Asylum

by Maxx Koerner

The cloudy, rainy, sky seemed only to add to Mikhail Zakhaev’s mood as he watched the forest surrounding the road fly by, bleak, grey, and dead. It fitted his destination as well. Mikhail Zakhaev. He said his name over again in his mind. It was one of the few things he was sure of now. His name. Where he was going. Why he was going there, and who these people, his parents, were. Before the USSR collapsed, his mother, father and grandfather had fled to Europe through East Germany. There they went to America, where Zakhaev was born, and his family had become wealthy through what his father had called honest work, or exploitation by leading people into a horrible deal with false promises and charging them small fortunes when their choices backfired. How else could the once poor family now own five cars, two mansions, one in Los Angeles and the other in Miami, a private jet, and act as if they were royalty. Zakhaev hated them.

Zakhaev looked over at his mother, sitting diagonal from him. Not unexpectedly, she wasn’t looking at him, she was gazed down at her fifth iphone, doing who knows what. By the American stereotype that Zakhaev had learned from his school colleagues, he guessed Olga Zakhaev was pretty, but he knew that her mind and attitude were foul. She wore only the latest designer clothing, expensive furs, leather boots, and warm coats. But for all that it was worth, Zakhaev could still see Olga’s bulging stomach. She was eight months pregnant, twins, boys. Zakhaev knew she thought more of these two than she ever thought of him.

“So,” she said to him in Russian without looking up. “The weather’s nice.”

“Da,” he answered curtly.

He saw his father look up slightly from his laptop to look at him, briefly. In the USSR, like his father before him, Vladimir Zakhaev was a soldier, a colonel, serving in Afghanistan before the Taliban defeated the Union. After coming to America he became the head of a stock firm, using others for his own personal gain. It was because of him that they were so wealthy. He was oblivious. He was empty. He knew nothing of Zakhaev. If they didn’t live in the same house Vladimir probably wouldn’t even know Zakhaev existed. He lived for his work, nothing more.

Zakhaev returned his gaze to the window. Where they were imprisoning him now proved it. Zakhaev had had a history of mental issues. Try as they might to find a “cure” for him, more to save their own reputation than him, they had used therapists and prescriptions. It didn’t work. This was not biological, it was psychological. When they had realized this, or just got tired of drugs and therapists, they found this place. A “mental hospital” named Saint Sebastian. Zakhaev didn’t care; he just wanted to be rid of them.

Yet still, anger burned uncontrollably in Zakhaev. They were abandoning him. Leaving him like bait to the wolves. How could they do this? Why were they doing this? They were responsible for him. They were supposed to take care of him, to be parents. Yet because of some insignificant issue, they were tossing him away like trash. Zakhaev found himself scowling in his reflection and his expression returned to slightly bored. Zakhaev knew neither of his parents noticed his expression change; they were too busy with their noses in their technology. Zakhaev sighed. Just like every family gathering. For what seemed like hours, they drove in silence with his father’s occasional typing. Zakhaev watched in silence as the trees around him zoomed by, an endless wet brown blur.

Zakhaev’s thoughts floated back to the past, to when he was a child and his family had been poor. He didn’t remember much, he knew they had lived in New York for a brief time with his grandfather. Zakhaev didn’t remember his grandfather, he remembered his face, but nothing more. That was more than a decade ago. He wished he knew his grandfather, from what he was told, he was a kind, welcoming man with a warm aura. He died when Zakhaev was five, cancer. Apparently, America could save you from that. Over the next few years after that his parents became more and more condescending, more harsh, more how they were now. Zakhaev remembered in blurs what they used to be like, His mother’s laughter, his father’s playful nature. But when his grandfather had died, those seemed to die with him.

Finally, Zakhaev saw a sterile white sign approaching, bringing him from his reprieve, with words written in black cursive. St. Sebastian’s Hospital for the Mentally Ill. For its entire fancy exterior, Zakhaev knew what the sign actually read.

Asylum.

It was another fifteen or so minutes before St. Sebastian came into view, and that was only from behind a barbed wire fence. From the front, the building looked like a giant marble white cube. There was only one door, from where Zakhaev stood in the parking lot it looked to be heavy oak. On either side of the door there were only about six windows, each covered with a white curtain. At the very top of the building there was a single, large cross. To Zakhaev, it looked to be marble as well. It had rained recently; Zakhaev could smell the wet dirt, trees and grass. Zakhaev thought nature was trying to lie to him and itself, because the damp smell could not cover the stench of this place, it made it worse.

Zakhaev felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked to see his father walking by him, not making eye contact. Zakhaev looked back at the car to see two heavily muscular men in white shirts, shoes and pants lifting his luggage out of the trunk. He didn’t know why he had to pack; Zakhaev knew he’d never see any of his luggage again. Oddly he was fine with that. Perhaps it was because those clothes were a memory from his past life, a burning memory of Olga and Vladimir.

Zakhaev followed the two men into the building, entering to see his mother and father making the final arrangements for his detainment. Zakhaev stood in the corner and watched them; there was nothing he could do to stop this. He looked at his parents, and a wave of helplessness surged over him. There was nothing to be done, the was nothing that could be done. He didn’t want this, he never wanted this. Even though Zakhaev stood in a room filled with orderlies, doctors and regular people, Zakhaev felt truly alone.

His parents were making their way to him now; Zakhaev steeled himself for what was to come. His mother spoke, he heard her twice, once through his ears, the other in his mind.

