Asylum: The Wellard Asylum Series, page 1
Copyright © 2025 by J.S. Cannon
All rights reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover Design: Lori Rivera
Formatting: Kalie Gerwig | Good Girl Author Services
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
What You Need To Know
Blurb
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Acknowledgments
Books By This Author
About the Author
The cruelest thing of all is false hope...
SISTER JUDE - AHS
For all the tortured souls...
May you find your vengeance and peace.
WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW
Please visit the link or scan the QR code below for a full list of tropes and trigger warnings. linktr.ee/jscannon
BLURB
In a world full of monsters, I'm the insane one.
A simmering rage lies just beneath the surface, one that can't be controlled.
The voice in my head protects me, unleashing quick death, unhinged brutality.
One fateful night three years ago, I became the judge, jury, and executioner.
Losing my freedom when all I wanted was to escape.
Now, I'm locked away.
Imprisoned in a hell so torturous, my nightmares have become a reprieve.
Nothing could've prepared me for my doctor. My tormentor.
Dr. Atlas Stone.
He says all the right things, the one person who truly understands me. I gave him what little trust I had left.
The sadist who causes me more pain than I could've fathomed. The unpredictable psychopath who thrives on controlling my mind, and my body.
I've become nothing more than a pawn in his wicked game of obsession and experimentation.
Welcome to Wellard Asylum.
Where the darkness swallows you whole and frees your inner monster.
“Your son has fucking raped me for months!” I scream at the top of my lungs, my hate and disgust igniting the fuse connected to the ticking time bomb inside my head.
“You’ve corrupted my baby with your whore ways!” My stepmother seethes, and I laugh hysterically, wondering what fucking universe she lives in.
This bitch is delusional, and I feel my control unraveling. “He took my virginity, you psycho cunt! He held me down, ripped my clothes off, and violated my body against my fucking will.”
“Lies!” She screeches, the high-pitched sound snapping the invisible link tethering logic to my sanity.
White hot rage simmers beneath my skin, a pulsing sensation taking root in the center of my forehead. My chest tightens uncomfortably, heat flushing my entire upper body. She knows I have anger issues, yet she continues to push me. I’ve told her repeatedly to back the fuck off, I can’t control my emotions once they hit their peak.
Does she listen? No.
She won’t stop defending her demon spawn long enough to heed the warning signs.
“I’ll say this one last time,” I grit out. “Keep your fucking son away from me.”
He stole my innocence while I fought him tooth and nail. Swinging my fists, kicking my legs, sinking my teeth into any part of his body I could reach.
It did nothing.
He slammed his fist into the side of my head, knocking me out cold. I came to as he sprayed my chest with his cum, saying over and over how beautiful my blood looked on his cock. He left shortly after, and I spent an hour in the shower, alternating between puking my guts up, and scrubbing my skin raw.
She knows the truth, but she’ll deny it until the day she dies. Which may be tonight if she doesn’t walk away now.
“You little bitch!” She screams, backhanding me across the face.
My head whips to the side, momentarily stunned until my eyes land on the fire poker sitting in the rack. The pulsing in my forehead quickly morphs into piercing, throbbing pain, engulfing my entire skull as it roars to life. My vision dims at the corners of my eyes, sweat beading above my brows.
“Do it!” A voice penetrates through the ringing in my ears, a sudden wave of calm taking over. “Do it!”
My hand shoots out, wrapping my fingers around the iron poker, a sense of rightness blanketing me as I pull it from the black, metal stand. Spinning around, shock registers on my stepmother’s face as I plunge it into her abdomen, the hook of the poker disappearing inside her belly. Tearing through tissue and muscles, I don’t stop pushing until I hear the popping of her skin, the rod protruding from her back. A putrid smell permeates the air in the room but I don’t acknowledge the waste spilling from her intestines, poisoning her body as I watch her face contort in anguish, her suffering bringing me satisfaction.
She screams in agony, and I smile, meeting resistance as I attempt to pull the poker from her stomach. The iron tip reappears after some effort, her intestines dangling from the hook.
I feel like I’ve gone fishing.
My father bellows from the other side of the living room as she falls to her knees, her usually tan skin ghostly pale. She gasps for air as he runs to her side, falling to his knees, screaming her name. “Linda! Linda!”
“Shut the fuck up, Dad!” I cackle, jerking the poker back and forth until her insides plop on the floor beside him, the sickly moist sound almost as atrocious as the foul odor depletes the oxygen from the room.
My father turns his head, locking his gaze on me, pure hatred in his eyes.
He stayed in the kitchen this entire time, allowing his new wife to scream and assault his own flesh and blood. His only child. He didn’t say a word or come to my defense. I don’t know why I expected more from the man who raised me. There was a time in my life when I looked up to him. He was caring, helpful, and present. Since meeting the cunt currently bleeding out on the floor, he’s become angry, resentful, and quick to knock me to the ground.
