The Medea Complex

by Rachel Florence Roberts

Brandishing something gaily aloft, she cries, "A bone! A human bone!" She starts to laugh; alarmingly, her gums are blue. "Can you see, kind Sir's? A bone! Oh, how can I walk? They have taken the bones from my legs. Look! Doctor, can you put it back in for me, oh, I beg you most kindly." With that, she falls to her knees and holds the 'bone' aloft.

  A chicken bone, quite possibly a wing.

  "Gertrude. A patient here. Lead poisoning. Thinks we are stealing her skeleton piece by piece," says Dr Savage by way of explanation. He shouts. "Nurse Ruth! Please come and fetch Gertrude, and kindly, stop letting her eat chicken!" Ruth comes out of a side door, and looks at me darkly.

  What did I do?

  "Yes, Sir." Ruth says, kneeling besides Gertrude, and takes the mad, cackling woman away from us.

  We pass down the rest of the corridor without incident, finally stopping outside a strangely familiar door.

  Yet this one has a handle.

  Behind it hides the murderer of my baby.

  Tainted By Hate

  Edgar

  April 26th, 1886

  Royal Bethlem Hospital

  Anne flings herself upon me as soon as we enter the room. "My love, my darling!" she gushes, as she clings tight to my waistcoat, sobbing. Dressed in the linen that defines her as a patient, she is still my wife, yet, somehow, is also another person, a stranger to me. Six months of separation has not changed her appearance, but something indefinable and different floats about her. I force a smile, gently pushing her away from me, but keeping hold of her hands.

  "Such a public display of affection!" I say, making light of her attention. I fear she may offend Dr Savage. Has she forgotten how to act in polite society whilst she has been incarcerated? Certainly before she would hold herself better. However, I do not let my irritation show for this one transgression; letting it pass.

  For now.

  I lead her to the bed, which looks most uncomfortable. As we sit, I realize it is just as I thought. Straw crackles underneath us.

  It viciously reminds me of my youth.

  "Are you glad to see me, my love?" Turning to me, she awaits my reaction. "I am very sorry in forgetting myself; I realize I have been unwell for quite some time. Lately I felt like I have been in a long and deep sleep, and when I woke I was terribly weak and nervous. I often cry when I am alone. I missed you so dreadfully. What can you say to me, my dear?"

  How does she expect me to reply? What does she expect my face to portray? All I know is what I see in her hers.

  My wife.

  The murderer of my son.

  A lunatic.

  My love.

  How could anyone understand my feelings, so diametrically opposed to one another that I don’t dare to voice them? To express the truth of my thoughts would cause shock and horror, and perhaps the good doctor here would decide against her discharge into my care. Some days I fear I will go mad myself, as if two people are inside of me. One that loves Anne, and the other that wishes to send her to the hell of which she spoke in my dream.

  Alcohol keeps one of them locked within me.

  "What can I tell you? My love, how I have missed you!" I say, aware that this is what everyone in the room needs to hear. I can only hope that my conflicting thoughts are not outwardly apparent. To act differently now would be to arouse suspicion. She is so close to being returned to my charge and guardianship.

  Dr Savage beams, looking mightily pleased with himself, providing the verification that my face is not currently betraying me.

  I need a drink.

  My head hurts.

  "I cannot wait to come home, to be with you once more," Anne says, as Dr Savage closes the door, and comes to a crouching position in front of us. "Though I must admit, I am frightened as to what people will make of me. Will I be ostracized from those I care about, and the community? Oh, I couldn't bear it were it so!"

  Dr Savage speaks.

  “Let me allay your fears, Lady Stanbury. You have a wonderful and loving husband whom has stood by you through all this time, and will most surely stand by you forever." I nod my assent. Anne nervously twists her wedding band around her finger. She also nods, but I know her well enough to detect the disbelief in her eyes. She knows, deep down, that I haven't completely forgiven her. She must. She seems nervous.

  I squeeze her hand a little more and stroke her hair. She smiles up at me, a thin, watery smile.

