Shadows Falling: The Lost #2

by Melyssa Williams

  No matter how hard I try, I don’t fool anybody. Not for long.

  They all know I belong here, and that belonging is my downfall and my sorrow. I look in the mirror and I don’t see what they see; I see a girl trying to fit in, that’s all.

  Just a girl.

  Harmless, really.

  For some reason I don’t quite believe the words and it is with a shiver that I turn another page. Was she harmless? She’d hardly have been here (and more than once, she said with her own pen) if she was completely harmless. I mean, certainly, we get a few patients who aren’t really crazy; they can be recovering from a traumatic event, or have something physically wrong with them, but they aren’t certifiably insane. As a result, they don’t stay long and certainly not against their will; however, maybe back when Rose Gray wrote this (who knows how long ago), things were different. After all, Bedlam isn’t famous for its humanity. We now strive very hard to change that reputation. Naturally, keeping people who aren’t insane is on our list of things not to do.

  I think back to my last time here—not here in the hospital, but here in London. I cannot figure what went wrong, because every time I think of it, I am so angered again, and then I can’t organize my thinking. I let that dark haired demon girl get away, and all my work was nearly for nothing. I say nearly, because at least someone near to her is dead, and all because of my handiwork. So that’s something. Something to keep me warm at night.

  Harmless indeed, I think, sipping tea and frowning. A murderess then? I have seen one or two of those in my time here, and I haven’t even been here that long. We have a woman named Ann who poisoned her husband with herbs she carefully cultivated in her garden, and an old man, who, rumor has it, killed his whole family and buried them under his floorboards. I’m a bit skeptical of that one though; it was so many years ago, I believe the facts are greatly exaggerated. He probably killed his hamster and buried it under the floorboards; although I suppose that sin wouldn’t get you life in an insane asylum.

  It isn’t good enough, though, not for all the trouble I went to. My life’s work, really. I never even got to confront my father. I barely got to say the things I wanted to say to my sister—I kept getting distracted and forgetting why I was there. She nearly killed my Luke, and by the time I discovered what she’d done, she was gone. It’s been a year.

  A year of nothing but rumors and speculation. It’s as though she dissolved into the mist somehow.

  She is mist, and I am ocean. She drifts by, carelessly, willy-nilly, and I am tossed up on the shores of Bedlam yet again, as though I am to be punished.

  I don’t deserve to be punished like this.

  I hate her.

  Poor sister. No small wonder she disappeared. Mentally, I wish her God-speed.

  “Lizzie? Is it you? Or is it...?” Miss Helmes’ voice cuts through my pleasant, solitary picnic.

  I mentally groan, but outwardly manage a polite and professional smile at my superior. “It is me, ma’am. Did you need something? I have ten more minutes, I think.”

  She approaches my seat in the middle of the overhang of the tree and bats away a bee impatiently. Miss Helmes has no time for bees. I’m always surprised they dare to fly anywhere near her. I certainly wouldn’t, were I a bee.

  “Tea again, is it?” Miss Helmes peers into my cup, and I detect a bit of patronizing in her voice.

  “It is customary for most people, yes, especially at this time of day.” I have to resolve myself from rolling my eyes. Miss Helmes must be the only British woman in the history of the world who does not like tea. “But I’m nearly finished now. Did you need me somewhere?”

  “I need you to stop wandering off,” she snaps. “I don’t have time to constantly be wondering where you are and if you’ve gotten yourself into mischief. Lord, girl, I do have other things to do. You aren’t the only person around here. So if you’re done with your little picnic...” She trails off, and taps her pointy shoe, impatiently.

  “Back to work, yes, ma’am,” I stifle my groan and leave my little teacup behind in the garden. I should have picked it up and returned it to the kitchen, but Miss Helmes’ intolerance of me gives me angel wings, and I cannot stop my momentum.

  Mina is wheeling a very elderly man, our Mr. Limpet, through the ballroom when next I see her. I am scrubbing off a disturbing stain from the wall (again, a chore I wish more eleven year old boys would sign up for so I can be free to do more interesting things) when he barks something at me as they pass by.