I knew I didn’t matter anymore the day he announced their engagement. I begged him not to marry her, told him what Scott was doing to me. As soon as the words left my mouth, he backhanded me, demanding I stop making up stories just because I don’t like them. That was the day I realized I was on my own, abandoned by the man meant to protect me. I vowed to myself as soon as I turn eighteen, I’d leave this hell hole.
He rises to his feet, taking a menacing step towards me. My fingers tighten around the poker, readying myself to kill the man who helped create me.
“You little bitch,” he grits out, taking another step forward.
“Come any closer, and you’ll be dead before you hit the floor.”
“I made your mother leave when she beat the shit out of you. I should’ve let her fucking kill you.”
His words should sting, but I feel nothing.
My biological mother was an addict. He didn’t make her leave because she was physically abusing me. He got rid of her because she was draining him financially, and we never heard from her again. The loving father I knew as a little girl is gone, replaced by the pathetic man standing in front of me now. He chose his new family over me.
He didn’t protect me from the monster in the room across from mine. He knew, and did absolutely nothing to stop it. “And I wish she would’ve fucked anyone other than you, but here we are, old man.” I grin, noticing Linda’s chest has stopped moving in my peripheral vision.
His face darkens to a crimson as if his head is about to blow off his shoulders. His fists clench at his sides, his stance widening, readying himself for a fight.
Please. Fucking. Do. It.
My wish is granted when he lunges forward, both his hands flying to my throat. My reflexes are catlike as I jump back, raising the fire poker with lightning speed, swinging it like a batter going for the season’s record home run. It connects with his temple, the hook sinking into his skull with a squelch. He falls to the floor with a thud, into a heap beside his beloved, dead wife.
Blood gushes from his head, seeping into the rug beneath him. I watch with fascination as the crimson liquid stains the cream material, the area growing larger until it meets Linda’s. He rocks from side to side, cradling his head, whimpering. “Please. I’m your father,” he whines, pleading for mercy.
Moving to stand over him, I plant my feet on either side of his neck. “You’re nothing to me.” Positioning the poker at his throat, I slam it into his jugular, blood spraying my lower body and the floor around us.
His hands fly to his throat, gasping for the oxygen just out of reach. Pulling the poker from his neck, my skin prickles as I watch him suffer, the adrenaline in my veins pumping harder than ever before.
His eyes widen comically before slowly drooping as his breaths become shallow, slower, a satisfying death rattle vibrating his chest. Wetness blooms between his legs, the smell of his urine mixing with the smell of her shit.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up my throat, and I fall to my knees beside his dying body, bending down to whisper into his ear. “Rot in hell, cunt.” His chest deflates for the final time, and I fall back onto my ass.
Fuck, that felt good.
My body trembles, the urge to kill still in the forefront of my mind. I struggle to calm my racing heart, my fingers tapping away on my knees. I have to stop this. I need to get out of here.
“There’s one left!” The voice in my head argues, and I begin counting to snap myself out of this murderous prison.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
With every number I speak, my fingers connect with the skin over my kneecap. My mind is spiraling, and I continue counting until my body stops trembling all together.
I’ve never reached this level of insanity before, the counting usually bringing me back before things get out of hand. It’s only happened a few times before, at school, always triggered by some little cunt running her mouth. Dad was pissed when I put the last girl in the hospital, the bruises from the beating marring my skin for two weeks. He punished me for something I can’t control, something I hardly remembered. It was like a switch flipped, and I was a different person.
Sometimes it feels like there’s another being living inside me. I’m in a constant battle with the stranger in my head, and when it comes to my emotions being heightened, it always wins.
Glancing at the two dead bodies beside me, reality sets in along with the gravity of what I’ve done. My chest tightens, terrified of the consequences of my actions. Just as the panic threatens to cripple me, the voice returns. “I’ve got you.”
My body relaxes, a floating sensation making the air around me lighter, more comforting. The smells disappear along with any guilt or worry I felt only a few moments ago.
Two less assholes in the world.
One more to go.
The front door creaks open, snapping me back to my present situation. When I look up, my eyes clash with my tormentor, my stepbrother. His jaw drops as he takes in the scene, his gaze lingering on his mother for a few short moments. He steps further into the room, my skin buzzing with awareness.
Danger.
He’s only seventeen, but his large, imposing form and evil demeanor has me second guessing my ability to overpower him. I’m strong as hell when my anger takes over, but he could easily subdue me without much effort.
