《The Man Who Wasn't》 1918 1918 He could remember not being able to see anything. He could remember a hand on his forehead. He could remember the scratch of bandages over his face, the warmth and the stickiness of blood. He could remember not being able to move his limbs, wondering with panic if they were even still there. And then he couldn''t remember anything. He opened his eyes, finally able to see. He breathed deeply, the odor of bleach stinging his nostrils. He moved his hands¡ªthey were there. He moved his feet¡ªthey were there. The bandages were gone, replaced with a dull ache in his face, near his jaw. He lifted his hands, bringing them before his eyes. They looked normal enough; he flexed his fingers, cracked his knuckles. Even that action felt as though it took a thousand muscles. Weakened, he let his hands fall back over his stomach. He ran one hand over his chest, feeling the coarse fabric. He felt no buttons, not like his uniform. He needed to sit up. Moving his arms back, digging his elbows into the mattress, feeling the springs underneath¡ªhow had he even slept on a surface like that? It took all his strength to lift himself up, lifting his head, letting his eyes roam over the room. He was alone, with nothing but a bed, a dresser with a mirror on it, a small chair next to him. A window, where flowers had wilted under the sunlight, or perhaps the doing of the radiator beneath the window. The sunlight was too bright. He shielded his eyes against it, reminded of that blinding flash, the deafening blast that had thrown him into the air¡­ He struggled to remember why. Why had he been there? Why had he been there? Why had he¡ª He sat up further, leaning forward, his arms wrapped around his middle as a searing pain ripped through his body. He gasped for breath, but breathing brought more pain, tears burning in his eyes. He tried to think of the faces. What faces? A man¡­a man smiling at him. Asking him his name. He looked at his hands. Who did these hands belong to? The pain subsided, a dull throb, like a beast lurking, waiting to strike again. He straightened himself, stretching one leg out, then the next, slowly, so as not to experience pain like that again. Then¡­stand up. It was a command he heard in his mind, one he couldn''t disobey. He lowered one leg over the side of the bed, letting his foot touch the floor. Cautiously, he leaned forward, putting his weight on his foot. No pain, no weakness. He slid his other foot down, sitting on the edge of his bed for some time before putting his full weight on both feet. His knees buckled beneath him, but he caught the bedpost, stabilizing himself. His head swam, the floor tilted beneath him, and suddenly¡ª It stopped. He breathed. In, out. Deep, even. Stand up, soldier! I won''t have you lying about in bed all day when there''s a war to be won!Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. He looked up quickly, his eyes wandering the room, searching for the speaker. He was alone in the room. Just me, and the ghosts. He could see the woman and child, their faces white, their sightless eyes staring up at the ceiling. He shook his head. No, no. Their faces already haunted his dreams. He wouldn''t let them haunt his consciousness. He straightened himself once more, taking a step. With more confidence now, he took another step, stumbling forward to lean against the dresser for support. He swallowed, almost afraid to look in the glass, not wanting to see who stared back at him. He looked anyway. He clapped a hand over his mouth, shocked at his own reflection. It was a face he didn''t recognize. A boy''s face was reflected in the glass, but the eyes, dark and sunken, bloodshot, were the eyes of an old, old man. He moved his hand from his mouth, turning his head to look at the bright pink line that ran from the corner of his mouth to his ear. He lifted a finger to touch it. Was it a burn? Had the skin been torn open? He leaned closer over the mirror, squinting at the boy''s face, trying to see if there was anything recognizable in those old man''s eyes. Who did these eyes belong to? He turned away from the mirror, looking over the room again. On the chair by his bed, there was a clipboard, with what looked to be some sort of report on it. He stumbled towards it, snatching it up and reading over it. Howard, Edmund. Patient #224 Patient? He lowered himself back on the bed, the shock of reading over his name somehow too much. It didn''t seem right. That name didn''t match his face. Why? Why could he not remember? He returned his eyes to the paper. Doctor''s note: Patient has recovered from bayonet wounds and lacerations on the chest, arms, and face due to shrapnel. Patient exhibits typical symptoms of shell shock, due to brain trauma caused by the artillery shell explosion. However, he seems to have little memory of his past, and even who he is, because of the damage from the shell explosion. The length of his stay at White Isle is undetermined, until some relatives are contacted. Insufficient identification found on him at the site of the explosion will make it difficult, perhaps even impossible, to trace him to any family. The clipboard slipped from his hands, clattering to the floor. Bayonet wounds¡­ He reached down and lifted his shirt up, looking at the fresh bandages around his middle, tiny stains showing at random spots¡­ He dropped the hem of his shirt and stared at the wilted flowers. So the doctor had as little knowledge about the patient as the patient did himself. All I know is my name, and that I''m a soldier, and I must be mad. Something wasn''t right¡­he shut his eyes, putting his face in his hands, running his hands through the tangle of curls¡­shell shock. Was that what it was? He didn''t feel shell shocked¡­whatever it felt like. He could remember a whistle like a tea kettle. There was no time to run, no time to get out