by Mandi Martin
He seized the limp arm roughly, wrapping the sheet more tightly about her. He didn’t want to see those glassy, lifeless eyes staring at him.
Damning him.
His grip was overly tight, adding bruises that would not fade as the blood began to cool. It wouldn’t matter. The skin was unimportant. His only thought was on dragging her to the lower room and ridding her of those orbs that accused him.
Chapter Twelve
Silas glanced at the bread on offer when James brought it in, giving a grimace before pushing it aside.
“As fond as I am of plant life I refuse to eat it,” he said with a shudder, “at least when it grows where it should not.”
James looked at the drying crust. The softer innards were dappled with green where mould had taken up residence. He shook his head.
“I can’t say I blame you.”
Silas sat back, idly twirling a lock of his silvery hair, giving a sigh.
“The days pass by and no one knows unless they watch the growth of fungi,” he added in a singsong manner, “or hear the rocks as they crumble into the abyss of the sea.”
“That’s a rather morbid depiction, Mr Everett,” James replied absently, watching the slender fingers nimbly braid the tress they toyed with. He repressed a snigger, causing a snort to emerge instead.
“It is rude of me to ask what it is you find so amusing?”
“I perhaps shouldn’t mention it,” James turned for a moment to regain his composure, continuing to speak, “but seeing that it’s no wonder Morbridge labels you effeminate.”
Silas gave a smirk.
“You say that like it’s an insult.”
“Is it not?”
“Not to me. Old Morbid can call me what he wishes.” Seeing the quizzical expression, Silas continued, leaning further back in the crudely padded chair whose limbs creaked in protest. He pressed his fingertips together as he gazed at him evenly. “Some things we cannot change, my dear friend, lying is apparently a sin so lying about whom or what you are must be the greatest of all.” He flicked his wrist and tossed his leg over the arm of the seat in a relaxed fashion. “Accept your lot and find your path, that it the challenge for every man, yourself included.”
“I believe I have already found my path in life, I need look no further,” James retorted but his voice was weak, uncertainty lacing it. He swallowed, is eyes shifting to the barred windows. “And if I haven’t then I suppose it will reveal itself.”
Silas continued as if he had not heard the reply, rocking the chair on its back legs. Or perhaps he had heard and was simply disregarding it.
“You cannot change your past either but you can create your future if you seize that chance.”
James nodded nonchalantly as he turned for the door, gripping the handle more tightly than normal.
“I’ll do that,” he indicated in the direction of the bread, swiftly moving the subject. “I’ll have to leave that. They’ll be furious if I take it back.”
“Furious with others. I’m no charity case, I pay my way, or my partner does,” Silas said with a proud toss of his head “but do as you wish. I would not want to cause much trouble.”
“Good, because I’m the one who’ll get it,” James muttered as he slipped from the room “they don’t need an excuse either.”
“Since I’m doing you a good turn you could do me one,” he heard Silas add. He held the door ajar so just a sliver of the room remained and he could hear. “You can be a dear and see if there are any letters. Everyone else is that lax they’d be there for years.”
Despite the man being unable to see him James nodded his agreement, letting the heavy door close with a loud click.
He took the pencil that he had left outside on the ledge; it was unwise to even take a blunt object such as that inside. Even though he was comfortable enough in the feeling that Silas wasn’t one to take such an action as gouging an eye out.
Or maybe that was just a lull before a storm? One could never tell.
He jotted down a note to check the office once his break was finished, adding a mental addition to attempt speaking again to Marianne. He could still hear the charming, girlish voice that never left her lips. It intrigued him to hear more, to know more of the silent woman with such hidden talents.
Making his way back up the dingy stairwell he smiled to himself, a smile that made his eyes shine as it reached them. A smile that lasted until he saw his door was ajar.
“For goodness sake,” he muttered as he approached “do I get no privacy?”
He expected a mess when he entered. To see his drawers pulled open and item scattered over the rumpled blanket on the bed but to his surprise nothing seemed touched. Everything was as it was when he had left that morning.
Except for a folded paper that had been placed at his bedside. That hadn’t been there that morning.
He reached for it, peeling back the corner to peek at the writing beneath, smelling a faint scent of flowers as he did so. When he saw the childish scrawl within it he cast it away hurriedly.
The image of the picture came to mind and he didn’t want to see it, however curious he was.
Returning to the bed he sat slowly, his gaze not leaving the paper that fluttered down to the floor even as his body continued and he soon lay on his back.
He forced his eyes to closer, trying to sink into an uneasy doze to clear his head.
As the lucidity of dreams overtook him James felt a warm hand envelop his own.
‘James?’ A female voice whispered urgently yet soothingly ‘James, please wake, look at me. See me!’
Fear kept his eyes closed but he felt sorrow flood his heart and could almost feel the tears he sensed filled the speaker’s eyes.
“Marianne?” he mumbled, knowing only one woman with a voice so sweet. “You shouldn’t be here.”
There was a choked sob.