“Well, your stay has been finalized,” she spoke in Russian. Your cell is prepared.

“The doctors here are top notch. They will be meeting with you regularly to help identify what the problem is, and work to see what prescription will work.” Once a month you will be brought from your cell to be judged if you are fit for civilization and human contact.

“We will be checking up on you whenever we can to see how you are doing and to give any moral support we can. You are allowed to write letters and receive letters, so we will keep in contact.” We will not come back, and you are not to write to us, and we will not write to you.

She hugged him, and put a good effort into making it look sincere, even though it was empty. His father shook his hand, smiling, as if Zakhaev was a business partner.

“We’ll see you soon,” Vladimir said to him for the first time in months. We’ll see you in hell.

Zakhaev watched them go. He stood there for a moment, conflicted. Part of him rejoiced that they were gone. Part of him wept.

Ten by six. Those were the dimensions of his cell. There was no window, only a single light bulb with no light switch. Zakhaev tried to take the cell in, but there was nothing to take in. Four objects inhabited the cell. The light bulb, the cot, the toilet, and the sink. Zakhaev moved over to the cot. It was a straw mattress on a steel frame. The comforter and the sheets were both a dull grey. Zakhaev leaned over and smelled the cot. It smelled odd, but not bad. Zakhaev was sure that the previous owner of this cell had pissed, defecated and vomited in this bed, but at least the orderlies had had the good will to wash most of the stench out.

Zakhaev looked at the toilet. It was simply a steel bowl with a lever jutting from the concrete wall. There was no seat, and it smelled as if it hadn’t been washed in months. Zakhaev pulled the lever to make it flush, it only made a gurgling sound. The sink was similar in design, a metal bowl stinking out from the wall with a faucet and valve. Zakhaev turned the valve and ran his hand under the water for a few seconds. The water was a little grey, as if it had been sitting in the pipes for a long time, it was a bit warm too, but water was water.

Zakhaev looked at the door, steel like everything else. It only had two hatches, one so a nurse or orderly could open to let Zakhaev know it was time for an appointment, the other so food could be pushed through. There was no handle. Zakhaev looked around the room. No point. No point in trying to get out, he was trapped.

“Welcome home,” he muttered to himself.

He had no clock, so he didn’t know the time or the date. Zakhaev lay down on the cot and tried to sleep. He felt odd. The reason escaped him, the last thing he knew before he fell asleep was confusion.

He felt free.

Time was an illusion. There was no clock. No sun. There was only the eventual clicking on and off of the light in his cell. Zakhaev couldn’t sleep, but he was never truly awake. He was in a state of limbo, of half sleep. He had lost count of the days he had spent in this Asylum.

Asylum.

The word came to Zakhaev randomly, and he was glad he could remember it. As time went on he found it harder and harder to remember anything before his arrival here. At times he found himself staring at nothing in his cell, feeling nothing, thinking nothing. Zakhaev was losing his mind, and he knew it. The orderlies and nurses here seemed to treat him like he was well along losing it, talking slowly and loudly so he could understand them. It made him feel helpless, like once before, but he couldn’t remember where. He couldn’t even remember why he was here.

There was no schedule here. Arbitrarily orderlies would push food into his cell, food sometimes he wouldn’t even eat. He would just sit on his cot and watch as more and more food was pushed into his cell. While he was with a doctor, the orderlies seemed to clean it up, Zakhaev never noticed. Leaving his cell was the worst. Zakhaev didn’t mind leaving his cell, far from it, his mind felt clear and focused away from it. He dreaded returning to it. Every time he returned to it, it was smaller. He felt the walls and ceiling inches away from him as he lay on the cot. It was getting harder and harder to breathe.

Every now and then Zakhaev heard a voice speaking to him, but he never listened to them, sometimes he couldn’t even comprehend what was said. He remembered someone bringing him here, someone close to him, but he couldn’t remember who. Zakhaev couldn’t remember their name, their face, he could only remember he hated them, but there was no why. Only hate, and nothing more.

It was a long while before part of Zakhaev realized what was happening to him. The loss of memory, the inability to do much of anything, the loss of comprehension. It made sense, his brain was rotting. Even as a small part of Zakhaev realized this, the rest of him felt nothing, he couldn’t understand. He didn’t know what it meant, he only knew the walls and ceiling.

There was little oxygen left. His breath came ragged and chocked, his lungs felt like they were being compressed in his chest. He couldn’t breathe, there was nothing left to breathe. He fell out of his cot and on the cold concrete floor. Like and infant he crawled on all fours towards the door. His breath was nothing more than a death rattle now. With what strength he had he banged on the door, over and over again. The slide at the top finally slid opened, who, Zakhaev didn’t care. For the first time in what seemed like a life time, Zakhaev understood what the person was saying.

“What do you want?” it said.

Zakhaev tried to speak, to say air, to be let out. He couldn’t understand his own voice, but he hoped the voice above him would.

“Sorry, lad,” it said indifferently. “Can’t let ya’ out.”

Zakhaev screamed and shrieked at it as the slide above closed. Air. Air, just some air. Zakhaev slumped to the floor and curled into a ball. He was suffocating, now barely breathing. He wanted to move, but couldn’t find the strength. Just as the air left his body, so too did his mind into oblivion. Fear gripped him, fear which he had never known. As his mind left him, the thought he had before he plunged into insanity mocked him.

You’re free now, boy.

Zakhaev wanted to scream, but he was too busy laughing.