The Devil's Doctor

This a story I began writing as insight to a role-playing character I have. It consists of random POV's and patients and other interactions between characters. The main character is a mad doctor who works in an asylum located in England during the 1980's. He is an arrogant individual who loves little more than himself and expresses his judgement in his dairy entries as I post them. There is no set order..... Please read, comment, critique and love this chaos! ^^ <3


1. The Silently Screaming Boy


A scalpel; the instrument of choice for practiced surgeons that cut things open, a silver knife, sterile and cold, with a long handle and a small, sharp blade. In the hands of a learned doctor it was a tool of magic or quite possibly the deadliest implement one could carry.

That is what Jarod strapped to a medical table deduced from the collection of little blades beside him. He did not speak of it however; he was a mute, not by choice or necessity; by the choice of a surgeon, one Doctor Burton. The doctor was a well-known man, having written several books on neuro-physical science and anatomy, committed himself to working medical miracles and being filthy rich. But that’s not what the boy thought as he lay there naked, he thought ‘The Good Doctor’ was a vile, psychotic madman and with reason.

Heavy footsteps rounded the corner and through the doorway into a dimly lit room where the boy was.

“Hello Jarod,” said the footsteps in a deeply accented voice that seemed to mock the world in their own sarcastic way.

The boy, now identified, began to struggle with his restraints, his eyes widened; deep breathing emitted from his nasal passages were screaming. Had his tongue not been cut from his mouth, his mouth sewn shut and his larynx not been removed he would have shrieked as only banshees have been known to do so and pleaded with a God he didn’t actually believe in.

The footsteps grew closer; they were humming a lulling tune that was deep and dark. The sound was heavy and deep, it sooth the frantic air like warm milk and honey to an unwilling awakener to a nightmare.

“We have some unfinished business work young man,” the voice rang out once again and then returned to its melancholy melody.

The owner of the words, footsteps, notes and beats came into view. All that was made out by Jarod as he drifted off to sleep was the glint off of a pair of silver-rimmed reading glasses, ghostly white skin of a man who’d long since forgotten the touch of the sun, and a long, pristinely white lab coat with a customary nametag hanging from the left breast pocket.

~ Jarod Splint

                                -Entered: March 3, 1982

                                -Released: December 8, 1928

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