|
|
Post by Amelia Jacobson on May 10, 2012 2:01:30 GMT
Amelia was still awake when the five o'clock hour turned over. It was not yet light outside, and shadows lingered under her bright eyes. The darkness was gone from them despite the hue. She sat upon the straw of her bed, her whole body feeling a light giddiness that made her slightly on-edge. Amelia stood up and paced a bit inside of her stone cubicle of a cell. Snippets of music were playing in her head, giving her the bizarre urge to dance. Think of that nonsense! Dancing in a prison! She sat back down.
The rats had been kind to her, as always. The adults that lived within the walls had decided that they could trust her when she had rescued some of their children. Amelia herself had been taken into the laboratory a few times before and after the surgical removal of her uterus to be examined. That was when she had spied the cages. The sight of baby rats, all crammed together and huddled into a tiny velvet mass to keep warm, had pierced her in a way that not much could. They reminded her so much of the youngest inmates. She had known that they, too, would soon be a pile of bodies littered in a heap on the floor. When her attendants had gone out in the hall to deal with another shrieking girl, Amelia slipped some of the little ones into the tops of her stockings. They were delivered safely back into the loving paws of their parents with more than an immense display of joy. Unfortunately, it had been impossible to save them all.
The pencil that they had gifted to her was red, nicked from the supply case of an artist that had been hired to produce erotic drawings of some of the inmates for use in the prostitution advertisements. The paper—all used up now—had come from Doctor Bramsfield and scraps that the rats had managed to secret away. It had run out at the wrong time. Thoughts whirred through Amelia's head; songs, voices remembered from her family and lover, quotes from books, recreations of images from her nights spent with the doctor that made her stomach tingle, and words, always words.
The paper lay hidden beneath the straw and Amelia knew with frustration that every inch of it was covered with delicate red cursive handwriting. It had gotten considerably less dainty the faster she wrote. Why couldn't she have written this much when she was free? She could have sent in all of her poetry under a pseudonym and tried for publication. She knew that she was good enough. It was a chance she could take, at the very least.
Amelia had to write. Now.
Grasping the pencil in her hand, words began flowing out in steady red scratches against the walls of her cell. The poems were as alive and real as she was, breathing and tangible to no one but herself in that moment. The pale fingers of the Sun split in bleak whiteness through the bars of her window as dawn broke. Amelia continued to write, now on the second space of wall, having filled one up already in the space of a few hours.
|
|
|
|
Post by Dr. Edward Gideon Bramsfield on May 11, 2012 22:55:27 GMT
"And what is this?" Said Doctor Bramsfield as he stepped past her cell, peering in out of interest, "Where did you get the pencil, hmm?" He smirked, bitterness in his voice and in his eyes. He of course was joking, not at all intending to take away the tool from her, and unlocked her cell. He stepped in and cleared his throat, "I've come to speak to you about our living arrangements. I'd enjoy it if you became my full-time lover. Live with me in my chambers. Keep me company."
He thought that the perks would allure her, but the way she had been rejecting his professions of love said otherwise. He thought that she no longer loved him. It had been months since their last visit together, and his heart ached desperately for her.
Doctor Bramsfield sat himself on the straw bed, looking up at her from a more humble position sitting before her. "So what'll it be? Hm? Yes? No? A profession that you've missed me desperately and wish to express your undying love for me?" With his final question he let out a sad chuckle "Amelia, I've missed you so much...your touch, your kiss, your embrace...come back to me, my little one."
|
|
|
|
Post by Amelia Jacobson on May 14, 2012 6:19:45 GMT
Amelia had been so wrapped up in her own world that she started when the doctor spoke. The sudden taking of her pencil confused her for a moment, and her hand lingered in the air before she blushed and dropped it in embarrassment. Her eyes were bright, very bright. They took in Bramsfield's face. It was only when he lowered himself to sit beside her that she became aware of the sad air that hovered over him.
Her answer came out as a fast stream. She knew how she felt and was willing to be honest about it, which was odd considering her reclusive tendencies. "I'm terribly flattered at all of the affection and ardor that you have committed to me for so long and you will truly never know just how eternally grateful I am, but I can't leave all of the other girls behind to suffer while I live in such complete comfort. You probably won't understand that. But we're the same being, all of us. Even you. We're all in this place and are part of it every day that we live. I would feel as if I were betraying them."
