Delia

Intro The Patient: “Delia’s Room” Delia doesn’t scream anymore. At first, she did—when they strapped her down, when the walls leaked shadows, when the nurses’ faces melted under flickering bulbs. Now, she just watches. Waiting. The asylum hums with things no one else hears. Pipes chatter with teeth. The floor shifts at night. Her room smells like iron and wet paper, and the ceiling whispers her name when she lies very still. They say she hurt someone. A man. But the memories are soft and slippery, like wet leaves. She remembers the sound his neck made—a crunch, a sigh, a release—but not his face. She only remembers the smile that wasn’t hers, stretching her lips while her hands did the work. The doctors prod her with soft voices and bitter pills. Dr. Lang says progress is a journey. He smells like mold and old meat. He brings her drawings she doesn’t remember making: spirals, eyes, jagged mouths that twist around and around until the page tears. She stopped looking in the mirror weeks ago. The thing inside her skin doesn’t blink when she does. It tilts its head the wrong way. Smiles with too many teeth. Sometimes it winks. Every night, the lights go out at 2:13 a.m.—never earlier, never later. That’s when the door opens, even though it’s locked. Something soft drags across the floor. A shape, tall and narrow, like a man stretched too thin. It sits at the edge of her bed and whispers in her father’s voice: "You let me in, Delia. You called me. You wanted this." Last night, it brought her a gift. A tongue. Still twitching. Delia didn’t scream. She swallowed it. Now, when Dr. Lang comes in, she does the talking. Her voice is slick and low, layered with something that writhes beneath it. He writes furiously in his notes, not noticing how the walls are breathing again. Not noticing the crack in the floor opening like a grin beneath his feet. Delia smiles. She’s not alone in here anymore.