of the way. But he never remembered a German driving his bayonet into the boy''s middle. Except¡ªexcept what? He thought, and he thought, and he thought, searching his brain for any memory; there was a flash of a furious face, hands wrapping about his throat, a knee driving into his stomach, the sudden burning pain of a blade entering his stomach. But that had to have been after the blast. Why else couldn''t he have moved? He laid himself back on the bed, folding his hands on his stomach. As he stared at the ceiling, he was certain he could see a woman''s face. He shut his eyes, hoping to block out the image, but he saw them again: the woman and the child, laying perfectly on the floor, their skin ghost-white, her necks bruised from where rough hands had crushed the life out of her. The boy, his eyes pooled with the blood that had dripped from underneath his hairline... He opened his eyes, holding his hands over his face. Were these hands the ones that had robbed the creatures of their life? No, no¡­not me, I''m just a boy, not a murderer. The images would not leave his brain. The furious face, the blank faces of the woman and the child, the stillness, the blood, the smoke¡­around him, men cried for their mothers, their mothers, their mothers¡­ He began to tear at his hair, a scream forcing itself from him; a scream of hatred, of anger, of terror, screaming at the images, begging them to leave him, begging for the peace and quiet of death. He was hardly aware that someone had burst into his room until a cloth pressed over his face, a sickly sweet smell filling his nostrils, a darkness filling his brain, a darkness that drove away the images until there was nothing but the sweet silence of sleep¡­ I 1924 Jean McAuliffe, a small, gray-clad figure, sat outside the office door, fiddling with the straps of her handbag. Was she nervous? She certainly wasn''t calm, that was for sure. She had never been anywhere alone, with strange people, miles away from Mam and Da. She looked up at the door, reading over the name again. Blevins, C.J. She took a deep breath. She had ''phoned before, but couldn''t have been sure that it was Blevins who answered. And the nurse behind the reception desk in the lobby had informed her to address Dr. Blevins over the matter of her employment. She sorely wished that it hadn''t come to this. If anything, it would have been nice to stay working as a nanny, but¡­ The St. James household was somewhere she could not remain. She could hear voices, muffled, behind the door: the light voice of a woman, the deeper voice of a man. The words were impossible to comprehend, but from the tone of the man''s voice, he didn''t sound very happy. I could get up and leave. No. Reaching inside the handbag, wrapping her gloved hand about the pocket-watch...to do so refueled her determination. She extracted it from the handbag, looking over the initials. Now...she felt courage again when she read them. She would be brave, and determined. She needed this job, or else to the convent it was. The convent was the last place she would want to spend the rest of her life, but it was the promise she had made to herself. And it was because of the promise that she sat within the walls of White Isle Mental Institution without her being mad. It was because of her promise, because of the newspaper, that she sat there. She didn''t know if she should have been afraid of talking face-to-face to this Doctor Blevins. She had heard about him, but didn''t know what to expect from him. Her imagination had built an image of a large, moustached man, looking...looking like a doctor was supposed to look. Like Da, she thought. Pot-bellied and gruff, having the habit of looking over the top of his spectacles at people. The door opened; Jean quickly returned the pocket-watch to her handbag and looked up as a yellow-haired young woman in a nurse''s uniform stepped out. "Miss McAuliffe?" she asked. Jean rose to her feet, taking her handbag and hooking it on her elbow. "Aye," she said, her voice coming out almost weak, though her accent sounded foreign to her own ears among the English. She swallowed and cleared her throat, but it seemed that the young nurse paid it no mind. "Doctor Blevins will see you now." The nurse stepped aside and motioned to the open doorway. Jean put one foot in front of the other, and forced herself to walk across the room to the office door. Through it, she could see a window with plain white curtains drawn aside, and as she turned her head to the right, she saw a desk, where the doctor himself sat. As she stepped in, the door closing behind her, she saw Blevins look up over the top of his spectacles. "McAuliffe?" he asked, his voice sharp and deep. "It is, sir," she said. "Sit down." It was a command, not a kind request. She looked down, seeing a wooden armchair. Lowering herself into it, she looked back at the desk. Blevins stood, making his way to a small table in the corner with a tray of tea. "Tea?" he asked. "I have it up here anyway and I don''t want it to be wasted." He had no smile when he greeted her, only a gaze that met her eyes with such severity that she had to look away. "Oh-please," she said, watching the doctor. Why, he looked nothing like she had imagined. He was shorter than she expected, and even younger than she thought, though he had lines in his face, his prominent cheekbones and the dusting of gray in his light hair adding years to a face that might have been considered youthful. As Jean studied him, she heard a rattle, and looked to see his left hand trembling as he lifted the cup and saucer. Quickly, he grabbed the saucer with his right hand, stabilizing it so he wouldn''t spill it. He approached her, handing her the tea. "You''re quite lucky you caught me on a slow day," he said, "otherwise you mightn''t have been sitting here." She took the tea just as his hand began