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Post by Amelia Jacobson on Dec 22, 2011 1:52:20 GMT
Amelia sighed in relief and took the paper with thanks. It made the feeling of civility a tad bit more real. She set the pencil to the smooth surface, letting the lead go where it will. The immediate bliss that followed was testament to her having been an artist before she was admitted. Or depressed. A detailed drawing of a dragon started to form, with Celtic swirls making a delicate line around the bright eyes.
She couldn't help but being a bit sarcastic in replying to the doctor's remark about the other inmates being more...difficult. Proof that her mood was improving. "Well, violence and opposition just got us so far in the outside realm, why not use it here?" She smiled wryly. "The world's quick to utilize a mad girl to its fancy. We're all either raving and whores or broken-hearted Ophelias."
Amelia paused for thought, a new drawing taking the place of the old one. This one was a beautiful rendition of a girl clothed in flowers and drowning in a Hydrotherapy bath, strangely resembling a lady's teapot. It was then that she noticed the doctor's unbuttoned collar and blushed a bit.
"It depends on what is favorable to one's advantage, I suppose."
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Post by Dr. Edward Gideon Bramsfield on Dec 22, 2011 2:55:21 GMT
"Ah. There he is" Doctor Bramsfield exclaimed as Vaudier re-entered with a tray brimming with tea and goodies. Real, honest to goodness baked goods, fresh for the two of them. He stood from his desk, taking the tray from his loyal manservant, and placed it on a quaint end-table surrounded by two or three comfortable chaise chairs. "Do come join me" he said with a soft smile, his attitude seeming to be far more eager and sensual suddenly.
"That's quite the drawing there. You wouldn't mind if we kept that one, would you? I quite like it." He said in a hushed tone, leaning over the girl and gazing at the high-quality piece of artwork. He clicked his tongue once or twice in appraisal and stroked her shoulder "it's very nice, dear. Beautiful, even."
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Post by Amelia Jacobson on Dec 22, 2011 3:05:35 GMT
His hand on her shoulder confused her a bit. Amelia wasn't used to gaining much affection other than the shallow adoration that most people seemed to have because of her petite size. She preferred it when people admired her for talent as opposed to that. A genuine smile flitted across her lips. Picking up the drawing carefully, Amelia handed it to the doctor, placing it in his slender hand. It was remarkable how delicate yet strong it seemed for a man, almost like it belonged beneath a composer's lace cuff rather than a physician's coat. "Sweets to the sweet."
Oh dear. He'd started her quoting again. It had been a while since she'd felt good enough to do that. Having been in a depressive state for the last week or so, she had had little motivation to do anything besides sleep. Now, she found herself starting to feel better.
Amelia went to join him in one of the chairs.
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Post by Dr. Edward Gideon Bramsfield on Dec 22, 2011 3:15:42 GMT
With energy abound, Doctor Bramsfield perched himself on a velvet chair, curling his legs under him and sitting to the side, long and lanky arms draped delicately across his thigh with an air of dignity, though his posture was quite relaxed and comfortable. He looked her up and down a few times, then to the portrait again. "Is this you?" He asked
The girl in the drawing seemed to appear very similar. Clothed in naught but a vine or two full of blossoms, all but her priavtes were borne to the viewer. Upon casting a glance to the drawing's bosoms, his cheeks caught a very slight blush that enlivened his face greatly. His eyes widened in a moment of boyish glee, but he caught himself and bit his tongue.
"So tell me, Amelia. You seem to be quite civil in your own ways. How did such a wonderful artist become such a presumably mad girl?" He said with curiosity, picking at the subjects that seemed to interest his guest. She was drawn in by praise and seemed to strive for comfort. With a soft nod, he poured her a steaming cup of Darjeeling, handing her the cup and brushing his fingers softly along hers when their hands met briefly. "Such a painful sight, all these crazy girls. I see a rose blooming from the thorns, but why should a rose grow here at all?" He said bemusedly, eyes alight with hundreds of emotions, all vying for attention amidst his latest personality change.
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Post by Amelia Jacobson on Dec 22, 2011 3:40:32 GMT
"She is me in the sense of drowning," said Amelia softly, taking the cup of tea. She took a sip after breathing in the scent. Ahhh... Divine. Some of the doctor's flattery made her wary due to past experiences. Everything was best taken with a grain of salt. But she did like that he at least seemed to appreciate her somewhat. Not a very common delicacy.
It was when he asked her about how she had come to be in this mess that her expression became sad. Amelia's eyes looked down into her teacup, watching the liquid swirl for a moment. How to begin?
"My family never knew what to do with me when my moods changed... I can be so melancholy at one moment and joyous another. They presumably found it debilitating."
Should she tell him? The old ache in her chest with the thought of the boy rose up again, making her want to curl up to cease the splinters in her ribs. It was probably best that she did. It wasn't like the doctor would suspect something different from a petty female.
