She leaned over into my line of sight. She was thick with age, and broad shouldered. Her eyes were neither kind nor unkind. They were tired. “If you do not piss right now, I will leave the pot under you. It will bruise your fair skin, and you will cry. I will not care. And if you struggle, you will spill your own shit and piss all over your bed, and I will forget to change your sheets. Do you understand?”

Her tone was without anger or malice. And I did not know how to reply—what could I say to convince her? How could I best manipulate her into releasing me?

“Yes, of course,” I said meekly. “But could I sit up, please?”

“Two days bound to the bed to make certain you will not injure yourself. Do as you are told, and then we will talk about letting you piss sitting up.”

Horrified, humiliated, I found I could not release so much as a drop.

She left the chamber pot beneath me.

It bruised, as promised, though my soul and dignity suffered far worse damage than my skin.

—

Three days I lay bound to that bed. Sometimes I heard weeping. But that was almost a comfort, because the rest of the time I heard nothing. I could only turn my head side to side and see blank, whitewashed walls. I was alone, save the brief visits of a nurse.

The second night, the longest night, I repented of my wish to hear things. A woman nearby screamed, and screamed, until my throat felt raw and aching on her behalf. How she continued I did not know.

How could any of us continue like this?

—

After three days of doing everything the nurses asked, they unbound me. I was taken into the asylum master’s office. I did not know what country we were in, but the doctor and nurses all spoke German. The walls were paneled in dark wood, the desk and his chair massive and foreboding. A simple stool was placed in front of it. I sat, perched on the edge, with my back straight and my chin held at a demure angle.

They had not let me brush my hair, nor had they given me anything other than the shapeless gray shift I had worn since I had woken up.

“Good afternoon.” I smiled primly. “I am so grateful for a chance to speak to you. We have a terrible misunderstanding to clear up.”

The asylum master did not so much as glance up from where he was writing a letter. He was pale and crinkly, and I suspected if I touched his skin it would hold the indent of my finger. His thin lips were pursed into a single cross line.

“You see,” I continued, “I should not be here.”

“Hmm,” he said. “I have seen your writings and have testimony from your husband otherwise.”