The Loss of Some Detail

by Mandi Martin

  There was so much white.

  White walls, white bedding, it was almost blinding.

  The floor however was a sickly green, made worse from the glow above, elongated shadows stretched from under the bed like the monsters feared in childhood.

  James sat up.

  Automatically his arms embraced his body, it was cold. The thin nightshirt he was wearing gave no true warmth.

  In the silence his heart sounded like voodoo drum.

  ‘This cannot be real. A lucid dream…’

  Slowly he fingered the clothing, moving to touch the coarse blanket. It felt real. Even the most vivid of dreamlands could not replicate everything in the physical world.

  Swallowing his fear he turned, drawn by the subtle shimmer of a photo frame standing idly on the bedside cabinet.

  Smiling faces of a couple and two children greeted his gaze.

  The image was in colour, something he had never seen before, as if they had been cut from real life and confined into a small portrait prison.

  Falling back onto the bed James closed his eyes, so tightly it felt as though the lids themselves would tear, and counted out loud.

  “One…two…three…”

  All the way up to ten.

  With sickness rising threateningly in his throat James slowly reopened his eyes, the feeling receding, washed away with relief as he was met with the view of the shoddy, bleak surroundings.

  Which now looked like Eden on earth.

  Looking out of the small barred window he saw a sliver of red seep through the dense boughs to herald the dusk.

  The birdsong, such as it was, was dying and becoming even more muted by the thick foliage.

  ‘I cannot risk trying to sleep any longer,’ James thought as he returned to the welcome warmth of the blanket, pulling it over his legs as he leant against the wall, ‘but after that I fear sleep will be hard to succumb to anyway.’

  But the toll of work had caught up and he could not fight the drowsiness, his body feeling as if it was made of lead and soon he slipped into an uneasy slumber.

  Chapter Eight

  Letters from the outside world arrived very seldom.

  When they did arrive, it was just as rare that they found their way to the person to whom they were addressed.

  Under Morbridge’s orders each was scrutinised for unsuitable content, any items sent were confiscated, stolen or hidden away where they became fodder for the rats.

  Most patients became too far gone to care about word from outside. Bitterness was strong and was directed at their families for abandoning them there to begin with.

  If they had been forgotten it came as no surprise.

  And what better way to keep the belief that they were worth nothing?

  Keep the control over their lives since they had no one else and nowhere else but the cold walls that surrounded them.

  The letters that did eventually get past the keen eye of the doctor and staff were left to a ragged hessian sack until, and if, the warders decided to distribute them.

  Mostly due to the money paid to the asylum Silas was often the only one privileged enough to receive the letters which were few and far between.

  Once they had been almost weekly but they now dwindled.

  “Who are these from, if you don’t mind me asking?” James said as he handed a rather dog-eared envelope to the long nailed male on his next round.

  “Partner,” Silas looked lazily at the handwriting, setting it aside on the desk for later, adding with a low chuckle, “I live in sin if you listen to the bigoted blather of the holy. But if you consider my life in general I have been damned since my birth.”

  James smiled tightly, his breath hitching in his throat, uncertain on what, if any, response he could give.

  Silas seemed not to notice, dropping into his seat and leaning back with a thoughtful expression.

  “However it is as I have always said, no one is truly sane, not even God. For if He was then why would He have created mankind? And in his image no less?”

  “You would probably have been hung for saying that years ago, even today you would cause uproar.”

  “Why do you think the chaplain never comes anymore?” Silas cocked his head, smirking. “Could not cope with our dreadfully sacrilegious views. Honestly, the man would not be satisfied if we were all identical copies of Jesus Christ himself.”

  “Yes,” James said noncommittally, scratching the back of his neck. He shifted his attention to his list, the papers filling the awkward silence with a soft rustle like the leaves in autumn.

  Upon seeing Nathaniel written crudely below Silas, obviously the normal staff member was ill or merely wanted to avoid that particular patient.

  “I must take my leave, I hope your letter brings you good news or at least some comfort that you have one who thinks fondly of you.”

  Silas nodded casually, making no move to take up the envelope, at least not whilst James was present.

  Even as the attendant left only his eyes moved to towards it. The last letter had been short with banal and repetitive content.

  He couldn’t help but feel dread that it would be the case again and fear that it would be the bearer of more unpleasant news.

  Waiting would not alter the contents and the procrastination would only increase anxiety but he could not bring himself to touch it.

  He turned away, letting it lie.

  Nathaniel was eerily quiet as James entered, the only sound his calm breathing along with the others footfall.

  James could tell he was not sleeping though, he felt the heavy gaze in his direction even through the blindfold the man wore.

  And his index finger tapped idly on his black clad thigh.

  As oppressive as the silence was, he continued the checks, there were not many in the lower rooms since the few patients that were there were often force fed and the water was not left.

  Their surroundings greying and empty.

  Turning to leave James froze mid-step, his heart palpitating as he heard the chains that bound the man rattle ominously.