  “See you there!” His voice is raspy and he barks like a seal when he’s finished with his three little words. He waves at me cheerily. He is forever bossing people around, and no one ever knows what he’s talking about.

  “Sure, Mr. Limpet, I’ll see you there,” I agree, and smile politely.

  “We’ll all have a nice time, won’t we?” He looks at me intently, waiting for my response. Mina shrugs at me; she has no idea what he’s referring to, either.

  “Of course,” I pat him on the arm, comfortingly. It must be difficult for him to be moved from his home, such as this place is, though he’s been here so long I doubt he remembers his real home anyway. I’m pretty sure he’s a lifer.

  “And we’ll have parties again?” he whispers, conspiratorially. “And dance?”

  Though the thought gives me the willies, I force myself to nod and smile some more. He’s harmless, but occasionally spooky.

  “Sure, Mr. Limpet, I’ll try to save a dance for you.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. That’s sweet. You won’t forget now?” He leans out of his chair and peers fretfully back at me as Mina begins to wheel him away again.

  “I won’t forget,” I speak loudly for the sake of his old ears, but I go back to my scrubbing of the wall as he disappears around the wall.

  “I like your braids!” I hear him shout back at me, and then coughed again in his barking way. “Nice girls wear braids!”

  I chortle as I continue scrubbing, and I hear the heavy solid doors of Bedlam slam shut. Whatever this wretched stain is, it seems to have seeped into every last stupid crack. “I should be helping with surgeries and medicines,” I grumble to myself, “not slaving as a scullery maid.” I’m so preoccupied with feeling sorry for myself and my raw knuckles that I don’t hear someone near me until they clear their throat.

  I nearly jump out of my skin.

  “Blast it! Don’t go sneaking up on people like that!” I scowl and drop my brush into my bucket of slimy, cold water, where it splashes at me in revenge. I bite back my next retort as I look up at my frightener. He is, quite frankly, the most handsome man I have ever seen. Man or boy, I cannot decide and maybe that’s half his appeal. Not too much older than I, but enough to make a world of difference. Several worlds of differences. He is tall and lanky with dark blonde hair under the type of expensive hat I usually only see in the movies and sparkling eyes that seem to be laughing at me.

  “Beg your pardon, Miss,” he tips his hat at me and transfers his gaze to the stain on the wall. “And what happened here?”

  I shrug. “Who knows? I just know I am the lucky girl to clean it up.”

  “It looks like blood. Did someone get hurt?” He actually looks concerned, and for a brief, indulgent moment I pretend it’s for my safety and well-being. How nice it would be to have a gentleman concerned for my circumstances. Then again, he probably has a loved one as a patient here and is concerned that this could be their grisly remains splattered on the wall.

  “Oh, I don’t think so. Most of the patients are already gone. Are you looking for someone?” I tuck back some stray hair behind my ears, and as I do so, I get a whiff of my hands. It may just be his suggestion, but they do smell like blood, coppery and foul. I hadn’t noticed that before. I kind of thought someone had hurled a bowl of stew across the room and it had shattered and dripped down the wall. I like my scenario a bit better, I must admit. I much prefer dinner to murder, and not just because I skipped lunch: I always prefer dinner.


  “Oh, I’m always looking for someone,” he smiles, and he is even more handsome. His eyes positively sparkle. I hadn’t known that was possible before now; I thought it was merely an artistic expression, like, a babbling brook, or, a broken heart. “Is everyone mostly gone then?”

  “No, well, that is, yes, most are, but there are still a few. It takes a while to transfer when you need to go one or two at a time. Can’t exactly pack them all in one car, can we? Riots and jealousy and claustrophobia and all that,” I hope I’m not being crass, but it’s simply the truth. Paranoid people don’t do well in crowds.

  “I see. Do you want some help? Is there anything I can help you with?” He actually looks as though he means it.

  “Of course not.” His helpful demeanor makes me nervous (I’ve never had a real gentleman offer to do anything for me), and I practically stammer in my surprise. “Miss Helmes can help you locate your person. If you like, I’ll fetch her for you.”

