It will help both of us if you remember these simple points of courtesy: “All right, folks,” I say. “Let’s talk about how every single horrifying event that happened in asylums was a direct result of the doctors and nurses committing medical malpractice rather than the patients themselves, shall we? We’ll start with Rosemary Kennedy. ![]() I whisk off my cloak to reveal a perfectly tailored suit. “Well,” I say, “you can hear someone’s screams.” Somebody asks if you can still hear the patients’ screams in the corridors. They’re confused but comply, feeling in the dark, finally reaching a table. They’ll follow, inch by inch, already trembling with adrenaline. I’ll beckon them with a single finger, wheeling backwards, letting the darkness consume me. They’ll be nudging each other, waiting to hear about the crazies. I’d sort of hunch over in my wheelchair, wrapped in a cloak, greeting the people. ![]() I want to become a tour guide of one of those haunted asylum tours.
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