powerful 😊
“Elenor, this is your new cell mate.”
I didn’t respond; I couldn’t even look at the nurse. I simply stared at the little girl. She stared back with big blue eyes, and held the skirt of her pink, lace dress. I’d never before seen such a perfect picture of innocence. We stood like that for what seemed like the longest time, just looking at each other. By now I was twenty-seven, and looking at her made it feel as if I had traveled back in time. She reminded me of myself when I was a child, before that wretched asylum stole my childhood. Suddenly the door closed, and we were both startled out of our dream-like state.
Comment : Hmm I’d feel that the “dream-like state” doesn’t fit, you’ve built this arena of structural objects ( the door, the cell, my cell, asylum as confronting, challenging the main character. But could this be an extension of “dark play”, so could also fit under that umbrella ?
I decided to try to figure out what her disorder was, if she even had one at all.
“What’s your name?” I asked as softly and calmly as I possibly could.
“Emeline. I like pink.”
“Well, why---”
“I like to rhyme all the time. Momma got annoyed with me, so she sent me here.”
“So you did nothing wrong?”
“I didn’t do nuth’n. Look at my purdy pink button!”

She pulled a small pink button out of her dress pocket. She smiled with pride over her treasure, and I smiled too. We grew to be great friends over the next few years. After Emeline arrived, I noticed that the scratching and the screaming in the next room had ceased to exist. I suppose the maniac died, or lost her will to disturb the others inside this hell. Although, it didn’t seem like much of a hell anymore. Emeline and I talked about our prior lives, and our future once we were discharged.
Comment : I feel that the narrative, the suspense , you’ve built up in the first few paragraphs, loses it’s charm slightly here, but read on I will 😊
She could never imagine what her future would hold, but I could. I would go back to my family and prove that I am not insane, and I would take Emeline with me, so she could prove the same thing to her “folks” as she called them. Fate, however, had a different escape planned for poor Emeline.
Comment : Is Fate’s capitalization intentional ? , I found this quite powerful, it has a very stand-offish vibe, the main character meets another confrontation ,well in this case it’s more the reality of things

Emeline got sick. She got very sick, and there was nothing I could do for her other than offer her some of my food to eat with her own. I watched her slowly deteriorate, and I started to hear the screaming and scratching from the other room again. Another maniac must have moved in. Emeline never heard the wretched sounds, so I deduced that her hearing must have gotten much weaker when the illness set in. She got to the point where she could barely move, and she couldn’t speak at all. I fed her day after day, and meticulously braided her perfect blonde hair. She always loved it when I played with her hair. I held on to the hope that the nurse would one day bring medicine with the food, and that I’d get to hear Emeline’s voice again. To my horror, the wicked, wretched witch never tried to help her, so Emeline died in my arms.
Comment : I feel here that the progression is slightly too fast, but I guess my own biases I guess 😊
I had nowhere to put her, so I laid her cold, pale body in the corner. Too grief-stricken to cry, I wallowed in sorrow and anger.
I heard a knock at the door and knew it was time for my daily bowl of slop, but suddenly I heard her.
Comment : Hmm this description of a perfunctory task of the sturcutre ( I’ll refer to it as morning chow here), when I parallel it with the other description of “morning chow” follows “Not just the occasional hand and arm that slipped a poor excuse of nourishment into my cell; a whole, little person”, I feel that the first was more powerful, I’d love if you’d maintained this momentum here, I think there’s a whole view, of Girl forgetting that she’s trapped, lives with other girl , talks about girl, hopes of view, structure gets annoyed -> then reminds her again, drivers her out of the dream-state , a reminder of reality ( perhaps here you could even reference the first paragraph , well you talk about the reality ( hunting injury) , all in all a good paragraph ) 😊
I heard Emeline! She told me to get the nurse inside, and to ask her why she would let a little girl suffer. The door opened, and as I saw the nurse’s sleeve, I was filled with rage. I grabbed her cold, white hand and dragged her into the cell. Seeing the color of her uniform made me remember all that I’d gone through. The images of the white legal papers, the white, talon-like hands of the people who locked me in there, and the white walls of my hell hole flashed through my mind. Talking to the nurse wouldn’t be enough. I needed to escape and take Emeline with me. I grabbed the nurse and threw her down. I pinned her demonesque body beneath me and strangled her until she turned whiter than her uniform. As soon as I felt her body go limp, I left her on the cold, white floor, and scooped up Emeline. I ran as fast as I could down the seemingly endless hallway, and realized something strange. There were no rooms next to mine.
Finally, we are free. We are free of the hell hole known as the New Jersey State Insane Asylum. I am out in the public, where a sane person like myself belongs, and the maniacal beasts are where they deserve to be. All is right with the world, assuming we were the only sane people in that horrid place. When an assumption of this nature holds so much weight, it can not be left unproven. In light of this, I am leaving this letter at the doorstep of the local police station, hoping that whoever reads it might be kind enough to shut down their institution. It is of upmost importance that every single worker at New Jersey State Insane Asylum receives the death penalty. Otherwise, we will be forced to take personal action.