trembling again, relieved that the tea was steaming. He returned to the small table, pouring himself some tea. "I''m grateful that I am able to speak to you directly, sir," Jean replied, realizing that she had no cream or sugar. She bit her lip, glancing at the tray to sea a bowl of sugar lumps and a small pitcher of cream. "I don''t like to be disturbed during my work hours," he said. His tone came out flat, erasing the smile on Jean''s face, stalling her just as she was about to ask for cream and sugar. She watched him pour his own cup of tea, add his own lumps of sugar and cream...she stared at her own black cup of tea, too nervous to ask for cream and sugar. Blevins didn''t seem as if he was in the best of moods, and she was afraid that he might have gotten even angry should she ask. He returned to his desk and sat down, his cup rattling again as he lowered it. He stared at the typewriter on his desk, his brows drawing together as he reached up and pressed his fingers to his left shoulder, a brief look of pain flashing over his face.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. He looked over his spectacles at her again, and she lowered her gaze. "Well, we should get this done with," he said. "From what I do know, you''re seeking a position here." She nodded as she sipped the tea. "I saw the article in the paper, sir, stating you needed staff." "Ah, yes." He reached inside his desk drawer, pulling out a white piece of paper. "And you wish to apply." "I do, sir." He set the paper down and shut the drawer. "You do know that the position is for medical assistants." Again, she nodded. "My father is a doctor," she said, "and my mother was a nurse in the war. I feel I should follow in their footsteps." He glanced up again. "You do know it is sometimes unwise to base your life around what your parents have done." Puzzled at his statement, she looked down at her tea. "I...I thought...I grew up around it. I mean, if I am familiar with it¡­" "How old are you?" She paused, the rim of her teacup touching her lips. She set it back on the saucer. "Nineteen, sir." He sighed, folding the paper up. "Our medical assistants are requested to apply at twenty-one years of age and older." The article in the newspaper had said so, but Jean had been hoping that perhaps she could have brushed off the subject of her age. "I must not have seen that in the article," she said, hanging her head. "I''m afraid that you must wait until you are twenty-one." Jean looked up. Spending two years doing nothing? Or returning to her previous position? She had to do something...she couldn''t stay with Mam and Da that whole time, couldn''t return to Dublin...Mam had begged her not to go to England, not betray her homeland, but there was nothing in Ireland she wanted. Unless...she could return to Manchester. But fate had brought her to St. Cyril Greene. She couldn''t just leave. She couldn''t wait two years. Everything might be lost in two years. "Isn''t there any other way, sir?" she asked. He stood from his desk, stuffing his hands in his trouser pockets. He went to the window and peered out. From where she sat, Jean could see his breath make a small fog on the glass. "What job experience do you have, Miss McAuliffe?" "I was a nanny for about a year." "Why didn''t you stay in that field of work?" She hurriedly sipped her tea to dispel the sudden constricting feeling in her throat. Her breath caught in her chest, and she was sure she could feel the sting of tears. Blevins wasn''t looking at her; she quickly reached up and wiped her eye. "It wasn''t for me," she said. To her relief, he said nothing more on the subject of why she didn''t stay a nanny. Instead: "So you do have experience watching over people?" "Yes, sir." He turned to her, crossing his arms. "I will give you a chance, Miss McAuliffe," he said. "We do need more companions for our patients." "Companions, sir?" "Our patients often need psychological stimulation, rather than being locked away in their rooms all day. We have a few young women in this position, as we can''t spare nurses to simply sit about all day." Jean sat up straighter. Then she could stay in St. Cyril¡­ "I can do that, sir," she said. "I will do it. I can start right away, if you need me to." She thought she caught a hint of amusement in his eye, though she saw it nowhere else on his face. He simply stared at her. "It doesn''t pay much," he said. "The money doesn''t matter," she said. Mum and Dad were already covering the cost of her boarding in the village, until she did get a job. But it really wasn''t the money that concerned her. "It pays twelve shillings a week." It was somewhat of a small amount of money. She would still have to depend on Mam and Da. She shook her head, sipping at her tea. "Like I said," she began, "the money doesn''t matter. I would do it for free, if it came to that." Blevins raised an eyebrow. "And why?" he asked. "You seem rather desperate for an employment here, of all places." Jean said nothing. She looked back into her tea, silently praying that Blevins wouldn''t pry any further. She heard him sigh again, and looked up to see him returning to his desk. He did not sit down, though, and she watched him as he leaned over and opened his drawer again. He pulled out a paper, and lifted his clipboard from his desk, placing the paper on the hard surface. He then took a pen, and dipped it in his inkwell. The room fell completely silent, save the scratching of the pen over the paper. Blevins came around the desk, handing the clipboard to Jean. "That is the application," he said. He handed her the pen; Jean read over the application, taking the pen in her small, trembling hand. "If you sign your name and address at the bottom, we''ll consider your application and notify you on our decision." Jean found the spaces well enough, signing her full name, and the address of the inn where