The Loss of Some Detail

by Mandi Martin

  Nathaniel looked away, his silence being more of an insult than words could ever be. Silence fell heavy until the doctor exhaled strongly, leaving the other to his bleak bliss. He had more important issues to attend to and the confrontation had served only to ignite the urgency.

  Or at the very least exacerbate his anger towards those in his care.

  The door closed with a ferocity that made the walls shake and the sound of the footsteps storming away was joined by the cackle of laugher.

  After some searching in random drawers James had discovered a handful of papers that noted recent changes in treatment in various patients.

  He handed them silently to his colleague who thumbed through them carelessly smudging the ink and plucking a sheet out.

  “Put them where you can remember,” he said as he thrust the others back into James’s hands. “The doctor is bad enough but he’s allowed to be.”

  “Double standards. He has less excuse than we have,” James mumbled to himself.

  “Not our business to question,” the other retorted as he turned to leave. “Keep your mind on your job and that alone.”

  James made no response, pushing the papers back in the drawer; ignoring the look of displeasure he was cast. He had found the papers in there and he would remember they were in the future.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me my shift isn’t until this evening and I don’t get paid extra for running errands on my own time.”

  He slipped deftly past the larger man to fade into the shadows of the passages. Sometimes he wished he could really do that, become one with the nothingness that had been there before nothingness had existed.

  The courtyard was silent.

  Beyond the walls and past the trees the ocean was grey and placid, barely a ripple troubling its surface.

  Even the breeze seemed non-existent.

  James walked carefully over the cobbles, needing whatever air was present. The area often felt warmer than his room as well, sheltered by the towering stone structure.

  His destination was the well, to sit on the damp rim and try and empty his mind, throwing his doubts and concerns down to the abyss below to drown in the waters.

  As he made drew closer an eerie sound filled his ears. An echoic sobbing which seemed to emanate from the well itself which caused him to falter, his feet seeming to gain lead weights, his steps becoming slow and dragging.

  Even so he forged forth, both fearful and fascinated by the cries the well was giving.

  His fingers clutched the clammy stone of the lip and slowly he peered over into the dark maws which seemed to gape like a hungry beast.

  There was nothing. Just the inky water waving back.

  Feeling rather pathetic for letting his imagination get the better of him James sat uncomfortably with a heavy sigh that seemed to echo in the empty space.

  ‘James…’

  He stiffened as his ears picked up the faint voice as if the icy breeze had frozen his limbs. He breathed out slowly. He hadn’t heard that. It was a foolish fancy. The tales that were often told had clearly had more impact than he had thought.

  For a brief moment he recalled Marianne but the voice did not resemble hers.

  He turned around stoically and again looked down to be met with the same sight except with a few ripples as droplets of rain began to fall from the corpulent clouds above.

  ‘God damn it,’ he cursed inwardly, running his fingers through his hair and casting the clinging drops to join the others.

  He could stay there no longer. His need for sanity outweighing his need for the fresh air.

  Chapter Ten

  Sitting on the stained sheets Marianne rocked herself, a fluid, gentle movement as if rocking a baby into slumber.

  Of course she would never compare it to that, not when her mind recalled the bloody creature that had been torn from within her.

  A thin blanket covered her shoulders and gave a modicum more dignity and warmth that had been stripped so long ago.

  But she knew it could well have been worse. She at least had clothing, albeit skimpy and tattered, some others were not so fortunate.

  It should have been provided. A right and not a privilege but still it could be taken and sold since those who it belonged to no longer seemed to care their flesh was bared to the elements. No longer aware of the straw that scratched their blistered skin or the cold of the chains that often bound them.

  The cold could be unbearable but one never complained for fear of the beatings they incurred. It was simpler to lose pride instead.

  Her thoughts drifted the James. The blond intrigued her and not just because of the strangeness of his fringe that hid his one eye. He had a kind aura. A heart which the others lacked as if they were blind and deaf to suffering.

  Maybe they were. Victims of circumstance like the other asylum dwellers, only they had hardened their souls to relieve any guilt that tried to penetrate.

  She hummed in her head. A mindless little ditty that gathered her concentration and the energy it took to send her ‘voice’.

  When in close quarters it was simpler. Attuning her mind to theirs took little effort if she felt a connection but at a distance it could be taxing until their link was established properly. Silas was so far the only one who she had achieved this with.

  And until now the only one she had wanted to.

  ‘Speak to me and I shall hear.’

  She cast out the same words as before, her calling card if you will. She hoped James would not dismiss the echo as a dream or his own mind failing him.

  James was tidying what little he had in his room. It had become an almost obsessive habit, one he leant on when his sleep was disturbed.

  If there was no dust he would simply shift things about, organising and reorganising. It made a change from pacing or lying studying the ceiling.

  It was rare there was no dust though; in fact it often seemed as if the room was a flourishing garden for it.

  ‘Speak to me and I shall hear.’

  He paused as the words flowed into his mind, looking around him as if he expected to see her form beside him.

  “Marianne?” His voice was soft and tentative.