My mind reels as I glance around, waiting for an idea to hit me. I silently curse the voice in my head for making the decision to kill Scott but offering no help in doing so. All thoughts disappear as he comes to stand in front of me, offering his hand. Quickly masking my surprise, I slide my fingers across his palm, and he pulls me up, wrapping his arms around me.
“What happened, little sister?” He whispers against my cheek, my stomach roiling at his closeness.
His warm breath whisps across my face, a single throb in my head signaling what’s coming. I’m fighting my own mind to stay in control so I can carry out my plan to kill this motherfucker.
“Your mom slapped me,” I whisper, playing the obedient little stepsister he’s come to know.
I fought like hell the first time he sexually assaulted me, but after he knocked me out, being complicit and conscious seemed smarter. I wanted to know what was happening to me. Up to this point, I’ve disassociated during the act, planning my getaway once I’m alone. My eighteenth birthday is only a couple of months away. All I had to do was wait, but my temper fucked everything up.
No. That bitch fucked it up, and now I have to improvise.
“She got what she deserved for touching you.” He grins, pulling me into his chest.
That’s rich coming from you.
Bile rises in my throat as his warm touch seeps into my skin. “You’re not mad?” I ask innocently.
Keep the chunks down, Olivia.
He leans back, tilting my chin to meet his gaze. “Of course not, sweetheart. We’ll get you cleaned up, toss the place, and call the police. They’ll think it was a break in.”
“Okay.” I agree, squeezing my eyes closed to ease the throbbing against my skull. This war with myself is exhausting. I’m so fucking tired from the back and forth within my mind. I just want to be normal.
He leads me into the bathroom, stripping off my clothes, his hungry gaze roaming every inch of my body. I let him look his fill, fighting the urge to reach for my toothbrush, and shove it through his eye socket. After removing his own clothes, he turns on the spray, leading me into the shower once the water is warm. “It’s okay. I’m going to take care of you.”
My mind screams to rip the shower head off the wall, and use it to cave in his skull but I dismiss the idea.
For now.
Staring at the floor as he scrubs my body, I hyperfocus on the bloody water trailing down my legs, circling the drain. My vision dims once more as he pushes the cloth between my legs, sweeping back and forth, applying pressure against my core.
“Hold on! Not yet!” I scream internally as my body begins to tremble.
He reaches around, sliding the cloth between my ass cheeks and my jaw clenches, my skin burning like molten lava.
“Do it!” The voice screams, and I’m powerless against the explosion behind my eyes, the loss of control over my body. It’s as if I’m watching from the sidelines as I become the apex predator, my sights locked on the weak, pathetic prey.
Raising my hand to his cheek, he mistakes the move as an affectionate gesture. My palm slides to the center of his face, and I shove him hard, pure hate and adrenaline fueling what happens next.
The back of his head crashes into the glass door of the shower, the frosted pane shattering from the impact. He bellows, cursing as he reaches for me, and I plaster myself against the wall, gripping the metal bar tightly. Time slows, his arms flailing wildly, desperately searching for anything to grab onto as he falls through the frame, crashing onto the tile floor.
My shoulders shake with laughter at the sight of blood trickling from his body, filling the grout lines beneath him. Tiny shards of glass penetrate the majority of his skin, resembling a human pin cushion. He screams my name, pleading for help through his tears, but the focal point of my attention is a piece of glass lying next to the toilet. It’s size and shape remind me of a slice of pizza, and I know exactly what I want to do with it.
Stepping out of the shower, I bend down and pick it up, the sharp edge nicking my palm. Crimson seeps from the cut, but I don’t feel any pain. Slowly, I squat down beside him, my gaze running the length of his form, halting where his flaccid cock lies against his thigh. My uninjured hand slides down his abdomen, over his pelvis, circling his length firmly with my fingers. He shouts obscenities, attempting to get up, but every time he moves, it drives the glass deeper inside his skin, blood gushing from the wounds where the larger pieces are embedded. It’s not until his gaze clashes with mine; he falls silent.
He takes notice.
I’m no longer myself. I’m simply a vessel filled with hate and fury. I’m the abused, little stepsister about to take his life.
Blood trickles down my arm as I lift the glass to his cock, jaggedly sawing through the weapon he’s abused me with for months. His lifeforce sprays from the appendage, coating me in slickness. His mouth is moving, but the ringing in my ears prevents me from hearing whatever he’s saying.
As I slice through the last shred of skin connecting his cock to his body, the bleeding slows to a thick stream, oozing down his thighs, staining the bright, white tile. Lifting his dick in my hand, our blood mingles, our bodily fluids merging together for the last time.
I bet he’s not turned on now.
His face pales and his body trembles as I hover over him, tracking the tears leaking from his eyes. His suffering brings me peace, and I feel nothing as he silently pleads for this torment to end.