she was staying. Once she was finished, she handed the pen and the clipboard back. Blevins pushed his spectacles up, reading over her name. "Very good," he said. He set the clipboard back on his desk. "Hopefully you will hear back from us within the week. I expect you to remain here in St. Cyril." "Of course, sir," Jean said, standing and handing her empty teacup and saucer to Blevins. He motioned to the door, and Jean hooked her handbag on her elbow as she reached for the knob. "Good-day, Doctor Blevins," she said. "And thank you." "Good-day, Miss McAuliffe," Blevins said. She opened the door and stepped out into the silent hall, throwing one last look back at Blevins. But he wasn''t looking at her; he had returned to the window, silently staring out as he put his hands in his pockets. She lowered her head and shut the door behind her. She walked slowly down the hall, but inside, her heart fluttered with anticipation. I have a chance, she thought. She promised that she wouldn''t lose her chance.
He must have been having that dream again. He could remember it clearly: a dream, yes, but built from memory. The memory of being strapped to that bed, the violent fever gripping him, the sheets twisted about him as if they would strangle him. He desperately wanted to throw the sheets off. He was soaked in sweat, his face stained with tears. He couldn''t remember when he started crying, or if he even was crying. And suddenly: standing among them. Staring down at them. The boy''s head, split open. The woman, her face a ghostly angel-white, her neck maimed by those bruises. His chest tightened. Could he not breathe? "Snap to, lads!" His eyes flew open. He turned his head. He moved. The straps were gone. He sat up. The paintings. Why...why...the paintings. A woman, a woman, a woman. Her eyes, their eyes, peering down at him, staring, cherry lips split in a grin. White teeth, pearls in her mouth. He tried to wipe the tears away. He looked. His hands, coated in blood. Sore from squeezing the life out of the little creature... He gasped. No, no, no, no, no- God. God-damn. Breathe, lad. Breathe. But the door was opening and the woman was stepping in and he was stumbling forward and falling into her arms and suddenly she wasn''t there and he... He was standing again. Staring. The paintings surrounded him. The grin. He could almost hear her laugh. He grabbed the first painting, ripped it from its place on the wall, flung it to the floor. The wood cracked, the glass shattered, he stumbled forward, hardly aware of the shards penetrating his feet. Again: rip it down. Smash it. Stomp on it. Tear apart that mocking grin, cut your hands on the glass. And the door was again opening and the white-clad man was lifting him from his knees, more arms wrapping about him as he fought them, only wanting to rip apart that face he couldn''t bear to look at¡­ II Jean stared down the length of the bridge, squinting through the morning fog to try and see the building of White Isle from where she stood. All she could make out in the thickness was the dark shape of the island itself. The building of the asylum was invisible. She glanced back at the guardhouse, where the guard leaned against the window, lighting a cigarette. "Don''t see why you''d want to work here," the guard said, tossing his match on the ground. It landed dangerously close to Jean''s foot; she sidestepped it. "You work here, don''t you?" she asked. The guard shrugged. "Don''t have to go in the building, and be surrounded by a fat lot of loons." She pursed her lips and looked back ahead. The letter of acceptance had come that morning, requesting Jean to arrive as soon as possible. So she stood there at the end of the bridge, waiting for the nurse who had been sent to fetch her. Jean looked up at the telephone wire that ran the length of the bridge to the asylum. Half the ramshackle stone buildings of St. Cyril hadn''t electricity, yet White Isle had electricity, telephone lines, and running water, complete with indoor baths and toilets. Money, Jean thought. That''s what it was, of course. White Isle must have been an ideal place for one to put a mentally ill relative. It was isolated, on an island, and anyone who tried to flee the island by swimming could have been dashed upon the rocks. Thanks to the fog, she was unable to see the sharp white rocks that surrounded the island. She couldn''t imagine anyone risking the jump from one of the windows to get away, unless they were mad. She had to remind herself that those in White Isle truly were mad. A shape appeared in the fog; tall, slim, dark. As Jean watched, squinting her eyes as if it would make her see better, the shape began to take a more humanly form. A flash of red appeared, vanished, deep blue breaking through the fog¡­ Jean let out a breath she hadn''t realized she had been holding. The figure, which had at first appeared wraith-like, now made itself visible as that of a nurse. Jean could see the nurse wrap her cape tighter about herself, the red flash being the lining of the deep blue fabric. The nurse herself was clad in the dark gray uniform Jean had seen before, the white cap with the red cross on her head. The sound of her hard leather heels on the wood grew close to Jean''s ears, the only sound aside from the lapping of the water against the bridge''s support. The nurse stopped and looked at Jean, then at the guard, and then back at Jean. "McAuliffe?" she finally asked. "That''s me," Jean replied. The nurse, a young creature with a long face, smiled at Jean. "I''m Nurse Rose Crain," she said. "I''m here to brief you on what you''re to do." She reached under her cape, and pulled out a small folder, handing it to Jean. "Your instructions." Jean hooked her handbag on her elbow to take the folder, unsure of what to say. The nurse, Crain, extended her hand towards the dark shape of the island. "Won''t