the reason half of my patients are here.” He writes something on
a piece of paper.
“But doctor...that explains her inability to remember her
crime. But how can she not remember me? She knew me for a long time before
this...this...” I stutter. “This, awfulness. It doesn’t make sense that if her
mind is protecting her from something awful, that it would blank me from her
memory.”
He blinks, his forehead crinkling.
“Doctor? Why doesn't she remember me?”
“The mind is a strange thing, Stanbury. And quite unique.
Every person is different from the next.” He taps a pen against his desk,
silent for some moments. Finally, his frown lifts, and he smiles. “No doubt,
because she knows she has hurt you. That fact will hurt her, because she loves
you. So her mind has shut you out too.” He beams. “Yes, that's it. Of course.”
Why is he so happy about this?
“Stanbury, try not to worry yourself. It is better to leave
the where's and art thou's to us alienists: drat the man who coined such a
phrase. I have various methods to explore the subconscious, and the hidden. I
can find these memories.”
“So you can treat my wife?”
“Yes, without a doubt.”
“How?”
“That, Stanbury, is something we will decide and implement
as we proceed. It is very much dependent on her, really.”
I can't help but think back to the horror stories he told me
and my father-in-law to forget; of men and women being chained from their necks
to posts and left to rot. We've all heard them growing up. I idly wonder if
perhaps they still do those things, away from prying eyes down in the basement.
I wonder if I care if it happens to Anne. They thought of her conjures up such
opposing feelings inside me, that I really can't decide whether I want to kiss
her or kill her.
“Do what you will, Doctor,” I say, standing up and bowing to
him minutely, trying to sound authoritative. “My wife needs to be returned to
me via whatever means necessary.”
“I assure you I will try my very best,” he says, rising and
offering his hand. I shake it firmly. He leans back on this chair and reaches
into his bookshelf. “Here, take this. Read it; it may help you understand.” He
hands me a book, Insanity and Allied Neuroses. “Wrote it myself. You won’t find
a better source of information,” he declares proudly. “Take good care of it
though, that’s a first edition.” I promise I will, not sure if I'll read it but
unable to summon the strength to tell him so. I simply nod and without a
backward glance, stride out of the gloom into the sunshine, intent on seeing my
lawyer. A man is rummaging amongst the flowers, shouting something incoherent
about trying to find himself.
He's not the only one.
Incompetent Fools
Anne
November 3rd, 1885
Royal Bethlem Hospital
A few weeks have passed since the sack incident, and having
been on my best behaviour they've decided to let me attend a dance.
Accompanied, of course, by one of the jailors, but at least this time it is the
nice blonde woman, Agnus.
Fat-Ruth is part of the band, imagine.
"What is the point of Grace attending this ridiculous
ball when she can’t enjoy the music?" I say, stuffing another sandwich
into my mouth. I realized she was deaf by shouting into her ear one morning and
getting no response. Swallowing back a lump of ham and cheese, I wait for
Agnus' reply, but none is forthcoming.
She has dressed Grace in a beautiful silk dress, pinned her
hair into a French pleat, and sat her onto a chair, but it all seems rather
contrived and pointless. I get the impression Grace doesn't much care as to how
she appears, nor where she is. In fact, I'm certain she would rather be back on
the floor in the corridor.
"And I don't know why you bothered yourself to dress
her up, really. She still looks like my grandmother. And really, dressing her
in silk? She cannot dance in that, even if she actually wanted to, or
could." I continue, picking up another
a piece of paper.
“But doctor...that explains her inability to remember her
crime. But how can she not remember me? She knew me for a long time before
this...this...” I stutter. “This, awfulness. It doesn’t make sense that if her
mind is protecting her from something awful, that it would blank me from her
memory.”
He blinks, his forehead crinkling.
“Doctor? Why doesn't she remember me?”
“The mind is a strange thing, Stanbury. And quite unique.
Every person is different from the next.” He taps a pen against his desk,
silent for some moments. Finally, his frown lifts, and he smiles. “No doubt,
because she knows she has hurt you. That fact will hurt her, because she loves
you. So her mind has shut you out too.” He beams. “Yes, that's it. Of course.”
Why is he so happy about this?
“Stanbury, try not to worry yourself. It is better to leave
the where's and art thou's to us alienists: drat the man who coined such a
phrase. I have various methods to explore the subconscious, and the hidden. I
can find these memories.”
“So you can treat my wife?”
“Yes, without a doubt.”
“How?”
“That, Stanbury, is something we will decide and implement
as we proceed. It is very much dependent on her, really.”
I can't help but think back to the horror stories he told me
and my father-in-law to forget; of men and women being chained from their necks
to posts and left to rot. We've all heard them growing up. I idly wonder if
perhaps they still do those things, away from prying eyes down in the basement.
I wonder if I care if it happens to Anne. They thought of her conjures up such
opposing feelings inside me, that I really can't decide whether I want to kiss
her or kill her.
“Do what you will, Doctor,” I say, standing up and bowing to
him minutely, trying to sound authoritative. “My wife needs to be returned to
me via whatever means necessary.”
“I assure you I will try my very best,” he says, rising and
offering his hand. I shake it firmly. He leans back on this chair and reaches
into his bookshelf. “Here, take this. Read it; it may help you understand.” He
hands me a book, Insanity and Allied Neuroses. “Wrote it myself. You won’t find
a better source of information,” he declares proudly. “Take good care of it
though, that’s a first edition.” I promise I will, not sure if I'll read it but
unable to summon the strength to tell him so. I simply nod and without a
backward glance, stride out of the gloom into the sunshine, intent on seeing my
lawyer. A man is rummaging amongst the flowers, shouting something incoherent
about trying to find himself.
He's not the only one.
Incompetent Fools
Anne
November 3rd, 1885
Royal Bethlem Hospital
A few weeks have passed since the sack incident, and having
been on my best behaviour they've decided to let me attend a dance.
Accompanied, of course, by one of the jailors, but at least this time it is the
nice blonde woman, Agnus.
Fat-Ruth is part of the band, imagine.
"What is the point of Grace attending this ridiculous
ball when she can’t enjoy the music?" I say, stuffing another sandwich
into my mouth. I realized she was deaf by shouting into her ear one morning and
getting no response. Swallowing back a lump of ham and cheese, I wait for
Agnus' reply, but none is forthcoming.
She has dressed Grace in a beautiful silk dress, pinned her
hair into a French pleat, and sat her onto a chair, but it all seems rather
contrived and pointless. I get the impression Grace doesn't much care as to how
she appears, nor where she is. In fact, I'm certain she would rather be back on
the floor in the corridor.
"And I don't know why you bothered yourself to dress
her up, really. She still looks like my grandmother. And really, dressing her
in silk? She cannot dance in that, even if she actually wanted to, or
could." I continue, picking up another
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