‘No James…’
The voice and footsteps faded away.
Chapter Thirteen
The basement was a cesspool of gore.
Blood splatters decorated a once clean wall. Shreds of decomposing tissue and fetid bodily fluid formed a sticky paste on the floor.
Even rats, who emerged to seize a loose piece of flesh, hurried away shortly after, the stench cleaving to their sensitive nostrils.
Another metal table stood on rusted legs, remnants of the last butchered occupant still clinging to its surface.
The rest of them had been consumed by the fire, along with other unfortunates.
Morbridge hauled the light body down the spiralling stairway, the action made hard because of the dark rather than weight.
Dropping her on the concrete he took a breath, placing his hands on his hips.
His clothing resembled that of a careless butcher. The white stained with drying crimson and emitted a pungent odour.
Shrugging his shoulders he let the gown slide from them, heedlessly tossing it into the corner with the others waiting to be washed.
The bodies weren’t kept well, he had no real areas to store them but since they did not lie for long before study the basement seemed the best place. It was cool and dark and out of the way. This did not halt the decomposition but it slowed it slightly, the best one could ask for.
The dark eyes remained on the form beneath the fabric, a red stain seeping through the snow white sheet where the injuries still exuded blood.
“Such a waste,” he muttered in malcontent. “A fine form but your body and mind were weak. To have drowned you like an unwanted orphan would have been fairer on us all.”
She would at least offer surgical practice and a further look into the organs that caused her ills. He nudged her body into the colder corner, turning to leave. As he reached the base of the steps he paused, glancing back as if something had caught his attention.
A rat scurried from the shadows, its pink nose sniffing as it picked up the scent of fresh blood. A dark glaze formed in the doctor’s eyes, darker than the beady orbs of the rodent.<
br />
Moving over swiftly, he brought his heel down upon the creatures’ skull, smiling as he heard the snap of bone and crunch of flesh.
He wasn’t going to use half-eaten corpses again.
James had risen early having given up on trying to rest. The voice and strange sounds had disturbed his dreams, keeping him in a state of neither sleep nor wakefulness, it left him with the feeling his head was full of fog.
He hoped by rising and keeping himself occupied until his shift started he could relieve that. And since he had promised Silas to check the post it seemed like an ideal time. The lack of alertness could be hazardous.
He met no one on his way to the office. The corridors were as quiet and still as a tomb with not even the sound of mice scurrying in the walls to alleviate it.
As normal the room was in disarray. A hemp sack containing letters from months, maybe years ago sat limply in the corner, surrounded by dust and scattered papers that were no longer needed. Originally it had probably been a workplace for someone but now it seemed it was used as a dumping ground for waste.
James wrinkled his nose as he eased the sack open, pulling the letters out between two fingers, one by one. The ink faded on the envelopes and most were unreadable.
“Thank the Gods we get little post,” he muttered as he dropped them aside, “I dread to think of the chaos.”
But a feeling of sadness coupled with that thought, sadness that so many were simply forgotten here, erased from the memory of their loved ones, simply because their minds had become strained.
After several more were set aside James finally found two that were legible. The crumpling indicated they had sat for some time. Silas’s name was faded but it was clear enough and James pushed it into his pocket.
The other he was not sure about, feeling the cold chill in his stomach as he read his own name. Why would it be in a pile with those of the patients?
Part of him wanted to throw it back, forget he had seen it but he knew all too well it would prey on his mind should he do that.
With a sigh of exasperation, he shoved it into his pocket. Perhaps if he kept it with him unopened then that would be enough.
Silas didn’t appear to have moved, shifting in his seat only when James entered.
James said nothing, silently holding out the letter. Silas paused, looking as if he was going to offer his normal sarcasm but decided against it, taking the note in silence.
He flicked it open, placidly scanning the words. James watched as his brow furrowed in confusion, the expression soon turning to fury, brightening his already intense eyes.
“Damn them!” Silas erupted, hurling the letter in a tight ball across the room; it bounced several times before settled in the corner. “Toy with my emotions and then rip them apart!” He brought his fist down on the table, so hard a crack appeared on the glossy surface. “Thank the Gods I am in here already, I’d strangle them!”
James leapt back, his hand on the door but frozen in place. He had never been witness to a flare of the others temper, fiery enough to strike fear into a devil itself.
“He may not be you,” Silas cited coldly. “Of course he’s not bloody me!”
He sat down heavily, giving a long sigh as if exhaling the anger from his body, head in his hands.
“God damn it.” Silas slowly looked up “let this be a lesson to you, boy, never give your heart to anyone, they always shatter it in the end in one way or another,” he shook his head “I refused to speak their name to save them the indignity of even being known here. Now I shall not speak it in the hope of abolishing the very memory.”
He gestured towards the paper with a snort of irritation.
“Take it and burn it, it warrants no response and judging by the date it is too late anyway.”
James stooped to pick up the discarded note that lay nearby; it fell open as he took hold of it, allowing him to reach the neat script.