"I fell in love once. When I was fifteen, to a boy who was my best friend." Amelia bit her lip, but continued on. "We'd known each other for years. I was...happy then. Really, truly happy. But he had troubles within his family that weighed heavily upon him. His mother never cared for me much. It became too much and he came to me one day, without warning, stating that he never wanted to see me again."
Amelia paused to take another sip of tea in order to regain her composure.
"I tried...to find out exactly his reasoning why. Tried to get him to come back. But he rebuked me and left me to take the full blame, yelling that it was my fault. My moods were too strange, my passions too much, my love stifling. He became engaged soon afterward." The splinters around her heart stabbed at her. "And then I didn't want to draw anymore. Or read. Or write. Or much of anything. I didn't see the point in doing anything because of the coldness of everything. After a while it stopped being about him, and became more about me. I couldn't see why I should be made to endure myself. It didn't seem fair that I should want so badly to die but not be able to because it would mean facing Hell."
She shook her head.
"I had no true motivation for suicide, so you need not fear that. I was simply dying inside. So they sent me here."
There was a deliberate pause. Funny how old wounds could make one feel so alone. Silly of her.
"Rose, perhaps. But is the perfume still there?"
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Post by Dr. Edward Gideon Bramsfield on Dec 22, 2011 19:28:07 GMT
"I was born and raised in an Irish household. I spoke Gaelic for the first twelve years of my life, no English. At the age of four, my mother and father took away my virginity on the whim of asserting dominance. This activity continued nearly nightly, until sometimes I would lie in bed unable to move, my body raw and bleeding. They never cared. Oft times, I'd tell myself it was love. That this was my otherwise neglectful parents' way of saying they loved me.
"That was until I turned eighteen. I was old enough to go out on my own, and so I did. My father had passed away the year previous, and my mother took on his responsibilities in every area of the household. In my bedroom, too. She never ceased. Moreso then that my father was gone. And so I found a few school friends who would support my independence and supply me with food and a shack to live in. And so I moved out to the countryside in my own private little home..
"This was when I met Noel. On a trip into the city one day to get food and a new couch, I met a beautiful blonde little German boy with the biggest blue eyes you'd ever see. He was nine years old and on his own, orphaned fom his parents. I took him into my home and we lived together. I couldn't act as his father-figure, as I was too young for that. But I couldn't be anything else either. Those who saw us scorned our friendship. Anyone could see we had something more as years went by.
"Life went by well. Things were going great. I was away from that ungodly bitch and working as the town's apothecary, a skill I taught myself to do and studied a bit post grade school. WhenNoel turned fifteen, and I twenty-four, he expressed interest in me. We were lovers for the longest while. It wasn't something I thought about, or anything I had a guilty conscience of. It just happened. I guess it was because my father had been very much involved with my weekly raping. I was used to being dominated by a male figure over a man's. Three years later, we got married in civil court. Noel wore a wedding dress and stuffed a bustier with cabbage leaves to give himself breasts. It was quite the funny scene" he paused for a soft laugh, face lost in the emotions of his memories, tangled in regret, passion, and joy. His hands were trembling softly, as though he were palsied. His teacup was nearly empty by now, and the remaining contents were not in danger of spilling.
"But. For us, it wasn't funny. None of it... we saw it as the greatest act of love. After nine years of companionship, whether as friends or lovers, it only seemed natural to marry. It was the greatest day of my life and always will be. I was overjoyed. That night, after a brief fiasco in the kitchen which had turned to a more heated encounter in my library, we shared a sweet kind of love that I can never replicate. My mother had heard of our endeavors through an old friend of mine, and was furious that I'd deviated from 'her love' as she called it.
"In the throes of our passion, in our beautiful moment of intimacy, my mother broke into my home and rushed the library. Before my eyes, still moving within him, Noel was slaughtered with a rusty chunk of metal. My mother was jealous. Jealous and bitter and completely batshit crazy" he said with a sad chuckle, "so right there, mid-coitus, Noel died. I hadn't even the chance to withdraw myself from him." He trailed off, unable to finish the story as tears stung his eyes and he was forced to look away.
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Post by Amelia Jacobson on Dec 22, 2011 21:05:00 GMT
The doctor's tale was beyond anything that she'd ever imagined. She'd had grief, depression, her own trust broken. But nothing like that. At least she had maintained her virginity in her relations as a fifteen year old with her would-be lover. Intimacy would have made the trauma all the worse. Some of the horrors of his childhood that he described were too much for her mind to comprehend without wondering how he had even survived. It was true that she had never had any sort of romantic affections for any females, so she couldn't empathize with him in that respect. But she'd loved. It was clear that, however unnatural it may have been, the doctor had too.
