I don't feel like writing a disclaimer today.
Fight or Flight
Asylum walls are not white and padded, as rumor suggested for so many years. They are gray, and dingy, and sealed in between with cement. Spiders might have made it homey, but there are no spiders here. Just you and the good doctor.
You think he's pretty, the good doctor. Not feminine, but not rugged. Or rough. Or strong. He looks breakable. Get him on the ground and one foot could crush his windpipe. Smash his head on the door and you could do anything you like. He's not amused to see your smile, and when he doesn't ask it's disappointing.
Dr. Crane is his name. Icky, icy Jonathan Crane from one or another nursery rhymes. Probably eats like a bird. How many teeth would he lose if you slammed his face into a table? The Crane moves delicately—arrogantly—and you let that slide because it's so funny. He thinks you can't hurt him here. He thinks this world is his palace and you are a lowly slave dancer. An amusement, a distraction, a release. Of course the good doctor is probably repulsed by either sex. You'll take what you can get when you can before strangling him with his own shirtsleeves. Innards tear too easily.
Jonathan Crane interrupts your reverie. He has his case with him; a fancy little thing bound in plain leather that's trying to prove something. You ask one provocative question, and there is a pause. No answer as the simple silver latches come undone, the classy container opened wide. Your mouth is wet inside. You notice and grin like a gentleman. You'll put his fingers there.
The sack is inspiring; you stand. A hand blocks your vision. Hissing, spitting, smelling of bitterness before it shrivels into a snake. You sink your teeth into that viper (right at the throat) and are satisfied to hear screams while maggots explode behind your eyeballs, worming holes through your stomach. A whole pile of them—tittering and tattling and rattling— sinks like a pit. That sea of cicadas wheezes, but low. Below, where it's possible to stomp them flat.
Ticks and leeches are sucking backward, downward, inward, restraining, draining. Mosquitoes sink needle-teeth into your neck. You will die and awaken under many cockroaches, itching and crawling from every crevice. Every orifice.
But you will never see Dr. Crane again, and none will think to ask how he got those scars.
Author's Note: I wrote this in one sitting with the simple thought "lets try something creepy". Results out, my brain feels extraordinarily dirty. Yick.