  Dr Savage continues."If a woman knows that what she has done is wrong and is sorry for it, she can be forgiven. By the eyes of the lord himself, as you well know: confess your sins and atone for them. I believe you already did so in talks with our chaplain?"

  "Yes, Doctor." Anne replies.

  "Good. Now, if God can forgive such an act, so can your neighbours’, friends and family. Remember this: you have a most limited moral responsibility for what occurred. Puerperal mania was the culprit, not you. The death of your son was not by your hand."

  I almost laugh aloud. It was indeed by her hand. I remember the blood on them.

  "Indeed, I would expect those around you to offer great commiseration! Nobody can dare imagine the shame and anguish which must weigh upon your shoulders! A crime committed that outrages your most powerful instinct: maternal love of your offspring. Who could envisage such a traitorous and cruel episode happening within one's own mind! It is shocking how merciless nature can be! You deserve nothing less than pity, and those whom would dare to judge, I expect they would do so with the upmost leniency. You are pardoned by the law and by Her Majesty herself. You have been excused by God. Your doctor declares you a good and fine person; much recovered, and your dear husband still loves you. What further clarification do you need to allay your fears?"

  She mumbles something about being selfish, or possibly selfless. I cannot hear her reply clearly, it is a whisper. Dr Savage either does not hear it at all, or pretends not to as he continues.

  "Today, you will be discharged home. Your convalescence as Witley was most encouraging.” He turns to me. “Mr Stanbury, I believe you have the necessary clothing and such that she needs to make the transference from a patient, to a lady once again rejoining our society?"

  "Oh Edgar darling, but what of my baby's funeral? I don't even know what happened to my baby, nor where he lays to rest!" She starts to cry.

  I tell her.

  I want to torture her.

  In the nicest way possible.

  "Our son had the most wonderful procession, my darling. It would never been proper for you to attend anyway, had you not been so indisposed..." I say, twisting the figurative knife. "So I entreated to commit to memory everything, to one day tell you all. It was a beautiful morning; the sun shining, not a cloud to be seen in the sky. The procession consisted of the hearse and four horses, two mourning coaches covered with nineteen plumes of white ostrich feathers and velvet. There were eleven men as pages, and the coachmen with their truncheons and wands. The attendant wore a silk hat band. Coaches were sent to the houses of all those whom attended the funeral: of which there were a great many, which conveyed them to our residence." I take a deep breath. The memories of this day still weigh heavily on my mind. I let my hand curl around the ring in my pocket, gently caressing it with a finger.

  "John was laid to rest in a brick vault; I would never have seen our son put in any other place, my love. In a beautiful white coffin, befitting of such an angel of a child." Imagine, Resurrectionist Men stealing my son's body for a dissection class. Bricking was the only thing I could stand to give to him: he is safe this way.

  Anne is crying, her tears landing on top of my clutched hand. I sniff; the memories are hurting me too."Six months have passed, dear husband," she says. "And I have not adequately yet mourned him. I didn't know. It is just like it happened yesterday."

  Well it didn't, you bitch. It happened six whole months ago, and not a day has gone by without my heart breaking a little bit more.

  Yet, Beatrix prepared for this eventuality. I pick up the bag which I brought with me, t
ill now unnoticed by Anne. I open it on my lap. Anne peers inside, and gasps.

  "Oh, what a beautiful dress!" Pulling it out, she inspects it. Highly fashionable, made of Parramatta silk trimmed with crape. Black.

  "Beatrix?" she says, hopefully.

  "None other, dear wife," I say, though as soon as my wife comes out her 'friend' will be gone from our home as soon as possible. "She is waiting for you somewhat anxiously and joyously at our home, where I believe we will no doubt return to a celebration feast of your homecoming. For only the three of us, you understand: it would not look well for a woman wearing mourning dress to be rejoicing in anything. But, my love, I so desperately wanted to make it special for you. It will just be you, I, and Beatrix."

  Anne remains silent, holding the garment close to her heart, stroking the fabric.

  Her silence is jarring.

  "Was this horribly inappropriate of me, my love?" I ask her.