Amelia took his hand in both of her own. "Don't misunderstand my intentions. I haven't meant to use you or take advantage. Not now, at least. I do not trust people in general and after I was hurt, part of me died. I find myself being wary of even those whom I care about the most and then flog myself for even caring about them so much because it leaves me to be open and vulnerable." She shook her head, compelling him to understand. "I cannot be weak. It is so hard when one has the potential to love so greatly and yet cannot will oneself to do so anymore. I want to trust you because I know that there is far more to you than meets the common eye, but you don't deserve someone like me. You've gone out of your way to be too kind to someone who is missing something."
There was something swimming in the fire in her eyes that rarely showed itself. Amelia could not believe that she was telling him so much when she had never been able to tell anyone before. She drew her knees up to her chest and rested her elbows against them, her hands meeting her temples. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. "I would be very much willing to spend the majority of my time with you, if it would mean that I could still return every once in a while to my fellow inmates. I cannot watch them suffer and I cannot watch you suffer because of me. I—" She was trying to say it. Just three words, that was all it was. One phrase and it would release them both from pain and bond them together for all time. "I..." He'd said it to her so many times, it should flow easily from her lips. A piercing ache twisted through her ribs. Help me!
Amelia shook in frustration, one tear finally falling down her pale cheek. "I do not even know if I can love."
|
|
|
|
Post by Dr. Edward Gideon Bramsfield on May 14, 2012 12:47:55 GMT
"Say it, please...please...say it..." his face was registered with agony and hopelessness. He couldn't bear to ot hear them. Not now, not at this point in his life. His emotions were stirred and he was roused to slap the silly girl rightly across her cheek. Protect those little shits, she wanted. Protect and stay with them. She was not worthy of the company of the other women here. Amelia was far too sacred.
"Then...then use my room as your cell. Leave to take your tests and your supper, and come back any other time...my arms are always open" he said, voice wavering as he demonstrated, holding out his arms wide. When she did not come to him, he finally registered the heartbreak rending her flesh apart. "Then let me cover you with those words you cannot speak." He uttered, drawing her into an embrace of his own accord, "I love you...I truly love you. Perhaps nearly as much as my long gone Noel" he admitted.
The realization washed over him like a tide of anguish. He loved this girl with all of his heart, and here she was, incapable of returning that which he gave. It hurt and stung, and disgust plastered itself across his face as he hid it in her shoulder. "Please... just say it. Those three words. I know that you mean them, and that you mean to say them. That much is readily apparent at the way you regard me. But what of the simple three words? I love you. I truly, wholeheartedly love you." He said, more urgently, shaking her shoulders yet softly. "Why don't you see that?"
With finality, he stood up, closing his eyes and huffing heavily "I'm sorry. Will you stay with me in those situations, then?" He offered, holding out his hands "Please. I will say it again. Please! Oh lord please, for I think I may falter here."
|
|
|
|
Post by Amelia Jacobson on May 20, 2012 22:28:38 GMT
She started at the slap, but recovered quickly. The embrace caused her to unconsciously cling to him. The hurt in his voice twisted up inside of her. God, what's wrong with me? Her entire being was struggling, fighting against everything that it had come to know. It was almost like one of her episodes, when she wanted to rip herself apart. How many wars had been fought inside of her tiny body? Amelia had lost count.
Seizing the doctor's cravat, she pulled herself into his lap. "I'll stay with you." Her lips crushed onto his and her tongue moved into his mouth without asking permission. She was kissing him deeply, straining her delicate fingers against his shoulders. How else could she explain what she felt when words betrayed and failed her?
|
|
|
|
Post by Dr. Edward Gideon Bramsfield on May 21, 2012 13:35:40 GMT
Surprise registered on his face before anything, and then he relaxed into the gentle kiss. It was like sweet, sugary butter as she clung to him desperately and he smiled in satisfaction. Though she had not responded in such the manner that he'd requested, it still pleased the man.
