BEFORE YOU ENTER, A NOTE FROM A WATCHFUL FRIEND:
Dearest Children,
This is no ordinary eBook, nor book for that matter . . . no indeed.
This is an experience—an adventure—a world filled with friends to make, puzzles to solve, clues to spot, and secrets that will become more apparent with each read, secrets which may take you months to find, or even longer. But, should you persevere, you will find that you have not only discovered some of our greatest mysteries, you may unearth the physical location of the Asylum Treasure itself:
THE SPOON OF THE ROYALS
You see, if you are reading this book, then you are already one of us...and you may not even know it yet.
But I know. This is your fate.
You may be a Plague Rat.
You may be an Inmate.
And when you accept your destiny, you will become one of the Royals of The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls.
For we are the kings and the queens.
And this is our territory.
Somewhere in the world, the Spoon of the Royals lies waiting for you to find her. She is very old. And, like me, like you, she is still here.
Click here to learn about the Spoon of the Royals, how she was made, and what her jewels represent.
The Spoon is earth magic at its deepest, and she is waiting to be found. She wants to be found. And, perhaps, you are the one.
Within these pages, you already have your instructions. We encourage you to seek out online and offline groups of fellow readers as some mysteries may be better solved by the aid of multiple pairs of eyes and ears positioned around the world (the official Striped Stocking Society on Facebook is a very good place to start — admission requirements here). But, I promise you, everything you need to know to find the Spoon is already in your possession. And, if you should find her location, Emilie herself, the creator of this treasure, will be there to place the Spoon into your hands.
Welcome to the game.
Welcome to the Asylum.
Ah! A terribly practical note: While this eBook will read beautifully on all devices from e-readers to smartphones to laptops, tablets, and more, there are elements hidden within this book that will appear more readily on devices that allow for full-colour graphics, as well as the playback of audio and video. In addition, your device must be connected to the internet in order to experience all of the secrets that this eBook has to offer.
With a most sincere welcome from us all, and wishing you the very best of luck on your journey,
~ Sir Edward, Ambassador of the League of Asylum Plague Rats
The Asylum
for
Wayward Victorian Girls
A Novel
Emilie Autumn
Copyright © 2008, 2011, 2012, 2017 by Emilie Autumn.
All words, graphics, and sounds created and solely owned by Emilie Autumn. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Eighteen tails of goodly length take the second and his mate skip two more and keep what's there jump another embrace the five that follow leap to the last. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Asylum Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.
The Asylum Emporium
help@asylumemporium.com
www.asylumemporium.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls / Emilie Autumn. – 4th ed.
ISBN 9780998990903
Table of Contents
hospital entry 1: suicide watch
hospital entry 2: the red crayon
hospital entry 3: the bed
hospital entry 4: voices
hospital entry 5: dr. sharp
hospital entry 6: watched
hospital entry 7: checking
hospital entry 8: found
hospital entry 9: ward b
hospital entry 10: on to you
hospital entry 11: dinnertime
hospital entry 12: the first note
hospital entry 13: the forgotten floor
Asylum Letter No. II
Asylum Letter No. III
Asylum Letter No. IV
Asylum Letter No. V
Asylum Letter No. VI
Asylum Letter No. VII
Asylum Letter No. VIII
Asylum Letter No. IX
Asylum Letter No. X
Asylum Letter No. XI
Asylum Letter No. XII
Asylum Letter No. XIII
hospital entry 14: funhouse mirrors
Asylum Letter No. XIV
hospital entry 15: intervention
Asylum Letter No. XV
Asylum Letter No. XVI
hospital entry 16: what violet said
Asylum Letter No. XVII
Asylum Letter No. XVIII
Asylum Letter No. XIX
hospital entry 17: rat dream
Asylum Letter No. XX
Asylum Letter No. XXI
hospital entry 18: not exactly petite
Asylum Letter No. XXII
Asylum Letter No. XXIII
Asylum Letter No. XXIV
hospital entry 19: measuring the distance
Asylum Letter No. XXV
Asylum Letter No. XXVI
Asylum Letter No. XXVII
hospital entry 20: if leeches ate peaches
Asylum Letter No. XXVIII
hospital entry 21: four o’clock
Asylum Letter No. XXIX
Asylum Letter No. XXX
Asylum Letter No. XXXI
Asylum Letter No. XXXII