I loved you dearly when your mind was straight but I can no longer wait on an impossible dream.
You would approve of my new partner; he is not you but is as caring as you once were.
He flinched at the underlying tone, that they no longer cared and their heart had turned from the one they had once gifted it to.
P.S. Your comfort will not be taken; I owe you that at least.
James took another glance at Silas who had slumped motionlessly at his desk. His eyes and thoughts lost in a world far beyond that which he currently inhabited.
The meaningless objet d’art was all that were left and he doubted the man would care whether it remained or not.
Once that had been a symbol that there was at least one person who cared but now they were a painful reminder of someone’s betrayal.
The overwhelming urge was to remain. To offer what limited comfort he could but the flair of temper had been a clear warning and his sudden slump an indication he would resent his presence.
He nodded towards the unhappy figure and slipped from the room, shutting the door as quietly as he was able.
Robotically he headed down the eerily silent corridors and out into the courtyard, slowly tearing the unwanted letter, letting the wind carry it up and away like petals blown from a blossom tree.
He stood listening to the mighty roar of the tides outside the walls, sounding as though Leviathan himself stirred beneath; the island itself seemed to tremble. As if the ocean fed on the turbulence that rocked the skies.
Or maybe it was just his imagination again.
It was clammy out. The air mingled with the briny spray and droplets of rain which clung to his pale skin.
James knew this wasn’t helpful but surrounding himself with the walls of breezy darkness was preferable to being entombed by those of stone and sorrow.
He watched at the final pieces floated away. People feared asylums, afraid to ‘catch’ the dreaded madness as if it was transmitted simply by being in another’s presence. Or perhaps even by holding a letter sent by one of their unfortunate loved ones.
It was a falsehood. Yet at that moment when he looked at the running ink of the one addressed to him he couldn’t help but wonder.
A sudden gush of water nearby caused him to jolt to his senses. Looking down a river of stained fluid trickled across the cobbles, emptied from a rusting bucket.
Morbridge glanced over; making no sign he was going to say anything. Placing the pail down he removed a handkerchief, wrinkling his nose as he wiped the residue from his fingers.
“Don’t others normally clean?” James could have kicked himself, the question sounded stupid and the doctor was not one to start conversation with but the need to hear a voice in the black overwhelmed him. “Why not summon them?”
“Because there was no call to. And it reduces any alarm.”
Alarm?
Looking down again James saw the scraps of skin and tissue sticking to the stone. A rush of revulsion flowed through him, faster and stronger than the bloody water at his feet.
“Problem?”
James’s eye rose to meet the sneer of the doctor, idly stroking the bloody handle of the bucket. He swallowed and looked away.
“No. I’m most certainly not the one with a problem,” he ran his fingers through his hair, scattering the rain that clung to the blonde strands. He crumpled the letter and tossed it down, the blood saturating into the paper. “Much to be said for the doctors being worse than those they claim to treat.”
He stalked away without another glance, Morbridge’s low chuckle reverberating in his ears. The door slammed after him, blocking the offensive sound.
‘To penetrate your future is his greatest crime.’
The voice appeared in his mind, causing an ache to throb through his temples. The voice was not that of Marianne, he was certain.
But maybe she would know what was causing it, after all that was her skill and if another possessed it, then perhaps she would sense it.
It was not hard to find a task that would allow him access to the female secti
on. None of the men liked interfacing with the sour matron and often patient records and information was left until there was no other option.
James was no exception. The thin and bitter woman was no joy to speak with but to see Marianne he needed to do so.
However the matron was a woman of few words and once she had received the wrongly delivered letters she muttered a few curse words about the incompetence of the others and abruptly gestured for him to leave.
He hesitated for a few moments once he left her spruce office, listening to the rustle of papers to satisfy himself that she was not going to emerge for some time.
Continuing down the gloomy corridor he ignored the unhappy sounds from the other patients, most shackled and fearful in the corners of their rooms.
It was hard. To listen to such woe and not react, the soft sobs that emanated from within, that seemed to follow him.
Marianne was sat on her bed, her knees drawn to her chest as still as a statue. Her eyes rose as the door jangled, lighting up to see the figure that entered.
“Hello again,” James gave a warm smile towards her. “How have you been?”
Marianne nodded slowly, her eyes beaming for her, her voice filling his senses like a sweet perfume.
“I’ve been dreaming, imagining a world of fragile beauty.”
Forgetting his own question for a moment James looked curious, silently encouraging her to continue.
“I dream of field of golden daffodils that waltz in the wind, I think of dancing through them and with them.”
The voice ceased and her brow furrowed into a frown. Silence fell and James took it to mean she had finished, upset merely by the thought of what she could never hope to see.
“A pretty vision, I hope one day that you will be able to feel that, you don’t belong in this place, a lot of you don’t.” He sighed and looked at the cold stone floor, continuing cautiously, “Marianne, does anyone else have your skill? To talk without speaking?”