She sat in silence, listening to him and forgetting her tea. He had been such a monster to those around her that she had loathed him for quite a while. Now, at least, she understood some of what had made him who he was at present. Perhaps there was some shred of humanity in him...
Perhaps...perhaps...perhaps...
I wasn't until she noticed the tears that everything hit her again. Amelia wasn't sure exactly what she felt then. To have sympathy for one that had tortured her and assisted in maiming her friends was still a little beyond her reach. The boy's cruelty toward her and her love had hardened her heart. It was the same with everyone, not just the doctor. Still, one couldn't know loss without relating to other people that bore the same scars.
Amelia set her cup down and leaned forward, closer to him. One faerie-like white hand reached up slowly to find his angular cheek. Holding the teacup had warmed her skin, so that she was no longer freezing like a waif. There was too much to be said and not enough proper words in which to say it aloud. For once in her life, despite the plethora of words that filled her mind, Amelia could find nothing to fit the situation. So she set to being gentle, and wiped the moisture from his eyes with her fingertips.
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Post by Dr. Edward Gideon Bramsfield on Dec 22, 2011 21:55:11 GMT
"Ah" his eyes widened at the forward notions of the girl before him. How she could find an ounce of sweetness after all she herself had been in was curious. How could she find any semblance of affection for him, the proverbial 'bad guy' in this of all situations. He lifted an equally pale hand to touch the one that settled on his face. Was this real? After two years of solitude after the sudden flight of his newlywed wife but a week after having their child, and only a month after getting married, he felt someone reaching out yet again to him.
His heart cracked a bit and he let out a cough, his lungs always having to spasm when surprised. He lifted his tea again to his lips, finishing the cup and offering her more as he poured his own. In a sudden spasm of whimsy, he lifted a crumpet from the table and offered it to her lips. It was so like him to live in denial. Like a light switch, his brain shut off from all the bad memories and let itself go entirely. Maybe it was the years of opium abuse, or maybe it was all the trauma coming in at once in such a rush that the floodgates slammed shut. All the same, he felt he couldn't breathe suddenly. He looked down to her face and shuddered.
"What a forward girl you are" he said, admiring her bravely chalant behavior.
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Post by Amelia Jacobson on Dec 23, 2011 0:05:07 GMT
Amelia took a bite of the crumpet, although she wasn't used to being fed. It was actually somewhat of a bizarre experience. No one had ever done that for her out of affection. Except, maybe, for her nurse when she was an infant. She gladly took more tea and took a slow sip, watching him up from beneath her eyelids. Forwardness was not something that she was prone to. Then again, not many had given her enough attention to find out. If she couldn't take some chances in a mental institution then where could she?
A soft laugh came from between her lips at his remark. Flirting wasn't her specialty but she could try to at least be witty. "Not usually, but I suppose that I'm feeling inspired."
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Post by Dr. Edward Gideon Bramsfield on Dec 23, 2011 0:30:53 GMT
"Do tell" he said with a grin, propping his chin on his knuckles and watching the girl through observant eyes "Surely it is not I, the horrible Doctor Bramsfield who's inspired you. For am I not the bane of every girl in this institution? Am I not the one horrid figure nobody wants to see in the lamplight or beside their cell?" He paused for a moment to scoot forward on the chair "Am I not the man you despise?"
His utterances were a challenge. He knew he was hated, and yet it seemed he'd never cared much. Not until now. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins. He couldn't control it. The fury pent up inside him was becoming uncorked at the thought of all the wretched girls rotting in floors beneath him, all of them mad and easily disposable. Before long he'd switched to another personality, the one disorder that ruled his life. With a sudden harsh snarl, he threw the teacup down against the wooden floor, shattering the delicate porcelain and splashing hot tea everywhere. His eyes were lit afire, and yet seemed dead and empty as they had been when the girl first met him.
He rose rapidly to his feet in a flash, and just as suddenly as he had risen, he fell back with a withering shudder, lids falling heavy over his tired eyes. He let out a long and slow rattling breath and drew one in half as strongly, seeming almost dead upon the chaise. "Do forgive me." He said, each word drawn out in a tired whisper, "for I cannot predict when these things will happen." He looked up from his drooping stupor at her face, eyes searching and remorseful "I mean you no harm. That I can promise you." His voice was not more than a breath now as his body wilted to regain the energy it had spent so foolishly
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Post by Amelia Jacobson on Dec 23, 2011 3:06:26 GMT
Amelia started as the teacup smashed against the floor. Her eyes widened with the effort to deter her natural impulse to bolt. In the Asylum, one learned to be wary. But as soon as the violence had come, it seemed to pass away. The man was a jumble of nerves. Amelia's slow rise to mania was creeping on the edges of her brain, not helping the situation much. Her thoughts were starting to speed up and so she saw more than she cared for. She saw the momentary loss of control and the war of emotions tearing him apart. She heard his breath and saw every movement, fast or slow.