  Then, as is inevitable, Miss Helmes manifests herself immediately during the mention of her name. She slinks into the room like a skinny cat that smells a mouse. My teacup dangles from her long fingers, as though it is distasteful. I imagine her knocking me over the head with it.

  “Ah, Mr. Connelly, did you find—” Miss Helmes’ voice cuts off when she sees me there, standing directly beside the man, and she frowns. “Oh. I see.”

  “Mr. Connelly here was looking for someone,” I go back to my scrubbing.

  “Yes, I know. Mr. Connelly, a word?” She exits as quickly and silently as she arrived, and I let out the breath, that for some absurd reason, I had been holding.

  I feel a soft tug on my braid and look up, surprised. The man smiles and gives me a slight wink.

  “Good luck with that.” He tips his hat, and then, suddenly, he is gone too.

  The day concludes with that meeting being the most interesting part; indeed, it’s the most interesting part of my whole last year, sadly enough. I tumble into my bed that night with a snack of cookies and milk and the little, red diary.

  I think back to last year and wonder where I went wrong. Perhaps Luke complicated things and muddled too much for me to properly concentrate on my task. Perhaps I should leave him.

  I think sometimes he will leave me.

  But it’s depressing to dwell on such things. The medication they give me makes me morbid and melancholy. I tried telling that to the doctor, but he said morbid and melancholy is better than violent and murderous. Then he snorted so loudly I was convinced he nearly consumed his own substantial nose. What an amusing sense of humor the new doctor has. I think he has never dealt with someone like me. I shall have to indoctrinate him in the ways of Rose. I doubt he’ll laugh so easily then.

  My odious nurse and jail keeper forced me to wash down the wall and attempt to get rid of the bloodstains in the dining room. No amount of scrubbing will banish them though, and I feel a great sense of satisfaction. I do so like my work to be timeless. I spent two weeks confined to my room for pinning that woman’s hand to the wall with the sewing scissors, and it was worth it. She won’t mouth off to me again anytime soon.

  I feel a distinct chill as I realize my hands have scrubbed the same stain that Rose’s did, and now I know for sure that it was blood, not soup, like I had imagined. I find myself wishing I did not always save this diary for late night readings and also that I had some hot water and good soap to scrub up again. The water on my nightstand will be cold and frigid and won’t help wash off the (now imagined) smell of blood.

  I start to close the diary, but of course, cannot. Right after Mr. Connelly, this diary is the most interesting thing to have happened to me in ages. I feel a bit of guilt in misjudging how the doctors wouldn’t have wanted to read this narrative… On reflection, the diary of a patient and the inner workings of her brain and thoughts would most likely be quite helpful in their research. The main frustration in caring and curing our patients is not being able to understand them. This little journal could go a long way towards that end; and a little nursing girl is the one who keeps it. I should probably feel even guiltier than I do. But really, it could give me quite the edge, and perhaps I won’t be scrubbing walls much longer when someone realizes how much knowledge I can bring to the table. That’s what I tell myself as I turn another page. Also, there’s the fact that Rose’s words are proving to be quite addictive, and I’d like to know her whole story before I relinquish her diary.

  I wish to start my crusade again, but I find large chunks of my memory and thoughts gone. I think Luke is right; traveling too much and too frequently hurts my brain. I come back each time, to bloody old Bedlam, more confused than the last. I had best rest a bit here and regain my purpose before I live up to my mad reputation.

  Mad.

  What a silly word.

  I am not mad; I am driven! There is a difference. For all their medical knowledge and social proprieties, they cannot see the difference. What a bunch of loons, I say. I have purpose. I have goals. I know what I want.

  On the other hand, home is home, and home is where I am for now. It will do me good to rest. Luke visits and sleeps here with me more often than not. I promise and promise not to go anywhere without him, but he does not promise the same for me, I just realized. Why is that, I wonder? Does he sleep on the grounds somewhere when he is not in my bed? He does not possess the power I do to control his traveling, no matter how many times I have patiently tried to teach him, and if he leaves me… ah well, I suppose I would have to find him again and teach him a lesson in faithfulness. Silly boy.

