21
November 1921
Northampton, Massachusetts
Her whole body was trembling.Locked in panic, she could do nothing but stare, wild-eyed and frantic, at the machine the orderlies were dragging her toward. She knew what it did. She had heard the stories. She had heard the muffled sobs of the other patients as they recovered from their “treatment.”
She screamed. She wailed. She begged for mercy. She struggled, tried to get free, but the two men in their white coats on either side of her were too big and too strong for her to overcome. She met the gaze of her doctor, a man with bronze skin and white hair. His silver eyes regarded her with nothing but pity and sadness.
“Please—please! I don’t—please, don’t do this!”
“It is for your own good, Marguerite…” He shook his head.
“No—no, please, just wait—listen—” But they didn’t listen. The two orderlies forced her onto the table. Leather straps were fixed around her wrists and her ankles. Another over her waist, her shoulders, and her thighs. A gag was fitted into her mouth—a strip of cloth around a wooden dowl.
When she felt the sting of a needle on her arm, she knew her struggling was over.
“Relax, Marguerite.” Dr. Gideon Raithe stood over her, having been the one who administered the sedative.
It was like fighting the tide—like arguing with the ocean. The drug quickly did its work as it ran through her system, aided by the rapid beating of her heart. Despite how hard she tried to resist, her limbs went limp.
She was helpless. Powerless. Drugged, gagged, and restrained—there was nothing she could do. Nothing but watch as her vision went blurry and the man beside her fitted a strange device over her head. It had cloth pads at the temples, and she could feel it press in on her skull, ensuring a tight fit.
Why were they doing this to her?
Why?
Her memories were missing. All of them. She had woken up in a field not knowing anything but her first name and carrying a small fragment of what looked like an antique. It needed to be hidden. She didn’t know why—she didn’t know how she was supposed to do it—but she knew her name was Marguerite, and the small quarter of a circular pendant must be hidden away from everyone.
But where?
Where would it be safe?
It wasn’t long before some police had found her wandering the city’s main street in a daze and had whisked her to the asylum. They thought she had escaped. Maybe she had.
She didn’t know.
The loud flicking of switches was barely audible to her.
And then all she knew was the pain.
Her body convulsed violently, jerking against the restraints. Her vision flashed white in agony, and she couldn’t even find the ability to scream. Nothing existed but the coursing current jabbing through her, again and again.
Then, respite. It ended. Tears streamed from her eyes, and she wept quietly into the gag. Was it over? Please, oh, please, let it be over.
But the doctor was not done with his care. A loud click, and the pain began again, searing, and hot, and terrible.
Click.
The pain ended. Was it working? Were her memories coming back? Her name was Marguerite. And she had tucked the little fragment into the wall, hidden behind a loose brick in the corner of the basement of the building.
Nothing else remained.
Click.
That time she screamed, muffled as it was, as her body thrashed and warped against her will. It went on, and on, and on.
Click.