  "No, not at all, dear husband. Indeed, I thank you. My heart is warmed by such a consideration of my feelings, and by the beautiful handmade dress, and by the kindness of all those around me. I suppose it will just take a while for me to get used to the prospect that I deserve such compassionate treatment."

  "Forgiveness is a blessing Lady Stanbury," Dr Savage says. "Now, I take my leave of you both. There is much for me to do, more patients to restore to sanity. I am very pleased with what has been achieved here, and I wish you both long and prosperous lives. Good day to you both." With that, he turns and leaves the room and our lives forever. A small blonde nurse pokes her head in.

  "Agnus," says Anne, smiling.

  "Oh, Anne." Agnus rushes into the room, and sweeps my wife up in an embrace. "What a fine husband you have! So handsome!" She nods happily at me, and for the first time today my smile is genuine.

  What a lovely woman.

  "Let's get you ready to leave, shall we?" Agnus says, addressing Anne whilst looking pointedly at me. The smile does not leave her face. I take the prompt and give my wife her privacy. Walking through the asylum towards the main entrance, I cannot help but imagine us home together, again. Can I truly love the one woman whom has destroyed me, or will my blood forever be tainted by hate and sorrow?

  Madness Of A Man

  Anne

  April 23rd, 1886

  Outside

  Edgar offers me his hand, and duly assisted I lift my skirts and climb up into the carriage. Although convention calls for the coachman to hand me in and out of the cab, Edgar prefers to assume this role when we are together. The coachman simply nods respectfully in my direction, tipping his hat before climbing onto the box-seat. The two black Shire horses snort and flip their tails as if inpatient to be on the move. The smell of the creatures reminds me of home.

  It feels rather strange to be outside in the world, as it were; the asylum providing a self contained, protective environment in which I had almost forgotten what it means to be free. I look at the gloomy exterior of the hospital, and wonder at how even an inanimate object can be so different on the outside as to the inside.

  Just like people.

  I remove my hat and sink back into the maroon leather seat with a sigh. It is such a pleasure to have something of quality underneath my derriere, at last. My contentment of the moment is only marred by the thought that I may merely be trading one form of confinement for another.

  I cannot believe I am finally going home. The days ahead are sure to be tough, if Edgar’s mood is anything to go by. He appears to be on edge, and I'm not certain of his feelings towards me. Waves of animosity emanating from his skin, and his eyes do not seem to hold me in awe like they once did.

  Will he mention that terrible night? I hope he doesn't, I couldn't bear it. The doctor told me that some women kill themselves when they find out what they've done. I don't think I'm that weak, though I understand the sentiment. Throwing myself of a bridge won’t bring the baby back, so why bother?

  The carriage door slams, and I jolt out of my seat.

  "Careful, Anne," says Edgar as he takes his place beside me. "It wouldn't do to have you an injury so soon after being discharged, would it?" He laughs, and I am unsure of the humour behind it.

  I am unnerved.

  I avert my gaze from his face, looking to my lap. I don’t have the nightgowns strings to fiddle with anymore.

  So I fiddle with my gloves instead, taking them off the fingers one by one, a centimetre or so each time, then pushing them back. I count silently in my head to twenty, and remember counting them in the asylum.

  I smile.

  "My love, the time has come for me to take you home! Are you not pleased?" He looks down at my lap, and I pull my hands away."Why do you fidget? You do not seem as delighted as I would have expected, dear wife." He reaches out and takes hold of my chin, turning my head towards him. "

  I meet his gaze.

  "Forgive me, darling husband. I fear I am rather overwhelmed at the moment by the beauty of the world. I have spent many months confined inside and shuttered away."

  Edgar exhales. I didn't realise he was holding his breath.

  "Of course, how silly of me not to imagine how difficult this transition must be for you. Only a few windows and those strange paintings for you to gaze upon for so many months!"

  The carriage starts to move with a bump, not made for such hole ridden lanes.

  "What paintings do you speak of?"

  "The paintings on the walls...didn't you see them? They had fairies on them, and devils. Very disturbing, I must say. Quite a ridiculous choice of scenery for the insane."

  "I didn't notice them," I say.

