Hazel
I’m not quite sure how to begin this journal, so perhaps I’ll start with my wandering thoughts.
It's been a week since I washed up on the beach of Akala, or so I think.
Time is… difficult to track here. My favorite nurse, an older gentleman who wears an eye patch and goes by the name Bucky, suggested I start this journal so as not to lose my sanity, so here I am.
It’s not so bad here, I suppose. Most of the staff aren’t very friendly, but they leave me alone for the most part, though they do follow me around sometimes.
I see them out of the corner of my eyes, scribbling notes into small pads.
I’m sure they believe I’m a lunatic, considering I quite literally washed up on the shore.
But they treat me just the same as the rest of the patients.
Most of our days are spent following the same schedule. Wake, wash, breakfast, activities. Occasionally I get called in to speak with Dr. Morrison, the alienist, but she asks me questions I don’t want to answer. So I mostly stay quiet, and I think she hates it.
She often wants to talk about my childhood, and why I don’t have any kind words to say about my father, but those memories are painful for me. My childhood wasn’t awful, but it was lonely. The only fond memories I have are with my mother, and the mere thought of her makes me want to cry.
My favorite part of the day is after lunch, when they allow us to explore the grounds outside.
The asylum is located at the base of a large cliff, surrounded by a perfectly curated lawn and garden.
It's not too far from the beach, but unfortunately they don’t allow us to venture that far.
A wall follows the perimeter of the garden, and on the other side lies a quaint chapel and cemetery, though the chapel is a bit dilapidated.
I don’t believe they use it for much, but someday I would like to go inside and see it for myself.
Despite the circumstances, the island is beautiful in a detached, desolate way.
The sanitarium is made of grey stone, decorated with intricately carved molding and the occasional winged gargoyle.
Sometimes I imagine they fly away in the night, and I wish they’d take me with them.
The cliff itself extends down to the beach, leaving us secluded in our own protected valley on the rocky shore.
It rains a lot, and it’s just as cloudy as Whitethorn Bay, which is a bit of a disappointment. But I suppose, at the end of the day, I shouldn’t complain. Having an ocean’s worth of distance between me and my father is delightful, and I think over time I could learn to like it here at Akala.
—
May 15th, 1877
Alas, it appears I’m not the best at keeping a journal. Apologies for the lapse in time since my last entry.
I regret to inform you that the Akala Asylum may not, in fact, be a place I learn to enjoy.
My biggest grievance to date is the harsh electric lighting they use in every single room.
It leaves my head throbbing by the end of every day, sometimes so severely that my vision is cloudy around the edges.
Additionally, they’ve been sending me to Dr. Morrison more and more, and she keeps pushing me to explain how I survived a shipwreck and ended up on the shores of Akala.
And I keep telling her I don’t know, but she doesn’t like that.
Her punishments started light, a ruler to the wrist when she presumed I was lying about the shipwreck.
Then it progressed to having my hands and feet tied to the chair while she questioned me.
I think she just likes doling out punishments, but she says that it may help jog my memory.
Today, our session was particularly intense, and she went so far as to slap me across the face when she grew too frustrated with my “inadequate” answers.
Almost every night, I dream of the Talassi soldier who saved me from my fate at the hands of my father’s broken, sinking ship. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I miss him.
I’d only spent a few hours with him, but I felt protected in his presence.
And he was lovely to look at. Maybe it’s crazy of me to miss somebody who may not even be real, but this place makes me feel so desperate and alone.
My dreams of my half-human-half-sea-creature rescuer may be the only thing keeping me from falling further into despair, so I cling to them.
To this day, I’ve never spoken of Draya or the Talassi to any of the hospital staff. It’s my secret to keep. So, day after day, I tell them I have no recollection of what happened after I fell into the water, and I watch them grow more and more frustrated.
—
July 3rd, 1877
They’ve officially diagnosed me with amnesia regarding the events following the shipwreck. They claim I actually do know what happened, that it’s merely locked within the recesses of my mind.
Apparently, the treatment for it is shock therapy, which sounds like complete and utter torture.