He felt his cravat loosened as she tugged at it and chuckled softly "Such a naughty girl..." he said when he pulled away to breathe. If a kiss was currency for love, he realized, he'd gotten far more money than he could ever want. She'd said it blatantly through their actions in his office. He was rich and a fool for not realizing. Still, he would not admit his defeat in claiming she'd never showed it. Such a thing showed his weakness and he was not a man to do such a thing.
He stroked the girl's back for a while absently and retired to sitting down on her bed again. He wondered idly whether taking her here would be a foolish action, and he realized it would further traumatize poor Amelia if anyone caught them in the act. "We must return to my office if we are to continue our little game of kissing." He chuckled lightly and gently removed her from his lap "Shall we? Or do you wish to remain here for the time being?"
|
|
|
|
Post by Amelia Jacobson on May 25, 2012 3:47:50 GMT
Amelia caught her breath, her head tilting slightly as she listened to Bramsfield's question. She'd needed to kiss him to express what she felt. But perhaps sexual intimacy wasn't called for at this moment. They'd had plenty of that, although she couldn't deny that it had been enjoyable despite her reservations. No, now was not the time. There would be ample time in the future for them to share time together in the doctor's office. He was in her element here. It wasn't a pretty one, but it was one that they shared nonetheless.
Moving to sit down by the doctor, Amelia settled to lay her head against his chest. Her hands rested in her lap in perfect folded position out of habit. The rapid speed of her thoughts and the lightness of her emotions made her start to feel an absurdly romantic bubble in the cavity of her chest. A small smile made its way onto Amelia's pink lips. No one was watching them, but she was oddly content with just this. Her eyelashes brushed against the fabric of Bramsfield's shirt and when she spoke, her voice had a touch of warmth to it.
"Stay."
|
|
|
|
Post by Dr. Edward Gideon Bramsfield on May 25, 2012 18:23:51 GMT
"Then I shall stay my love." He whispered. He wondered idly whether she was feeling up for poetry. He had yet to hear her do such a thing, and he felt as though it would be wholly too romantic to bear where they were now. He was already tempted to touch her body, it would not be wise to continue down his heart's path of desire. He instead occupied himself with combing his long, delicate fingers through her soft hair. The feel itself was enough to relax him, but he needed more. Perhaps he would enjoy a nice nap here with her. They were locked in here after all. Only his key opened the door.
With a soft, trained voice, he began a silent folk song he'd learned as a child, something in his native language of gaelic. His voice was not good nor bad, but somewhere in the median. He hadn't sung a song in a long time, and he was surprised he could still sing at all. He sang like this for a while, enjoying the otherwise silence, and noticed at once that a rat or two had joined them in the cell, perhaps to listen.
"I've heard girls tell of their friends the rats. Have these ones earned your friendship, young one?" He asked, in a calm enough mood not to throw a tantrum for the infestation taking over his building.
|
|
|
|
Post by Amelia Jacobson on May 31, 2012 3:17:28 GMT
Amelia listened to the silvery trill of his voice as he sang, thinking it over in her swirling mind. She had never been able to pinpoint exactly what it was that drew her to the doctor so much. He was far older than she, and not of the common ideals of handsomeness. Then again, she had never been one for the conventional. Bramsfield had a magnetic gaze, certainly, one that hinted a length of depth and danger. That wasn't it. It wasn't until she closed her eyes and shut out the world to hone in on everything that she was able to discover the source.
It was the voice.
Not merely the tone and pitch of it, no. It was the intellect behind it that proved to be so rare, yet so often acted as true in people, that intrigued Amelia. She had heard him be at his cruelest. At his kindest, at his most frightening, at his most...loving. What the voice spoke of and what lay beneath it always hinted at more. More of just what, Amelia could not be certain. The wars that took place within Bramsfield were not present just within his countenance and eyes and ravings. They were present in everything that made him who he was. His voice was no exception.
Like melodies harmonized. Could it be, perhaps, that like voices with a common leitmotiv of war found each other because it was in their nature to do so?
Amelia spoke softly, her recitation blending with Bramsfield's song.
"Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme."