you come with me?" she asked. "Of course." Jean fell in step alongside the nurse, widening her stride to match that of the taller woman. "I see you''re here to be a companion," Crain said. "Aye," Jean said. "What made you come here, of all places? White Isle is tucked rather snugly away in our little corner of the world." Jean searched her brain for a response that would at least make sense to the nurse. "I...I heard that White Isle had a good reputation. For being good. Good...to their patients." "That it is," said Crain. "That accent''s nowhere from round these parts. You come from across the sea?" Jean wished that the nurse hadn''t brought up the subject of her home country. "Aye," she said again. "Dublin." "What''d you come all the way up here for? Surely word of White Isle can''t have reached that far." Jean stared ahead, desperately praying that Crain would stop talking. "I did some poking around in Manchester," she said. "So you came from Dublin to Manchester...and then here." "I did." "Ireland''s a mess, isn''t it? I can see why you left." The pain of all those years returned, and the lingering remains of two wars on Irish soil crept over the sea and into Jean''s bones. "Aye," she muttered. "''Tis a mess." Crain glanced down at Jean, and for more than a few seconds, she was wonderfully silent. The building grew more visible as they walked, a giant of a structure upon the turtle-shaped island. Jean couldn''t tell if the fog was thinning, or it only seemed so because she was growing closer to the island. She turned and looked over her shoulder. No, the fog wasn''t really thinning. She could not longer see the guardhouse, or the shore from where she was. At last, breaking through the fog, Jean could see the second guardhouse, and the large wheel for the drawbridge. From there, she could see the iron gates that went round the island, but still, so thick was the fog that she couldn''t see the asylum building. Finally they reached the guardhouse, where the guard opened the gates to let them through. Rain from the previous night pooled on the gravel road, and Jean had to look down at the ground so she could side-step the puddles. "It gets terribly nasty here sometimes," Crain continued, offering her hand to help Jean side-step one patch of mud. "Some days it''s so bad they don''t let anyone leave the island." Jean looked up at Crain quickly. "Do you have to stay here?" "Most people, yes," Crain said. "But you see, we''re needed so often most of us just live here, especially the orderlies." "Live here?" The thought of staying overnight at a place surrounded by the mad sent a chill through Jean''s body. "Do you? Live here, I mean." "I do," Crain said. "I haven''t family around these parts, you see. The boarding''s as good as free, and we might all have to share two loos, but the food''s good enough." Jean thought of staying at White Isle. If they put up their staff, then she wouldn''t have to pay for a room in the village, and Mam and Da didn''t have to send her money. "What do you mean by ''as good as free''?" Crain shrugged, leading Jean up the steps to the building. "Oh, you know. Depending on your wages, they subtract the cost of your room from your pay. So, if you make ten shillings a day-" "That''s a lot of money," Jean said. "Let me talk!" Crain said with a laugh. "It''s an example. Say you make ten shillings a day. If you board here, they''ll take about one shilling. That''s the percentage, I think. Ten percent. I''m not good with numbers." "What am I to do if I want to live here?" "I would talk to Nurse Mason. She''s the head of staff." Jean nodded. Perhaps, she thought, it would be best for me to live here. Once more she found herself approaching the white brick building. Oddly enough, it was almost a welcoming, cheery place, with green shutters at each window, and flowerboxes on every ground floor window. Evergreen shrubs surrounded the building, and the grounds sported a few trees and gardens where Jean could see some people working. A white-clad orderly stood by with a nurse, watching the people who were tending to the sprouting gardens. Jean looked away with a shiver. The people in the garden must have been patients. Crain led Jean on a walkway that went around the back of the building; as the fog began to thin, Jean looked upon a smaller, two-story building that was attached to the asylum by nothing more than a covered cobblestone walk. "Those are the staff living quarters," said Crain. "There''s a side for the male orderlies, and the other side is for the nurses." "Does Doctor Blevins live here?" Jean asked. "Oh, no," Crain replied. "He lives in the village. He goes home at the end of the day. You know, he''s one of only a handful of people who owns a motorcar here in the village." "Oh?" Jean smiled, despite herself. She couldn''t imagine being one of a few to own a motorcar. People might have been asking for a ride. She guessed that Blevins wasn''t the type of person to lend his motorcar out to people, however. "Before we begin today," Crain went on, leading Jean towards the staff quarters, "you''ll have to get a uniform." "I figured as much." Jean looked down at her gray coat and green skirt. The last thing she wanted was for it to be stained, torn, or otherwise damaged. Crain opened the door, revealing a small room with nothing but a table in the center and a door on the other side. Crain''s slim hand vanished underneath her cape, and later emerged producing a key. "The door on the right is for the men''s quarters," Crain said. "This door¡­" She paused, inserting the key. Jean heard the click of the lock before Crain pulled the door open. "This door is to the women''s quarters. Only women have the women''s key, and only men have the men''s key. It was Doctor Blevins'' idea." "He thinks far ahead," Jean said, pondering the benefits of being separated from the men at White