Asylum Letter No. XXXIII
Asylum Letter No. XXXIV
Asylum Letter No. XXXV
Asylum Letter No. XXXVI
Asylum Letter No. XXXVII
hospital entry 22: electroconvulsive therapy
Asylum Letter No. XXXVIII
Asylum Letter No. XXXIX
Asylum Letter No. XL
hospital entry 23: credibility
Asylum Letter No. XLI
Asylum Letter No. XLII
MADAM MOURNINGTON LETTER NO. 1
Asylum Letter No. XLIII
MADAM MOURNINGTON LETTER NO. 2
Asylum Letter No. XLIV
Asylum Letter No. XLV
Asylum Letter No. XLVI
MADAM MOURNINGTON LETTER NO. 3
Asylum Letter No. XLVII
Asylum Letter No. XLVIII
MADAM MOURNINGTON LETTER NO. 4
Asylum Letter No. XLIX
Asylum Letter No. L
Asylum Letter No. LI
hospital entry 24: coming down
MADAM MOURNINGTON LETTER NO. 5
Asylum Letter No. LII
Asylum Letter No. LIII
Asylum Letter No. LIV
Asylum Letter No. LV
Asylum Letter No. LVI
Asylum Letter No. LVII
hospital entry 25: the jury
Asylum Letter No. LVIII
Asylum Letter No. LIX
Asylum Letter No. LX
Asylum Letter No. LXI
Asylum Letter No
. LXII
Asylum Letter No. LXIII
Asylum Letter No. LXIV
Asylum Letter No. LXV
Asylum Letter No. LXVI
Asylum Letter No. LXVII
Asylum Letter No. LXVIII
Asylum Letter No. LXIX
hospital entry 26: missing
hospital entry 27: the end
Evidence of Insanity
About the Author
Landmarks
Cover
hospital entry 1: suicide watch
It was the dog who found me.
I heard him crying outside the bathroom door, but the sound seemed very far away.
I wasn’t there anymore.
I was lying in a field of tall, soft grass—tall enough to hide me from anyone who came looking.
The grass moved around me, but there was no sound; I felt a soft blanket of tree-filtered sunlight wash over me, and I wanted to sleep forever.
I felt no fear, no panic; I felt relieved . . . relieved that I had made my decision and gone through with it, and now there was nothing left to do but wait and lay, wait and lay, wait and lay . . .
All my highs and lows, ups and downs, TO BEs or NOT TO BEs, were over at last.
I had no regrets.
I was at peace, and this was a sensation I hadn’t known until that moment.
I was at peace . . .
I was at peace . . .
I was at peace . . .
Then, there were arms lifting me up, voices screaming in my ears, and I was being shaken violently while hydrogen peroxide was poured down my throat. There was no sunlight, no grass—just a dirty bathroom floor, and all I wanted was to go back to sleep.
I am standing in the back of the line at the Emergency Room, and I feel like a fraud.
I’m not bleeding.
I can walk.
I’ve been bribed.
I would never have come willingly had I not been threatened with the immediate cutoff of my psychiatric medication. And, just as a breakup is something that should never be done by phone, neither is being informed that you need to go to the insane asylum.
But it was.
Shrink: I can’t see you anymore until you check yourself into a mental hospital.
Me: What? Why?
Shrink: Because the moment you tell me that you attempted suicide, I have no choice but to insist that you be kept under watch a minimum of seventy-two hours.
Me: Under watch? By whom? I don’t need to be watched. I need my drugs.
Shrink: Then you’d better get yourself to the hospital today. I can’t refill your prescriptions after what you’ve done. I legally can’t.
Me: Wait . . . just wait . . . you asked me how I was doing, and I told you. I told you because I thought I was supposed to be honest with you. I thought you were the one person that it was safe to be honest with. But it’s beginning to sound like you’re the only one I really needed to lie to.
Shrink: Emilie, you’re an extremely intelligent and talented young woman, but you are also very, very sick, and you need to be in a place where you can get better.
Me: Please . . . can’t I just come in and talk to you? Show you that I’m all right? I mean, I’m not crazy . . . at least, not in the way this looks like. There are real reasons, valid reasons why I did this to myself, and, you know what, Doctor? I stand by them. I believe anyone could have done the same in my place.
Shrink: No, you can’t come in to see me. Or, rather, you can, but if you do, you won’t need a ride home because there will be an ambulance waiting to take you directly from my office to the hospital.
Me: So, basically, you are refusing to give me my bipolar medication until I agree to check myself into, what, a psych ward? Even though we both know that, within forty-eight hours, I will be a suicidal lunatic running into the street in the hopes of getting hit by at least one car if I don’t get the drugs? If I say “no, I’m not going,” are you comfortable with that outcome?
