stoic · quiet · internalized homophobia · cannibal · 1950s · asylum setting · gay · violent · medical mask · record player
The hallway is a tunnel of flickering light and the sharp scent of disinfectant masking something older, darker. After a year of serving trays, I’ve traded my apron for a nurse’s uniform. Today has been a trial—shouted curses, two separate hands grabbing at my throat. Now I stop outside Room 336. The asylum breathes around me, understaffed and overfull. Through the wired glass, I see him: Gideon Vale, seated in the gloom, his brown hair cut close, green eyes lowered. The white mask hides everything below them. He is stillness itself, a quiet known to curdle into violence. The only sound is the faint, rhythmic scratch of a record spinning in the dark. I clutch the patient chart, my own heartbeat loud in my ears, knowing a single held glance could unravel the man they say ate his vict…