Isle. "That he does." The door opened up to a dark stairwell with a door at the end. Crain started up the stairs, her shoes creaking on the old wood. "We even dine separately." Jean was silent as she followed Crain up the stairs. The stairs opened to a narrow hallway with doors on either side. Most of the doors were open, and as Jean looked in one of the rooms, she could see one bad, and stacked bunks opposite the bed, with a few dressers. Crain led Jean into a room, where floral curtains hung from the small window. The single bed wasn''t made, and there were several open books on the bottom bunk. The top bunk was bare. A pale gray frock hung on a chair, complete with an apron that sported a red cross on the chest. Crain paused, folding her hands together. "I hope it''s your size," she said. "Doctor Blevins told me you were small, so I found the smallest size available." "It should work," Jean said, glancing over it. She looked back at Crain. Crain, seeming to understand, backed out of the room. "You can leave your clothes on the chair. I''ll be in the hall," she said, shutting the door behind her.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. The silence that followed Crain''s departure from the room was almost like a fresh breath of air. Jean pulled off her hat, and set her handbag and the folder on the chair. As she unbuttoned her coat, she looked down at the open books on the bed, and peered closer at them to see their subject. There was a notebook, with a pencil, next to the books. Whoever had been in the books had taken a pencil to them and written notes, circling here and there. Jean pulled off her coat and lifted one of the books so she could see the spine. A Study of Law, 5th Edition Jean set the book down as she began to unbutton her blouse. Whoever was studying the books had some high expectations. There weren''t many women in the field of law. She pulled off her skirt, and fetched the gray frock, pulling it on over her body, and buttoning up the front. It had a high, stiff collar that itched at Jean''s neck as she buttoned it up. She buttoned the cuffs and glanced at the mirror that hung on the door. The gray made her skin look more pale than it already was. She pulled the apron on and tied it in back, and looked at the mirror again, pinning back a few more of her red curls that had come undone when she pulled off her hat. She folded her clothes and set them on the chair, and stopped. She was unsure of where she was to leave her handbag. She had no money in it, but the pocket-watch¡­ She reached into the handbag and pulled the pocket-watch out. After flipping it open to make sure it was still ticking, she slipped it in her frock pocket, grateful that the pocket was deep. She could feel the weight of the watch, a comfort to her. To lose it meant to lose everything. It had become almost a lifeline to her; the only way to discovering the truth could be found in the pocket-watch. The sound of the floorboards creaking outside the door reminded Jean that she had work to do. She slipped her hand in her pocket to make sure that the pocket-watch was safe and secure, before she snatched up the folder, opened the door and went into the hall to begin her work day.
Jean took a deep breath, focusing on the tray in her trembling hands. The lid of the teapot rattled as she carried the tray up the stairs, and she had to pause to keep herself stable. She looked up the stairway, at the flickering electric light on the wall. There was no sound but the hum of electricity, like the soft murmur of voices about her. She lifted her feet and continued up the stairs. So far she had only sat and read to some patients in the common room, but now she had to go to a patient''s room to deliver his meal. She had tried to tell the old nurse that she wasn''t supposed to deliver meals to the patients in their rooms; that was an orderly''s job. It had clearly stated in the folder that, as a companion, she wasn''t to deliver meals, as if a patient began to choke, she had no idea what to do. Voices carried down the stairwell. Jean looked up again, seeing two white-clad men trotting down the steps together, one of them lighting a cigarette as he went. Jean paused on the landing, moving aside to let the orderlies pass. The one lighting the cigarette, a burly, brown-skinned man, glanced at Jean as she moved out of the way. "Look at this," he said, pausing and jabbing the other orderly in the arm. "She''s new, isn''t she?" Jean''s face burned, and she hurried up the stairs. She heard a whistle behind her, and paused to look over her shoulder, seeing the two orderlies nudging each other and grinning up at her. She looked back ahead. There was a door, to the floor she needed to be. She went as fast as she dared with the tray, pausing only to fumble at the knob and fling the door open, stepping into the faint odor of bleach. She leaned her back against the door to regain her breath, listening for the voices again. There was laughter, a few words she couldn''t make out, before they faded from her hearing. A shudder crept through her, but she forced herself onward, glancing down the long row of doors to see if she could spot the number for the room she was to visit. There was no-one in the hall, the emptiness adding to the disturbance she already felt. A hum from the radiators in the hall sounded, again, like the hum of many voices. Jean took a deep breath. She had already been around a few patients, but the thought of being alone with one¡­ Room 38. Howard, E., read the name beneath the room number. She spotted it easily, and balanced the tray on one hand to fetch the key from her pocket. After fetching it, and fumbling to fit it in the lock, she pushed at the door, realizing that she had to pull the door out instead. She returned the key to her pocket and stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her. The