Suzanne collapsed as soon as the door shut. She pulled her dress up to her knees tenderly. Bruises and swelling welts peppered her calves, there was no question if her thighs would look the same. She sighed and started to unlace the back of her dress. She closed her eyes and began to hum a tune her mother had taught her. As she tugged off her sleeves she heard something. A bird? No, it wasn’t a sound a bird could make. It was laughter, wild laughter. It was as if a hyena was being held somewhere close by, rabid from being caged. She assumed that she had just heard someone passing by her room and ignored it. It happened again, louder, it was in the room with her. She clutched her dress to her chest, looking out the window to see if someone were trying to play a joke on her. A fence ran along the side of the building, there wasn’t any way someone could get to her window. She scoured the room, looking for anything that could let sound in, again there was nothing to be seen. Paranoia tingled in the back of her mind and she covered herself with her blanket to finish changing.

The sleeves of her new dress hung loosely around her wrists. She felt like a little girl trying on her mother’s clothing. She emptied her bag onto the bed and began putting away what few possessions she had brought with her. She picked up the book that had been hidden in the bottom of her bag. ‘The Minds of the Insane by Jan-Douwe Louwes.’ She sighed dreamily before hiding it in the bottom drawer of the dresser. A knock interrupted her thoughts a moment later. Joan waited impatiently outside, lightly tapping her foot. As soon as the door opened Joan started walking away, assuming that Suzanne would understand to follow.

The woman with the injured face was no longer in the room when they passed by again. Curiosity rang through Suzanne.

“What happened to the woman that was in that room earlier?” She asked, pointing to the empty cot.

“That was Helen. One of the worse patients clawed her yesterday.”

She took in a shallow breath, “Does that kind of thing happen often?”

“No,” Joan said, remorse heavy in her voice. “Someone must have let slip that a newcomer was arriving soon. Strangers always put the violent ones on edge.”

They stopped at the bottom of the staircases, Joan pointed to the one on the left. “That’s the womens’ wing. They tend to be easier to deal with. Perfect for you.”

“And that’s the men's’?” She asked, pointing to the one opposite of the older woman.

“Yes. You are not allowed to go there alone. Under any circumstances.” Joan commanded, authority thick in her tone.

“Of course Ma’am. ...May I see the men’s wing before the women's? I’ve always been curious of how they differ.”

“You may, but do not get close to the bars.”