Bucky, who seems to be the only nurse who actually listens to me and cares about what I have to say, told me it’s not as bad as it sounds.
But I think he’s lying. I’ve spoken to some of the other patients who have gone through it, and they said it’s painful, and takes a few days for your mind to clear afterwards.
I’d never heard of shock therapy before arriving here, and Bucky informed me that the Akala Asylum is an “experimental hospital.” They perform therapies and treatments here long before they are approved for widespread use, which is… not the most comforting piece of knowledge.
I requested to send a letter to my father after my “official diagnosis,” and although they granted it, I’m not hopeful the letter was actually sent.
Knowing this, I think I’ll start sending him more letters detailing the hurt and anger I feel towards him for sending me to this wretched place.
If they end up in Whitethorn Bay and he deigns to open them, I hope he feels even a shred of remorse.
In other news, I do not want to go to shock therapy. Will update after my first session.
—
July 10th, 1877
Shock therapy is horrible. Absolutely horrendous. They tied me up to a wooden chair and secured my legs, arms, torso, even my head in place with leather straps. Then they attached sticky flaps to my head, wrists, and feet.
It started with questions. They’d ask me what happened during the shipwreck. I’d say I didn’t know. Then, they’d send shockwaves through my bare feet.
At first, it didn’t hurt too terribly, only felt like a small tingling through my veins. But unfortunately, as they grew more and more irritated with my lack of answers, the shocks grew stronger.
They reverberated through my nerves, electrical currents burning through my muscles and bones until I was screaming.
It must have lasted hours, and by the end my skin was covered in sweat.
My head was too heavy to lift, not that I desired to at that point, and my throat was raw from rasped yelling.
I refused to cry, though. For whatever reason, determination to not give in seemed to anger them even more, and their frustration gave me the strength I needed to keep myself from breaking.
It felt as if I was stuck in that small room for hours, the bright lights above blinding me as they burned my body from the inside out, leaving me with a pounding headache.
At one point I swore I could smell my own flesh beginning to cook.
But eventually the lights flickered, and the doctors were forced to relent as inclement weather overtook the island.
Apparently, shock therapy is particularly dangerous during a storm.
Once I was unstrapped from the table, Bucky gently carried me back to my room, and he helped me clean my limp body before I collapsed into bed.
Bucky doesn’t belong here, just like I don’t.
His good eye is too kind, his body language too gentle.
One day I’ll gain the courage to ask him for his story, but until then I’ll let his small smile that barely reaches his patched eye bring me a small bit of comfort.
I’ll let his scarred hands clean my body, and I’ll always be eternally grateful for the occasional sweet he would sneak me from the kitchen.
In truth, I’m not sure why I’m so distrustful of the rest of the staff here. I can understand why they don’t believe my story about the shipwreck, but I don’t understand why they care so much. I really don’t remember what happened, and I don’t know why the ship sank after I was tossed overboard.
All I know is that I was rescued by a kind, handsome creature that these people will never know of, would I ever allow them to get their hands on.
My only reprieve from the horrors within these walls is knowing that I can spend days in my own dreams, where the Talassi were real and they came to rescue me.
—
November 23, 1877
The shock therapy is growing worse. My mental state is growing worse. The staff’s distaste for me is growing unbearable.
I don’t know what I did to make them want to break me so badly, but there seems to be no end in sight. Unfortunately for me, the first few shock sessions did not produce any new memories, so they increased their frequency and intensity.
I haven’t written in months. It’s too exhausting. It takes days for my body to recover from each session, even with the extra food from Bucky, and I’m unsure how much more I can take. My headaches are growing worse, and my heartbeat keeps me up at night with odd beats and palpitations.
This place is killing me, I think. But I don’t want to die here.
—
January 1st, 1876
It’s a new year, and with that comes no more shock therapy! These wretched nurses and doctors seem to finally understand that electrocuting me until I pass out will not bring forth my suppressed memories, so they informed me a few days ago it was no longer needed.
Instead, I’ll be subjected to something called hydrotherapy, and I’m unsure if it sounds worse or better.