smell of burning pipe-tobacco reached her ears, a light haze hanging about the room. It was a large, well-furnished room, being evident that it was a room for long-term patients. The bed in the corner had a thick quilt upon it, with various mismatched pillows, complete with a dresser, and there was even a large desk against the wall, with a chair under the window. Several paintings hung on the wall; one of them caught her eye: it was of a smiling young woman, who almost resembled Jean herself. She shook her head. She was just being frightened. From where she stood, Jean could see the patient sitting in the chair by the window. He was bent over, smoking a pipe and staring through the metal bars of the window. "Afternoon," she said. The man in the chair didn''t look up. He sat there puffing on his pipe, his head turned away. All Jean could see of him was his head of dark curls, his hand holding the pipe. "I''ve brought your lunch," she said, going forward to the desk to set the tray there. She set it down, glancing at the man again. His hands were bound with bandages, and as he lowered the pipe from his mouth, she saw the faintest stain of blood. She felt no discomfort; she had grown quite used to seeing her fair share of blood. "Nurse Weathers has instructed me to sit with you while you eat." He turned to her, looking up. Jean nearly gasped, alarmed at his visible youth. He was hardly more than a boy, his eyes large and dark and...she couldn''t place it. Terrified? He simply stared at her. His eyes were sunken in his face, which looked worn thin. She spotted pink scarring on his jaw, and as her eyes fell on it, he raised a hand, as if hiding it. "Won''t you eat?" Jean asked, turning her attention away from the scar. "I''m not hungry," he said. His voice sent a shudder through her. It had a hint of weariness, but it was the voice of a man. "Come now, Mister Howard," she managed to say. "I''m sure you can''t turn down some potatoes and sausage. There''s even tea." He didn''t remove his eyes from her. "Might I have sugar?" She forced a smile for his sake. "Of course," she said. She turned to the tray, and poured the tea in the cup, fetching a few lumps of sugar to put in the tea. As she did so, she heard the chair creak as patient Howard rose to his feet. She added cream to the tea, not looking up, simply focusing on preparing Howard''s lunch. She turned with the cup in her hand. Howard was right beside her; the sudden closeness of it startled her. She gasped and nearly dropped the cup, but managed to stop herself before she did so. "You startled me," Jean said, watching as Howard took the cup of tea in his hands. He did so gracefully enough with the bandages wrapped around his hands, and he kept his eyes fixed on her as he sipped his tea. "I''m supposed to join you," Jean said. "I mean, sit with you." "Please do," he said. He motioned to the seat by the window. "You can sit there." "Mister Howard, I''m sure I''m not supposed to..." He ignored her, seating himself on the deep windowsill. The pipe he had sat aside; he cracked the window open to tap out the ashes from the bowl before shutting it against the sudden chill. Seeing no use in objecting to his kind gesture, Jean handed Howard his plate of food and seated herself in the chair, looking up at the paintings. They all had the same style, she noticed, and as she moved her eyes to the desk, she could see a few paintbrushes in a mug, and a stack of what looked to be watercolor paper. The paintings, she thought, must have been patient Howard''s himself. He had lovely talent, from her perspective, but the woman who resembled her was beginning to discomfort her. The clink of silverware on the plate made Jean turn her head; Howard had the plate in his lap, and was silently eating, his gaze fixed on the gray sea that spread on from the view of his window. He chewed each bite deliberately and thoughtfully, as if it took a great amount of mental energy simply to eat a meal. She wondered why he was in White Isle. His demeanor did not speak to her of strong insanity, though she could tell, simply from his aura, that there was indeed something wrong with him. She also found herself pondering over the scarring on his face. He could have gotten it from anywhere. Having been dragged along with Da as he made emergency visits to places like farms, Jean had grown accustomed to seeing injuries from farm tools and equipment. This patient Howard could have gotten his scarring from that¡ªbut what was a man as young as he doing at White Isle? He glanced at her as he set his plate down to get his tea. "You don''t talk much," he said. "Oh," Jean said, almost with a laugh. "Well, I don''t want to bother you while you''re eating." "I''m not eating anymore." This time, she did laugh. Howard stared at her, and as he did, his brows drew together, and his eyes darkened. "Why are you laughing at me?" She stopped. "I don''t know," she said. "I mean, I''m not laughing at you, I simply¡ª" He stood up suddenly, alarming Jean, who flinched in her seat, pressing herself into it as if it was some sort of defense. Howard shook a finger at her, his face twisting in anger. "You''re laughing at me because I''m mad," he said. "You think it''s funny." "No," Jean protested. "No, I don''t think you''re mad..." She immediately knew she shouldn''t have spoken such words. He flung the teacup against the window, where it shattered, flinging bits of porcelain and the remaining tea at Jean. She covered her face, shutting her eyes, but rough hands grabbed her by her arms and pulled her to her feet. Jean''s hands were pried away from her face, and she opened her eyes to see Howard''s furious face inches from hers. A whimper of terror escaped her as he shook her. "You don''t think I''m mad?" he said, his fingers digging into her skin. "Then tell me why I''m here." She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. He