  He is the only friend I have ever had, really. I can count my friends on one finger:

  Luke.

  I had an imaginary friend as a little girl. I had not yet learned of my abilities, and I was lonely in the village. Old Babba ignored me mightily, with a steadfastness that shocked even me. I had to invent my playmates as no flesh and blood children would come near me. Their parents said my family had abandoned me, left me to my evil ways. I was ashamed and refused to admit they must have fled somewhere. Like an unwanted changeling baby, I was left behind in the care of an old woman who despised me.

  My favorite make-believe friend loved me all the same. She knew all my darkness and cared not a farthing. She was quite un-judgmental. I have not had such good luck with friends since that time.

  But my thoughts ramble again. This is supposed to be a memoir, and I hardly have anything else to do with my time. My fingers are cramped from writing, but I will continue.

  I was seven when Old Babba finally died. Couldn’t have come at a better time really, as she was really beginning to anger me quite constantly that year. My temper was frightful, I can admit, and sometimes she would lock me out of her dreadful house. I was as skinny as a string bean from her feeding me barely enough to keep me alive, and we were always doing this ridiculous dance around each other, trying to out-ignore one another and watching the other without seeming to. She was scared to death of me, only God knows why, and I didn’t exactly trust her either. Both of us used to feed bites of our food to the dog to make sure it wasn’t poisoned. It was only a matter of time before one of us succeeded in doing in the other.

  In the end though, even I was hardly equipped for murder at the ripe old age of seven, and Old Babba kicked the bucket naturally enough. Hardly surprising; the hag must have been at least a million years old. I made a great show of burying her, dragging her body out of the house –which was no small feat for a little girl - and cheerfully rolling it into my homemade grave. Tossing in the dirt after her was great fun too, and I hadn’t enjoyed myself so much in years. I even made invitations for the villagers, inviting them to the funeral, but no one came. Can’t blame them. She really was an old witch. I sang snatches of hymns I had heard and then moved onto nursery rhymes and anything else I could put to song. I even danced a bit.

  The night I buried her was the first night I traveled. It must have been my light heart that made me sleep so well.

  3

/>   I am groggy and listless the next day. I hadn’t slept well; dreamt of wicked old ladies and poisoned dogs and starving little girls. I feel oddly consumed by thoughts of Rose Gray and her story. Her handwriting had become so bad by the end of last night’s reading that I had to set it aside and rest my aching eyes. She wrote (writes? Could she still be alive?) like a child, alternating between large letters, harshly drawn with her pen and ink, almost tearing through the paper, and lightly scratched, tiny, loopy letters that are nearly unreadable. It’s as if several people took turns writing. Several six year olds, to be precise.

  I cannot stop thinking of her through my breakfast of egg and toast; I cannot stop thinking of her through the plaiting of my hair; I simply cannot stop thinking of her at all.

  When I realize I could easily find out what happened to her through the files of patients I am privy to, I want to smack myself in the head for being so daft. “Really, Lizzie,” I mutter to myself as I hurriedly tie my nurse’s kerchief on my head and shove the diary in my pocket. “You’d think you haven’t a brain in your skull.”

  Snooping in other people’s business should probably go against the grain of a lady, but I can’t say I was brought up to be a lady anyhow, and Rose said it herself: boredom makes you do strange things. As interesting as I hope my medical career will be someday, at the moment it’s as dull as watching paint peel, and any divertissements are welcome. Besides, I justify to any objecting thoughts I may have, it’s part of my medical research.

  I find myself nearly merry as I greet Miss Helmes. I ask her cagily enough if she has anything in particular for me to do, or shall I start to begin work in the former doctor’s office room? Since the former doctor was a bit of a messy hoarder, no one has been especially anxious to begin clearing out his spaces and nooks and crannies, and as I knew she would, she only hesitates a moment before giving me her permission.