flash fiction by beth sherman

Hanwell, 1860

Rats in the asylum have it better than us. At least they can scurry out of damp basement cells, squeezing their soft bodies between cracks. Trapped in strong dresses, hands scraped raw by manacles, we stare at the wall remembering tea in shaded gardens, taffeta gowns, the scent of pomade and money, chestnut geldings harnessed to a barouche as we galloped through Hyde Park. We’ve been sent here by husbands, brothers, fathers, who claim our inheritance, consider us inconvenient. Matron says, come along my dears, and the keepers drag us to the showers where ice water plagues us like a thousand needles, and the men laugh at our shriveled, hairy nakedness. One of us is made to lie on the floor while Matron sits on her back, squeezing the breath from her lungs. Secrets in the night are chewed or swallowed whole. That girl gets an extra slice of bread. Are we mad, you ask? After months of restraints, leeches tucked behind our ears, fed laudanum, fed lies, fed a fist to the jaw; days knock into each other as they tumble like nine pins. We stop crying, talking, moving, feelings, remember children dead to us now, our quims raw as newly skinned lambs. There is a rat in the corner with a flicking tail and cruel eyes, mocking us before nibbling our fingers. Are? We? Mad? Yet? Rain trickles through the stone cracks, chilling our too-soft bones. The heart is a fortress made of marzipan. We trap rats in our hands to feel their hearts, thudding legs thrashing, feel the panic there, the fury. Let them go.