  He found himself unable to move and could only pray that the next sound would not be that of the iron falling to signify they had failed in their duty.

  Instead he heard the deep growling voice, the one that had been the last sound in so many ears, utter only four words.

  “Behold the Titanium Ghost…”

  James shifted around, his movement as graceless as a figure on a dying musical box and stared at the man in confusion. The words made no sense yet still they dripped with malice.

  Much like their first conversation.

  This time he didn’t rise to it.

  Slowly he took a step back, his focus remaining on the other, feeling their eyes meet as he gripped the door.

  Nathaniel smiled a cruel smirk that would have matched his expression had it been viewable. Even bound and blind he held his power.

  Time seemed to stand still for a moment as the two regarded each other, deathly silence fell and not even the twitch of the keys broke it.

  Nathaniel suddenly yanked his arm down, the crash of chains shattering the atmosphere like a breaking mirror.

  He laughed maliciously as he heard the other jolt and flee the room, his hastened footsteps fading at he mounted the stairs.

  ‘Behold the Titanium Ghost.’

  What on earth had that meant?

  James hadn’t a clue and the words dwelled in his mind as he slowly returned to his quarters, heart gradually calming from the frantic beat.

  But, when he considering the way Nathaniel was, had they meant anything except to the man himself?

  That was what the others would say; brush it off like dust on their clothing. But James wasn’t sure; something deep within him sensed that it mattered.

  He felt cold, colder than normal, and shuddered.

  Marianne sat still on her bed, her posture stiff as if she were a porcelain doll awaiting the return of its owner, her blue eyes just as glassy.
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  It was the position she took when lost in conversation with another.

  Her lips twitched in a small smile as she heard the request from Silas, she had hoped James would be curious enough about her skills to ask her to ‘speak’ more.

  She hadn’t been permitted to be sociable in the outside world, her muteness an embarrassment. What man would even look at a woman who had no voice, no talent? Her parents described her as ‘just a trinket to hang upon one’s arm’.

  Then the baby. That had been the coup de grace which had sealed her fate and confined her to this cell.

  The scenery changed but people didn’t. They were cruel, disinterested and saw her as a burden and little more.

  They had told her she was there as charity instead of being cast onto the streets likes an unwanted canine; she would accept what was done for her and be grateful.

  But it was hard to accept when one was given next to nothing.

  Returning to the conscious world, Marianne dropped back onto the mattress, breathing in its musty, damp scent. A smell that should have turned the stomach but had become one of security for most of the patients.

  A tear welled up in her eye, finally escaping and leaving a silver trail on her cheek.

  James was lying on his own bed, feeling the lumps in the mattress dig into his back and watching a cobweb drift idly to and fro in the corner of the ceiling.

  Occasionally his eyes drifted down to the floor to where the drawing lay. He had once again crumpled it and tossed it aside but felt the strange urge to check and make sure it was still in that state.

  ‘It was a foolish joke,’ he chided himself as he tore his gaze away, ‘it is not worth fraying my nerves over.’

  Even so he inched himself over to reach into his drawer to touch the cool metal of the knife that lay within.

  The feel of it sent a small sense of security through him. He allowed his fingers to linger a while before pulling back.

  ‘Think of me and I shall hear.’

  James frowned as the words echoed in his skull, making his temples ache. How odd that a soft feminine voice could cause such pains.

  It felt as bad as the migraines he was prone to getting, albeit shorter.

  He tried to picture the wan-looking woman, the once handsome features but as he did so he happened to look to the corner.

  The picture was unravelled and looking back were the four crudely drawn figures. His mind immediately lost the image of Marianne and instead recalled the strange woman in the corridor.

  The cartoonish eyes seemed to stare at him, seemed to see him, through him.

  James debated whether to get up and tear the damned picture into pieces but something held him back, the inanimate gaze making him apprehensive about picking it up yet alone shredding it.

  ‘If I leave it I’ll not sleep, I have to move it,’ he thought resolutely as he eased himself up. ‘It isn’t as if it is a living, breathing object.’

  Taking a deep breath and ignoring the heavy feeling in his stomach James got to his feet, keeping ‘eye contact’ with the girl in the picture as he approached. His hands shook as he reached down to pluck the paper from the floor.

  Time was forgotten as he stared as if hypnotised at the figures, from the smiling parents to the children, his focus lingering on the boy with the mismatched eyes.

  He folded it up with a shudder.

  Hopefully shutting it away in his drawer would work better than casting it aside.

  Chapter Nine

  Much to his disappointment James did not hear Marianne’s voice again that evening. It was perhaps not surprising, fear and anxiety had rendered him incapable of focusing enough to channel to her.

  He was mulling over ways to clear his head the next day over what was said to be tea but quite frankly tasted more like stale dishwater.

  “Where did you put that paper I gave you yesterday, Grey?”

  James looked up to meet the eyes of the attendant who had slammed the door on his fingers. He shook his head, looking puzzled.

  “What are you talking about? I haven’t seen you since you nearly broke my hand.”

  The man frowned, exasperation evident in his expression.