  “Hmmm. Well you were mad weren't you? Don’t suppose you noticed much of anything. They were painted by a mad-man. Dr Savage supposes it is possible to tell the madness of a man in how he paints. Interesting, wouldn't you say?”

  I stay silent. It doesn’t interest me in the least.

  Anymore.

  Our journey proves to be rather long, dotted intermittently with one-sided mundane conversation. I can’t bring myself to contribute towards any meaningful discussion.

  After such time, the coachman calls out that we are nearing the end of our journey; enjoying a brief exchange with his passengers about the weather, and the state of the pot-riddled lanes. I pull back the blue velvet curtains but the windows inside the carriage are steamed up, blocking my view. I fight the urge to draw a picture on the glass; instead removing my gloves and wiping the condensation away with my hands. The dense fog to which the coachman referred lays think and low upon the ground, yet I recognise the familiar town. Nightfall will soon fall, and the streets are as empty as my heart: everyone sensible is tucked away in their homes. I fear everything and nothing: neither myself, nor these memorable surroundings. I am glad nobody is around, as I expect I could only hang my head in shame.

  With cracks of the whip and gentle coaxing, the horses continue to pull the carriage, now carrying us away from the small roads and terraced houses and into the countryside. Up ahead, I can just make out the outline of the manor walls; the immense grandiosity high and intimidating to those that have never stepped foot beyond its gate, the ornate turrets seemingly rising through the clouds and puncturing the mist.

  Oh, if only they knew what treachery lay in such grand house.

  And behind the eyes of the people that inhabit them.

  “I hope you are not expecting us to be spending time in London this year, my love,” Edgar says, interrupting my nostalgia.

  “Pardon, darling?” I turn away from the window, letting the curtains fall where they may.

  “London, Anne, London." He snorts out a puff of air, loudly."I hardly think it appropriate to be attending the season this year, I’m sure you will agree?”

  “But, I would have thought..."

  “Anne, whatever you might be about to say, it sounds like you are going to voice an opposing opinion to what I just said. So please, let me clarify: we will not be attending London this year, I do not think i
t appropriate. Would you also like me to elucidate the reasons why it is not suitable for us to be attending dances and theatres and such?” He looks at me darkly.

  “Not at all dear husband.”I inwardly squirm at the use of his 'elucidate'. Where did he learn that? Probably he has been reading up on elocution in my absence. Not much else for a man to do; one whom is still striving to be something he is not.

  “Good. Kindly consider this subject matter closed. And I implore you to please, remember this conversation in the coming weeks and months; when it will no doubt cross your pretty little mind to adorn yourself inappropriately and attempt to re-join your high society.”

  The rage surges inside of me, though I nod demurely and acquiesce. He wasn’t even born into the aristocracy, how dare he deem to place orders on my head?

  “And please, kindly rid your face of that awfully sullen expression. It doesn’t suit you, Anne.”

  I rue the day I married this man.

  I should have killed him when I had the chance.

  The carriage takes us through the gates with another jolt and a bump. I cannot make out the large, carefully-kept lawns in the gloom, nor can I see the hedges, flowerbeds, nor the centrepiece of the landscape: a beautiful and ornate fountain which bears tribute and testament to the wealthiness of my family. As we draw nearer to the house, the light from inside illuminates people standing to attention just outside the main entrance.

  Edgar has summoned the servants to receive me. Turning to me, he smiles slowly at my evident alarm and pats my hand.

  “There, there, my love. See how everyone has missed you? The staff have run riot in your absence, lack of control does them no good. I should imagine the laundry is now a perfect brothel. But, now you are well, let them receive their mistress and Lady of the house, and be re-established once again into their working pattern.”

  “But, Edgar...my dear heart; you did not discipline them for such antics in my deficiency?”

  “How could I?” He frowns. “They perfectly ignore me; and though I was tempted, I could hardly fire the entire household staff whilst you were unwell now, could I? I know how fond you are of them: though that inappropriate socialising of yours with the help is one of the attributes I hope you have lost in recent months.” The door opens; the coachman waits patiently for us to descend. Edgar steps down first, turns, and extends his hand towards me. “And if not, we will address it soon.”