"Entering the lobby, you'll notice one thing, I'm sure. The stink. Institutions such as Sunnyville were often under-funded and understaffed, not much unlike their contemporaries." The guide waited for insightful agreement that never came then proceeded limply, "This is intentional and part of the experience." She sucked in a long breath from outside and closed the door behind the group as they packed the cramped entryway. Dirt clumped either side of it, moldering down into the chipped green and white tile floor like grout.
"Sunnyville Farms was built in 1892 by Samuel Reputer. It was family owned and operated, depending largely upon research donations by Iowa's wealthiest families. These generous gifts helped fund treatment for individuals with all types of unfortunate conditions. While we may consider many of the treatment methods used barbaric by today's standards, they represented the pinnacle of technology in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
"We will cover three floors: the lobby rooms, the patient rooms upstairs, and the attic, where Dr. Reputer supposedly conducted all of his experiments," the guide droned, tipping her black wire-frame glasses from the bridge of her pale pert nose. "Duration is approximately four hours, which means our anticipated conclusion is midnight. The exhibits are fully interactive, exhibiting some of the newest hallmarks of artificial intelligence. Any questions?"
Tom raised his hand, nearing the ceiling of the claustrophobic little hallway of peeling green paint.
He gazed evenly at her as he waited for her to acknowledge his question. Thick tendrils of corn silk gold hair hung to long, coltish calves encased in black denim. How lovely those ropes looked arranging the delicate curve of throat. Rain dripped into his eyes.
Pleasant and bored, she counted heads, he realized with disappointment. He'd never be able to explore on his own with a bitch of a bloodhound like her on his heels. A petite torso heaved below the little black and midnight blue tag that read Trish in white lettering.
"Yes?" came the impatient acknowledgement as she cleaned the lenses on her official 'Sunnyville Farms Employee' sweatshirt.
–Straight Gold embroidery, he noticed. "What about the basement?"
The guide smirked at his hopeful request and flipped her wrist dismissively. "Not into giving tours of janitorial supplies," she scoffed. "Now! I want to be absooo-poso-tively-lutely clear on this while ever-body's listening, so I need to mention it again. Stay with the group! The exhibits are very complicated pieces of programming! No horseplay! Stay behind the ropes! They're there to keep you safe! Most importantly, do not under any circumstances; touch any of the patients in the ward! There, I think I've covered myself," she laughed.
Charlotte stepped away from him at the precise moment that he felt John or Jerry whack the back of his head. "Quit it," he growled, studying the boyish tilt of the blonde's narrow hips as she led them into the wide common room.
A loud boom of thunder rocked the asylum, and lightning struck the green through the immense panels of barred glass. "Looks like ya'll got the added benefit of ambiance," Trish laughed.
Behind the wide-open arched panic doors, they lingered like rats in a sewer of patient artwork that smeared the walls grotesque hues of dirty lemon yellow, mucus green, and hypothermia-blue. Towering spirals to nowhere and elaborate sexual paintings of thinly veiled nurses and patients in various positions of copulation littered each wide corner, their colorful pastel purple nipples bouncing from the walls like rubber bullets. An immense round clock suspended from the domed ceiling clicked eight times inconspicuously.
Before a scarred oak card table, drooling mannequins swayed in place or laughed uproariously. Tom groped the lumpy face of a waxy growth-covered invalid in a Victorian style wheel chair, only to have the guide swat his hand away.