  “That was over a week ago, Grey! You don’t even have the bruises to show for it now!” He seized James’s hand and pulled it up to show his fingers were healed, only a very faint hint of purple coloured the knuckles.

  James jerked his hand back, annoyed by the others audacity but more so by his own memory. He flexed the digits, searching for any residual pain that would prove to him that time had not passed in the way it appeared to have done.

  “I suppose I lost track of time,” he said quietly, masking his unease, “easy done around here.”

  “Or you’re losing your mind like the rest of them,” the man muttered irritably, “and since you appear to have lost your damned memory I assume you can’t remember where you put that paper?”

  “No. But tell me what it was and I can probably give you an idea about where it might be.”

  “It was a paper concerning the changes in treatment for some of these idiots. I gave it to since I had to restrain Johnson again.”

  James could not recall a patient names Johnson let alone where the paper was regarding him. It was as if a thick fog had fallen in his mind and cloaked all memories from the days prior.

  “Don’t bother.” The man held up a rough hand. “I get the feeling that even if you did, you’d conveniently forget.”

  Before James could offer any retort, the other had gone, striding purposefully and clearly unwilling to stop and converse further.

  James remained where he was, the tea rapidly cooling in the chipped mug, it puzzled him. Even people’s names seemed lost, perhaps they never told him but somehow he doubted that. Would not everyone tell you their names when you worked with them?

  The air about him suddenly felt colder than normal. Noises of humming, faint voice talking in chorus filled his ears.

  With sickness once again rising in his stomach he got up to feet, leaving the mug where it was, and hastened from the room, trying to leave the disquiet behind him.

  The lower areas held many secrets besides the patients deemed untreatable, too vicious for anything but incarcerating and erasing from memory.

  Beyond the dust and gloom of the seldom swept corridors, through the doors whose hinges seemed to scream in agony as they resisted opening was an empty area with a locked entrance to another.

  When not in his office or eyeing the patients Morbridge spent much of his time down there. He was far more comfortable in the gloom surrounded in the clinical surroundings.

  The room was a normal doctor’s nightmare. The filing cabinets disorganised and dusty, the table still stained with the blood of the last luckless occupant. Only the surgical tools were shimmering softly in the scant light.

  Morbridge never allowed anyone to clean down there except himself. The order of information and items was one only he knew and that was how it was to be left.

  It was unclear if even the other staff knew of the area’s existence.

  Dark eyes studied the barely decipherable papers as the doctors’ hands carefully polished the blade of the scalpel. He paused, examining the lethal point that had sliced the skin of so many.

  Wilson, Elias. Male, white.

  Found wandering side streets. No family known.

  Mentally defective, claims to hear voices.

  To Morbridge such a patient was ideal. With no family ties it was far less troublesome when the patient passed. Although he had found that few relatives would step forward even when they were known to exist, no one wanted madness in the family to taint the bloodline. It was a charitable offer if any did fund the interment of the mortal remains.

  He smiled coldly, setting the sparkling instrument aside and gathering the papers, making a mental note of the area number and room. Voices were an issue he came across too often in this field and so far no one had found an appropriate or lasting sol
ution. Morbridge had a few things in mind, if it didn’t work it would be no loss and if it did…it would be a highlight on his career.

  Extinguishing the lamp with a hiss he left the room, locking the door behind him with the rusted key that screeched in the hole.

  His footsteps were almost silent as he made his way towards the staircase but still a sharp ear heard, and a soft but audible chuckle sounded from behind a cell door.

  The doctor paused and cast a stony glare that would not be seen by the occupant even had he not been blindfolded.

  His keys jangled as he sorted the correct one and flung the door open, filling the air with the cold chill from the corridor.

  Nathaniel turned in his direction, a smirk twisting his lips as he recognised the surgical scent that Morbridge would emit intermingled with a musky smell of age.

  “Something amuse you, Nathaniel?” Morbridge asked indifferently. “I would find it astounding anything would unless you’re thinking of the wonderfully grotesque mess you made of your acquaintances.”

  “The skin is so plain, so dull; I created art, not mess.”

  “I think their family may beg to differ. Especially since a handful were violated,” he looked at the other in disgust.

  Nathaniel’s head rose abruptly, his chains rattling as he pitched himself angrily forward. His muscles tensed under the thin fabric of the clothing as he pulled his restraints.

  “I never touched them! I have limits and I shall never cross them!” he ejected furiously, his eyes blazing beneath the blindfold so brightly they could have burnt through. “I despise those who touch and take without consent! And those who butcher children, the innocent babes will not suffer at my hand!”

  Morbridge sneered but took an automatic step backwards, a fact that apparently didn’t go unnoticed by the other.

  “So even a cold heart senses danger. You flaunt yourself as fearless, but are you truly fearless or just foolhardy?

  “If I were an idiot I would leave you unrestrained, worthless cur!” Morbridge hissed. “I don’t fear you, I only fear being in the presence of a diseased mind that would threaten the cleanliness of my own.”