  ‘Use your mind. Focus on me, my face and voice. I shall hear then.’

  James nodded even though she could not see his acknowledgement. Whilst her advice seemed simple it was far more complex than he thought, his mind drifting away from her face to other things that lingered in the background.

  Marianne was patient. It was a skill that was difficult for one whose concentration was fraught to master. It was why Silas found it easy; he had nothing more as such to occupy himself with. Perhaps the other inmates would be the same?

  She didn’t know since she hadn’t tried as they were lost to her in their own realities.

  She listened carefully, picking up fragments of James’s attempts. She appreciated the effort; even incoherent rambling of a fellow patient was a break from the heavy silences.

  ‘It will come. Rest your mind for now and I shall send word to you on the morrow.’

  James sighed in annoyance at his inability to focus. He knew it was not entirely his fault but he was a man, he should be able to do what he set his mind upon the first time.

  “I shall try to see you again,” he muttered, hoping his words made it to her. “I will find reason.”

  James’s voice was faint in her mind, almost covered by the sound of her breathing echoing in the room, but she heard. A smile graced her lips for a tiny moment.

  She would indeed look forward to it, another break to her monotonous existence. She sent no word back, doubting that in his obvious tired state he would hear.

  Chapter Eleven

  The corridor echoed as Morbridge’s heavy feet paced the stone. The few attendants he encountered stepped swiftly aside; the man’s sharp eyes were not seeing the surroundings and focussed instead on his ideas.

  His destination was the main hall. The large empty room used to reward those who ha
d some sense left and were seen to have no risk attached to them.

  Those with families and those with money would also benefit.

  The recreation hall was large and open. If fully lit it could almost be described as pleasant. The wooden floor sparkled in the soft lustre of the lights, almost as brightly as the real sun in the outside world. But the sense of freedom outweighed all else. Even the bars on the windows could not take that away completely.

  In the corner of the otherwise empty room was a seldom used piano, the keys dusty and the chords tuneless when played. It never seemed to bother those who now and again prodded ebony or ivory. It was a sound that brought images of joy and normality, all the things they lacked.

  Few were present.

  There were not many deemed trustworthy enough to be allowed to enjoy the facilities or many who the warders decreed as none problematic. They didn’t need to be bothered by the issues that haunted and affected even the upper class patients.

  Morbridge eyes the scattered individuals. At his right two men fought robotically, their faces surly but their eyes empty. The blows were superficial and inflicted the damage that a feather would to an egg.

  He ignored them, as did the attendants; such imbeciles were of little interest and not worth bothering with.

  To the doctor the more coherent held more appeal, not those whose minds had departed and whose bodies continued. He could clearly see the changes his treatments brought about, both great and small.

  His eyes drifted to a woman sat near the piano. Her frail frame wrapped in a tattered dress and mouldering shawl. Judging by the careful crocheting of the garment she had been talented. His gaze lingered, studying her poise and mannerisms. The hazel orbs were clearly reading the scraps of music, humming the melody that was written.

  After a moment he strode over, stopping at what would be considered a polite distance and nodded to her genially as she looked up.

  “I don’t believe we have met, Madam,” he said smoothly, the kind tone blighted by the shark like smile, “but I feel I know you well enough from your notes and your plight touches me. These walls were not meant to contain those such as yourself and I would be delighted if you would allow me to aid you further.”

  His knowledge of her was brief; left by her husband due to feminine issues. What they were he didn’t know or care, hysteria most likely. That was the main reason for the women who were here. But she had been a ‘lady’ and apparently still saw herself as one despite the conditions she now kept.

  “You could get me home?” The female’s eyes filled with hope, bright and childlike. “Back to where I should be?”

  “Perhaps,” Morbridge gave a crooked smirk. “Depends if you are willing to work to better yourself, to take the offer of help. Whatever it may be.”

  The coldness of the latter words seemed to go unnoticed. The female was desperate to depart from such vile surroundings where the clean and filthy were kept together, the calm and the violent. It worsened her symptoms, deteriorated her shattered nerves even more.

  Offered that shred of hope, the woman could ignore the chill in his words, there was finally a small hint of sunlight in the darkness and whatever treatment she must bear she vowed she could. It meant returning to the arms of her loved ones, removing the disgrace that her incarnation must have caused them.

  She accepted the hand that was offered to help her to her feet, following like an obedient puppy, hopeful and wide eyed.

  “What is your name, my dear?” Morbridge asked as amiably as he could as led the woman out and down the winding corridor. There was a biting chill in the air which even he could feel and in the thin almost translucent gown she would surely feel it tenfold. “I care for so many unfortunate souls that their names sometimes escape me.”

  The woman’s step was slow and stiff due to the lack of movement and it irked the doctor to slow his own to allow her to keep pace but the benefits outweighed the slight hindrance.

  “My name is Abigail…”

  “Abigail,” Morbridge repeated with a nod as if committing it to memory. “How charming, I always like names that began with A.”

  She smiled rather shyly in response, unused to compliments or that which resembled them.