shook her again. "Tell me!" "Mister Howard, please," Jean begged. "Please let me go." If he was truly raving mad, then he could hurt her, or even go so far as to kill her. She tried to force that thought out of her brain. There was a reason he was under lock and key, and this must have been it. "You''re not yourself," Jean said, attempting to avoid outright telling him he was insane. "You''re here because you need help." "Help?" he echoed. His eyes wandered up from her face, his expression softening. His gaze fixed on something behind her. A look of confusion came over him, and he looked back at Jean. "Marie," he said, softly, almost a whisper. Jean pulled out of his grip, but he reached for her face, his fingers slipping into her curls, his other hand gripping her chin to keep her from turning her head. Jean tried to back away, glancing toward the door, seeing that it was only a few feet away¡­ She twisted her head, trying to use her hands to push him away, but he brought her closer, holding her face, his fingers tangled in her hair. Jean''s throat felt tight with panic, her arms shaking, but feeling weak and ineffective in her defense. She had no idea what Howard might have done to her, as he turned her head this way and that, and though he was small, he was strong. Almost a sign from above, the door to the room opened, and a white-clad orderly stepped in, immediately lunging forward at Howard. "Howard!" he barked, grabbing the patient''s arms and pulling them back, freeing Jean. Jean stepped back, snatching up the tray from the desk, and turning to the door to flee the room. Someone else stepped in: a short man, removing a syringe from the breast pocket of his white coat. Jean stood by, watching as the orderly forced Howard on the bed, pinning his arms down as Howard spat and cursed at them, fighting the orderly''s grip to try and scratch at his face. The man in the white coat pulled the cap from the syringe needle, waiting as the orderly rolled Howard''s sleeve up. Howard shrieked; a ghastly, inhuman noise that forced Jean to put the tray down and cover her ears. His eyes were fixed on her as the needle went into the skin of his arm. She watched him, terrified by the look on his face as the orderly held him down. Soon, however, his face went slack, and his eyes rolled back in his head. He went limp, silent, and his head fell back on his pillow. The orderly set to work fixing the straps of the bed over Howard''s body, as the man in the white coat stepped back. "That''s the first time he''s had a fit like that in almost two years," he said. Jean recognized his voice, and she felt the color drain from her face. It was Doctor Blevins himself. The orderly finished with the straps, and turned to Blevins, who was examining the shattered teacup and the tea dripping from the window. "I think it was her," he said, jerking a thumb in Jean''s direction. "The nurse who reported the noise said that the girl must have caused it." Blevins noticed her for the first time, and turned to her, his expression cold. He approached her, and grabbed her arm, steering her out of the room. He shut the door behind him, releasing Jean''s arm. "What were you doing in there?" he demanded. "Delivering the patient''s food," Jean said, rubbing her arm. "Sir, I know I''m not supposed to, but a nurse handed me the tray and made me. I tried to tell her that I wasn''t supposed to." He reached up with one hand and rubbed at his temple, staring at a knot of wood in the floor. "Which nurse was it?" "I don''t know. She was older." "Mason," he muttered to himself. "Woman never does as she''s told." He lifted his head. "I''ll speak to her about this. Howard has the possibility to become quite dangerous." "What''s wrong with him, sir?" "Nothing you should concern yourself with at the moment." He lifted his arm, pulling up his sleeve to check his watch. "I understand you have further duties, Miss McAuliffe?" "Yes, sir," Jean said. She reached in her pocket, pulling out the key to Howard''s room. She held it out to Blevins, who stared at it for a few seconds before seeming to realize that he was to take it. He took it from her hand and pocketed it. "If you''ll excuse me, Miss McAuliffe, I too have work to attend to," he said, turning towards the door of Howard''s room. "I can''t waste my day standing about." "Of course, sir." He opened the door and disappeared inside the room. The emptiness that followed him sent a chill down Jean''s spine, and she hurried towards the stairway, trying to fight the rising tears of shame. Her arms were already sore from being shaken, but she was more sore from the shame of doing something wrong on her first day of work. She went down the stairs, inwardly lamenting that this was the only way she could find out the truth for herself.
He had seen that face before. It was the face of a woman who no longer smiled in life, but smiled trapped in watercolor behind glass and bound in wood. Why had she come to him now, when he was beginning to forget her? He hadn''t wanted to hurt her. He only wanted to see if there was some mask she wore. All he wanted to do was peel that mask away and see the wolf hiding beneath the sheep''s clothes. It couldn''t be her...but it was. Marie, Marie, with the enchanting eyes. Those eyes that he only remembered being open, gazing at the black nothingness of death. This time, they were alive, full of light and youth and beauty. And she laughed at him. She mocked him for being mad, saying that he needed help, of all things. Marie, Marie, how could you do this to me? I tried to keep you safe from all of this. Why does your ghost haunt me? And so he lay there, trapped on his bed, straining at his bonds, being forced to stare again at that mocking smile. If only there was some way to tell her he was sorry. If only there was some way he could see her again.