Shrink: Look, Emilie, I think that being under this kind of supervised care is exactly what you need right now.
Me: Dear god . . . only seventy-two hours?
Shrink: Seventy-two hours . . . minimum.
Me: No. No, this is not going to work . . . I have shows coming up. Fuck, I have an album to finish . . .
“Why are you here?” snaps a woman in minty-green scrubs, and sounding a smidgeon impatient about it. She is approaching me with a clipboard, and I assume she’s coming to ask what the hell I think I’m doing here, and why I look like I’ve just come from a costume ball, and why I have a heart painted on my right cheek, and why I am wearing boots with skulls on them because it’s bloody morbid and dying people shouldn’t see things like that and—
“I’m suicidal,” I announce.
Oh my.
I sounded almost proud about that.
And I’m smiling. God, maybe I do belong here.
The nurse looks as though she doesn’t believe me, and I don’t blame her. I’ll try again.
“What I mean is, I tried to kill myself, so my doctor cut off my medication. He said I have to get it from you now.”
I don’t think I’ve ever sounded so absurd in my life. However, this does the trick, and the nurse marches me right past the front of the line and into a tiny examination room where another nurse tucked safely behind a desk orders me to sit down.
Nurse: Family history of bipolar disorder?
Me: Yes.
Nurse: Family history of suicide?
Me: Yes. But that’s not why—
Nurse: Ever hear voices?
Me: I hear you.
Nurse: Voices in your head? That nobody else hears?
Me: I did when I was little. Every night, in fact, for years. But not anymore.
Nurse: Ever been abused?
Me: How do you mean?
Nurse: Sexually?
Me: Is rape abuse?
Nurse: Rape is abuse.
Me: That’s nice. I thought it was just something men did.
Nurse: Ever been pregnant?
Me: Yes.
Nurse: Are you pregnant right now?
Me: No.
Nurse: When did you stop being pregnant?
Me: Last week.
She raises her eyes from the form she’s been filling out, and I can feel her judgment—the judgment I suspect I had better become accustomed to, because I know that it will never go away.
Me: It wasn’t my fault. I was on the pill, but my bipolar medication cancels out the pill and my doctor never felt this worth mentioning to me. It wasn’t safe to keep—
Nurse: You have any family?
Me: No.
Having completed her form, the nurse now takes my vitals without responding at all to what I’ve just told her.
Me: Aren’t you going to ask me why I did it?
Nurse: Did what?
Me: Took all my sleeping pills at once.
Nurse: No.
A plastic hospital bracelet is slapped onto my wrist, and, fancy that! It already has my name on it.
Patient: Autumn, Emilie
Age: 27
Everything done, I would have thought I’d be off to a hospital bed or tied up to a pole or something, but, alas, it’s into the waiting room for me. There is something slightly dangerous in the air, the patrolling armed guards are staring at me with questionable intent, and, if I’m honest, I don’t feel that my new plastic bracelet is giving me the “street cred” I’d hoped it might.
I’ve been given a form of my own to fill out, so I take my clipboard and choose a torn vinyl chair in the middle of the room, having learned the hard way that a room’s more remote edges are the worst place one can be.
I can explain:
If you want
to be safe, walk in the middle of the street.
I’m not joking.
You’ve been told to look both ways before crossing, that the sidewalk is your friend, right?
Wrong.
I’ve spent years walking sidewalks at night, because that’s what people do who haven’t got money for the bus. I’ve glanced around myself in the darkness, silent, frantic, and I saw the men following me, creeping out of alleyways, attempting to goad me into speaking to them then shouting obscenities at me when I wouldn’t, and I suddenly realized that the only place left to go was the middle of the street.
But why would I risk it?
Because the odds are in my favor.
In the States, someone is killed in a car accident on average every 12.5 minutes, while a female is raped on average every 2.5 minutes. Even when factoring in that, one, I am generously including all vehicle-related accidents and not just those involving pedestrians, and, two, that the vast majority of rapes still go unreported because the victim is well aware that she will be blamed for the crime, I think my logic in this case speaks for itself. And, thus, this is now the way I live my life: out in the open, in the middle of everything, because the middle of the street is actually the safest place to walk.
Faced with the dauntingly vague and unsympathetic form field labeled “PRESENTING PROBLEM,” I print:
Suicidal, unable to function reliably in everyday life.
An appropriately robotic description of an unspeakably painful condition. I cannot function reliably.
I am wearing an antique pink Victorian glove on my left hand; my writing hand is gloved in black-and-white stripes. It is warm, but I prefer to keep my hands covered whenever I can. I do not like to touch things.