  “Down here.” Morbridge held open the heavy door leading down an iron stairway to the basement rooms below, adding as he moved forward. “Mind your step. There is little light and the steps have no guards.”

  Abigail nodded as she gripped the railing carefully, the metal cold and clammy beneath her fingers. The passage became darker the further she went and it was only the soft hue of the doctor’s white coat that guided her.

  Her step began to falter.

  “Not far,” Morbridge paused to wait impatiently a few paces ahead, “first on the right when you reach the bottom.”

  He received a hum of acknowledgement. A heavy feeling of trepidation was beginning to weigh the woman down. Every scrap of logic, every fibre of her being was screaming for her to retreat.

  As she began to mull over the possibility of turning a strong hand clamped down on her wrist, blunt nails digging into fragile skin.

  “Afraid of the dark, girl?” Morbridge smirked. “You know the only monsters are those in your mind.”

  “I…”

  “Hush. Do not fear,” he cooed sardonically, silencing whatever words that were about to emerge. “Poor dear, you’ve been locked in your own little world so long you can’t discern help from hindrance.”

  Abigail stiffened and gave a nervous tug to attempt to free her wrist but the grip remained firm.

  The action only seemed to amuse the doctor, bolstering his already inflated ego.

  “No, no,” he hissed maliciously, pushing open the nearest door, “acceptance is an agreement and an agreement is not to be broken.”

  The room within was pitch. The centre table lit by a single gaslight hung from a slender chain. It seemed clean with a scent of iodine covering the smell of the coppery blood from a pile of stained sheets concealed in the shadows.

  A wire cage sat opposite a disorganised cabinet, large enough to contain a moderately sized dog.

  Pushing Abigail forward Morbridge closed the door behind them, the clang sounding to her like the death tolls sounded to the condemned.

  “Sit,” he said in monosyllabic tone and gestured to a stool near the metal table. “I shall be with you in a moment.”

  “I’m not sure…”

  “Take a seat.”

  The order was not negotiable.

  Abigail swallowed hard; a painful lump had formed in her throat and was choking any words she wanted to voice, coupled with an agonising nausea.

  She backed away and sat stiffly, the hard seat pressed painfully into the bones of her backside, the fat long since wasted away.

  Morbridge waited until she was seated before moving over, circling like a predator watching its new prey.

  He said nothing as he turned away and moved to the cabinet, pulling the drawer open with a loud bang.

  “Now. The question is if you are going to cease your mundane chatter and complaints and let me work?” He reached into the dark confines and pulled out a metal object. It resembled a fork, bent in the middle as if melted by an intense heat or worked upon by some sideshow charlatan. Two thin wires were threaded through tiny holes in the surface, attached to a leather strap that fitted over the head. “Perhaps I have too much time on my hands but I had to create something to stop my subjects protesting.”

  Before Abigail had a chance to move Morbridge had reached her side. Clutching her thin hair he wrenched her head back, strapping the monstrosity about her, the pointed prongs forced past her lips, digging sharply into her tongue.

  He leant forward imposingly, his heated breath warming the tears that were beginning to slip from her limpid eyes.

  “Speak and taste blood, little lovely. Any attempt and that point will penetrate.” He reached around and tightened the strap roughly, pinning her tongue further and jarring
her teeth. “I need concentration! Not puerile protests!”

  Tears began to slide more freely down her cheeks, earning a snort of disdain.

  “Crying simply worsens your condition but you are a woman so what more could I expect?” He turned from her and carried on back to the drawer, sifting through its contents cautiously. The needle he withdrew was blunted, it had been used many times before but since it still penetrated the skin it still had worth.

  Abigail gave a choked sob, the salty droplets trickling into her mouth and down her throat. The prong dug in as she attempted to swallow and added a metallic taste as blood joined them.

  A calloused hand gripped her neck, forcing her head to the side and a stinging pain rushed through her as the dulled point drove through skin and muscle to seek a vein.

  Echoes.

  White.

  Silence.

  Darkness.

  Unfeeling eyes gazed at the barely breathing form. Lifting her lids to examine the glazed orbs beneath.

  Deftly he removed the mouthpiece, casting it aside until next time and hoisted her from the seat, placing her recumbent body on the table.

  The room was soon filled with the sound of metal on bone, a sickly scent of blood chasing away the musty odour.

  Morbridge exhaled in exasperation as he watched the convulsions and listened to the choking. The concern was not for the woman inhaling her own blood but for the fact his experiment had not been finished.

  Shaking his head he pulled the sheet over Abigail’s head and waited for the body to still.

  “Another one for the fire,” he muttered, “but a useful specimen for dissection beforehand.”

  Seldom were the bodies ever claimed. Family wanted little to do with them in life or death. Who wanted to stigma of madness staining their names?

  It was unfortunate only because whilst one could cut the skin to probe the organs beneath, study and analyse the ailments that blight the flesh one could not dissect the mind to reveal the mysteries. No, that had to be achieved when the specimen was alive.