She heard the little scuttling of paws across the stone cell floor and opened her eyes at Bramsfield's question. A small smile formed. The poor dears were frightened, and with good reason. What must it look like to the rats? A trusted friend in the arms of one who made his living with the likes of enemies? Amelia nodded to Bramsfield. "Yes, they bring me little gifts and keep me company when it gets lonely. They're quite good creatures."
|
|
|
|
Post by Dr. Edward Gideon Bramsfield on May 31, 2012 23:56:31 GMT
"Amelia..." his voice broke away when she finished her recitation. It broke his heart in a good way to hear this from her. It was as sweet as any gift she had ever given. Her tone was practiced and measured, and one would say she was worthy of reciting for an audience. But her talent was wasted here. He shook his head a bit and smiled lovingly "Oh, Amelia..."
He captured her lips in a tender, chaste kiss, savouring the moment. It seemed the rats were on edge, but something was a tad different after that kiss. Perhaps he had showed the right kind of emotion or something of the likes. He stuck out a quivering hand to the largest of the creatures, allowing it to approach him instead of the other way around. "It's alright, little thing. Only Lymer has imprisoned your kind. I may not appreciate mass volumes of you, but I do appreciate you."
He hummed a little tune to the beady-eyed thing and smiled "Do you like my voice? Is that why you ventured forth?" He questioned. He stroked its head when offered and whispered nothings to it.
|
|
|
|
Post by Amelia Jacobson on Jun 10, 2012 0:06:29 GMT
Amelia felt the tenderness in the kiss and it was sweet. Not something that one savored often in a place like this. She watched as he stretched out a hesitant hand toward one of her little ones and listened as he murmured. Amelia could feel herself growing impressed as the rat took up his gesture and allowed the doctor to have contact. Their trust wasn't easily won. But then again, Bramsfield had had experience with hesitant and wary creatures before.
Holding out one of her free open palms, Amelia beckoned to the other rat. It looked with tiny obsidian eyes from her to Bramsfield and back again, cocking its head to the side. Then it scurried over and curled up with its nose nuzzled into the pad of her thumb. Amelia smiled.
She nodded to the rat near Bramsfield. "That one likes the color red. This one has a taste for lace."
|
|
|
|
Post by Dr. Edward Gideon Bramsfield on Jun 10, 2012 1:12:33 GMT
"Must be my hair, then" he teased, stroking the thing's head affectionately and admiring its red eyes. He looked to the other one, surprised by the rats' different personalities, and wondered idly if they were not all just large rats in a sense. He would rather be a fox, as Atticus had mentioned he resembled, but rats did not sound too bad either. He supposed all of the beings in the Asylum were just as the rats were--hoarding, sneaky things with agendas of their own and their own individual tastes.
When he grew bored of the rat's silky fur, he turned to his lover with burning eyes "What is it you do here in this tiny cell? I've always been curious of the workings of the Asylum, you know. Or, of the girls. I know what goes on in their little minds. I'm learned to do so. More than Lymer or Greavesly or that damned Pennsley, I daresay" he said, "But I do not understand the social pecking order here. What do you do for fun? Who...who do you girls love when you have nobody? Surely you have myself, but what of the lonely ones?" He asked with a soft glance to the door, making sure nobody was peeking in.
It was then that he truly noticed the writing on the walls. All the beautifully delicate cursive. Before he had a chance to admire it, his body jerked into rigor briefly, turning stuff as a board, and he jumped up "Oh damn it all." He spat, having one of his dangerous mood swings. "Come to my office at once. I cannot stand to sit here any more." He said, being quite unreasonable. There was no reason for anger at the current moment, and yet here it was fresh as winter snow, chilling his heart.
|
|
|
|
Post by Amelia Jacobson on Jun 18, 2012 3:13:50 GMT
Amelia considered Bramsfield's questions about the social order of the Asylum. Hm... How to explain it? She knew that the doctor was naturally privy to most information about how the girls interacted with one another, but of course, he couldn't know just how deep the bond really went. Even she, who found herself most easily expressed through words, felt at a loss to verbalize the primal, almost Amazonian sisterhood that survival had forged between the inmates. It was like attempting to describe the inner workings of the Hunters of Artemis to a male. Almost impossible.