As he sank back down, so did she, settling into her chair. Then she rose quietly and secured his hands in her own, looking into the green eyes that could be emeralds or poison. Some of her long dark hair fell down around her face, but not so that he couldn't read her expression. Her voice came out in a whisper. "You've iced yourself over, but you rage underneath, don't you?" Nothing in her tone was unsteady. Her growing sense of good feelings made her bolder. She stoked his hand with her thumb.
"I don't hate you," Amelia said pensively after a heavy pause, "as much as I hate what your pain makes you do."
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Post by Dr. Edward Gideon Bramsfield on Dec 23, 2011 4:35:55 GMT
A heavy shudder rocked his body and he dared not look away, no matter how sudden and warming the connection of eyes was. He took a few deep breaths before continuing to be sure he could carry out a sentence on one breath again. When the warm hands gripped his own chilled ones, he felt the palsy stop, like the ice she brought up. His voice trembled whence the first word slipped from his lips.
"I have no control over my body or my personality. One moment I'm the man you saw in the bloodletting laboratory. The next moment, I'm this man. Moments later, I could the king of France for all I know." He said, a bitter resentment towards his own mental instability. "As proud of a man as I try to be--no--as I am, it's hard running a house full of crazies when your batshit yourself."
He watched her hair slide delicately over her face, feeling the urge to blow softly on it to move it away, although he would not act upon it. The thumb stroking his knuckles sent a strange fire up his arm, and he resisted the urge to jerk away in surprise. The girl was beautiful, no doubt. But what his heart was saying would not overpower what his over-productive brain was screaming. At least, not in this personality. "Why do you reach out to me thusly, young one?" He said with curiosity, though the excitement could not be seen on his face so much as heard in his voice.
"Why do you insist on showing me the kindness even my own mother wouldn't dare share? Why me, the one who took away the world from you with the scratch of a pen.
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Post by Amelia Jacobson on Dec 23, 2011 18:58:57 GMT
Amelia shook her head. Some of it was still hard to fathom. It was clear that the doctor was not in as much control as he tried to be. While this disturbed her greatly, there was nothing that could be done about it. She was still in his control. All of the girls were. What would such a thing mean for their survival? Although Bramsfield could be equally feral at times, he was probably the most humane of the doctors. The lesser of the evils, at least. He had a son to anchor some part of his humanity to the ground. Lymer, the Butcher, and Stockill had no such thing. There would be no mercy.
"I don't know," Amelia said softly after a while. Her thumb continued to stroke his hand unconsciously. "I suppose..." She felt herself struggle for the right thing to say. An exhale left her lips.
"I suppose it's because you've been made to live as a child as we are now. You lost the world early and endured your torture then. I was losing my world before my family sent me here... When your pen signed my fate, I felt that you hadn't much left to take away."
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Post by Dr. Edward Gideon Bramsfield on Dec 23, 2011 21:59:44 GMT
"I try to replace what that loon Stockill left behind all those years ago when he gave this place up. I try and try again to form a solid instutution. Though the treatment then was far worse than today's treatments, the foundation was far stronger. That is until things fell apart." He mumbled to himself as he gazed at her concerned face "But you know, I'm not ashamed of anything. Everything I've done in my life has had some meaning to it. And I will continue to be proud of my actions."
His face was that of a champion's reprise, his post-competition joy. But his eyes were heavy and lustful, as though he sought out the soul of each and everything in the room. He lifted his pale and freckled face to look upon his guest. With ardor "I do believe you've unlocked another chapter here, my dear. Come. I hear Aeodhan awaking again. Would you like to meet my beautiful son?" he said with pride. His chest seemed to swell at the mention of his child and he wore a brighter, more gentle smile. "Perhaps I can supply you with something warm to wear from my wife's clothing, too. At least while you're in my quarters
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Post by Amelia Jacobson on Dec 23, 2011 23:06:44 GMT
Amelia rose and nodded. She was curious about the child whom she had quite literally heard and not seen. "Of course, I would be delighted to meet your son. He's quite the vocalist." When he made his second offer about clothing, though, she felt a blush rising in her cheeks. Amelia was reminded of the dried blood still in her hair and of the fact that she was wearing basically nothing besides her shift and stockings. How like a fallen woman she must appear!
Amelia looked down, taking the hem of her shift between her thumb and forefinger out of mannerly habit. It was amazing what upbringing could make one do without thinking about it. It was entirely unpractical.
"I wouldn't want to soil your wife's dresses with my present state. I am afraid that I must admit that I am rather worse for wear. Surely, she would be displeased at an arbitrary mad girl soliciting her clothing for an afternoon, would she not?"
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