Summary
WWW(What went well) :
- Good use of thematic repetition( themes are repetitive and not deviant, they fit in the construct of the narrative that you’ve created)
- Powerful imagery created -> great use of descriptors to build powerful vivid imagery
-
EBI
- Explore dimensions of characters, and provide more referential moments(so your writing becomes more a interactive ( well as a reader from the reader pov) , I feel then it would be a quite good piece
- In my personal opinion , expand on the structure meets girl conflict, use setting to your advantage, and be sparing to settings you introduce to the reader. Flesh out settings 😊
- Progression in some ideas could be a slower, maybe I’m just a picky reader lol ( all I do is read epics and non-fictions lol)

[Rosie Brooklin]

Thank you so much for your thorough review! I greatly appreciate the time you took to do this

[sette]

and develop it into a book because it is a unique read

[Rosie Brooklin]

That's a work in progress :)

[Coyote Poetry]

Dear Rosie. A amazing short story shared. Great characters and wonderful story line. I wanted to read and know more. I did like the open ending. Thank you for sharing the outstanding tale.
Coyote

[Rosie Brooklin]

Thank you!

[Coyote Poetry]

You are welcome Rosie.

[Jack O]

There are chances for edits that you will notice when you read again. Over all, I liked it.

[Rosie Brooklin]

Thank you! I'll look it over

[Kay]

This story hooks you in from the first sentence. It's an excellent ode to women who went through this experience during the 19th century, being admitted to asylums for ridiculous reasons. I found a list they used at that time, if you're interested: http://allthatsinteresting.com/reasons-admitted-to-mental-asylum

Great use of symbolism here, such as when the father isolates Elenor to play with marbles in her room, which foreshadows to Elenor figuratively 'losing her marbles' in an isolated cell at New Jersey State Insane Asylum when she was given over. Also, how the sudden appearance (entrance) of Emeline, representing purity and innocence, was followed with the silence (exit) of the scratching murderer next door. The emphasis on the color white ("pale, clammy, talon-like hands", "a cold, white hell", "he turned in the blanche papers", "the color of her uniform") really highlights the danger of the mind being left with only blank nothingness, empty of life and color, as you wrote at the beginning.

Looking forward to reading more. =)

[Rosie Brooklin]

I've seen that list! It's absolutely terrible what those women had to go through. I'm sure I'd be called insane if I lived in that era, too. I'm so glad you caught the symbolism. Thank you immensely for your detailed review!

[‘Thoughts In Time..]

GReat imagination put into this story - don’t know where u find this- well written and captivating- true in more than one sense - would make a great story/ book- sad though that some people get made to believe they are insane when they are actually not- 🌹

[Rosie Brooklin]

Thank you so much! I came up with this idea while in high school, after learning about how insane asylums operated. I started writing and the rest just happened. As always, thank you for your kind review!

[‘Thoughts In Time’🌹]

Well done to you🌹

[UN]

Wow, this did not end up the way I pictured it would, but it is good. I think my biggest takeaway from it was the fact that insane asylums, when housing the sane, can make said sane people, insane. Kind of ironic, no? Did Elenor expect the workers at the asylum to get the death penalty for neglecting Emmaline to death? And did where you stayed Emmalines name, did you get the Middle and last name from the band Joy Division, or is that just a coincidence?

[Rosie Brooklin]

I didn't think of the band, but their names come from female serial killers in that place and era

[ManasaC]

It is very engrossing. Sanity is upto the person's perception. I thoroughly enjoyed it and all the very best for the book. Looking forward to it.
Good day!!!

[Rosie Brooklin]

Thank you! Good day to you, as well.

[Srchaud]

At first I was enraged at the thought of someone wasting away in a mental asylum, when they were sane. As I read on it was clear she was not sane and that had me asking the question, do they ever know there is something wrong. Does anyone in an asylum think they belong there, or would they all feel normal yet imprisoned. Cool read, I am curious on how you would expand this into a book.

[Rosie Brooklin]

Thank you! I'm expanding it currently, starting with her childhood. There will be much more character development, and I will introduce new characters, as well. I'm glad you enjoyed this short story!

[Xuru]

Liked it so much I bookmarked your profile.

Have a reason to spend more time on here.

[Rosie Brooklin]

I'm flattered! Thank you so much