"Well... Obviously, there is not much to do in a cell. Most of us are rather worn by the end of the day to do much afterward." Her head tilted thoughtfully. "I suppose that the girls who have been here the longest are the most respected. They're the strongest and take care of the others. Very few feel safe enough to love... Or they were given up by the ones they loved. Some of them find solace and love in each other, since they have no one else in here." Amelia blushed at this point. She knew that the doctor would be able to identify with this to some degree, but the statement and its meaning was still a bit awkward. It was one thing to see the nymphomaniacs flirting and performing favors for the Chasers in order to get what they wanted, and quite another to hear two girls engaged in a passion in the middle of the night.
Then Amelia saw the change in his green eyes and before she had time to react, the storm settled on Bramsfield's brow and he demanded that she come with him. Amelia felt nerves twist in her stomach, but she rose slowly and gracefully. One of her small hands reached up to gently stroke along the doctor's jawline. Poor man. He was even more turbulent in his emotions than she was and it was forever beyond his control. There was a slight sadness in her brown eyes, making them unusually soft. "Alright, Edward."
|
|
|
|
Post by Dr. Edward Gideon Bramsfield on Jun 18, 2012 4:11:58 GMT
He jerked her roughly at first, tugging her down the hallway, but he soon was overcome with a more saddened emotion. The rest of their journey down a floor and across the wing to the center of the massive building was a melancholy one, Amelia already saddened, the Doctor now hopeless and lost. Finally they came upon his office, where he at once took her into his arms the moment they were inside. His gut had been right when he thought earlier about love making. Tonight was not a night for intimacy. No, tonight, for now, was a night for mourning.
He looked to her with pleading, sorrowful eyes that showed perhaps the deepest reaches of his soul, further down than that of his anger or his joy. No, this was the tickings of the true Edward Bramsfield, the small and pitiful center of a tall, strong shell. A soft, keening whimper emanated from high in his throat and he dropped with relief on the chaise lounge in the corner, closing his eyes. "Come to me, my beautiful, fluttering bird." He held out a shaking hand that never seemed to stop quivering.
Something about the mere presence of his lover seemed to calm him, and at every touch they shared, he felt as though he was on fire. She lit him up. And here he was abusing and confusing her with his turbulent ways. "Perhaps..." he lamented, "I am not fit for you. See how I change so quickly? There is nothing I can do which will qualm my moods. And I cannot bear to take them out on the one good soul left in my institution. Tell me. Amelia. Am I worth it? Am I worth all of your troubles?"
|
|
|
|
Post by Amelia Jacobson on Jun 18, 2012 21:09:58 GMT
Amelia went where he led her without much resistance, volantly treading after his long legs until they reached his office. When he suddenly embraced her, she closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of his clothes and the long red hair that curled down against his chest. All too soon, Bramsfield pulled back enough to settle into a seat, look her in the eyes, and let out a pitiful noise. She felt like her heart had broken apart on the floor.
Walking over to where he was sitting, Amelia took Bramsfield's shaking hand in both of her own. His skin was cold and she found herself unconsciously rubbing his fingers in an attempt to circulate the blood and warm him up. It was while she was doing this that he asked her.
"Perhaps... I am not fit for you. See how I change so quickly? There is nothing I can do which will qualm my moods. And I cannot bear to take them out on the one good soul left in my institution. Tell me. Amelia. Am I worth it? Am I worth all of your troubles?"
Amelia herself wasn't prepared for her reaction. Fury hissed through her veins like lightning and she stood up, brown eyes glaring fiercely into the green. "How dare you even ask that?" Her tiny body was resolute, rigid even in its willow frame. "How dare you even suggest it?"
If she had never looked mad before this minute, she looked it now. With her long brown hair falling around her, thin white shift drooping off of one shoulder, striped stockings sagging a bit around her delicate ankles, and fingertips still stained red from writing on the walls all night long, she put Polonius's daughter to shame. But it wasn't so much her dilapidated dress that radiated the effect off of her as it was her expression. Lips flushed red and parted, pink tinging the white of her skin around her cheeks, dark hair forming an almost ebony halo, and brown eyes lighting up with a passion so that they almost looked hazel. In that one instant, her entire being emanated power. Amelia's soft voice was not at all soft now.
"I do not care what others have stooped low enough to do to harm you. I do not care how anyone else may have wronged you in any way. I do not care how damaged you may be because damn it all, who in this hateful world isn't? I will not abandon you. I am not going to do that."
|
|
