In Dreams
by
AstraPerAspera
With thanks to JenniferJF whose story Pandora was my inspiration.
In the dream she was both victim and observer. Simultaneously beset by every sensation and yet, somehow, curiously detached. As if someone had carved out of her her heart, leaving in its place a small and pitiful timepiece—its mechanical ticking emulating a beat that registered neither joy nor sorrow. An imposter organ, echoing in the great hollow of her chest.
There was never any variation. Each night it was the same. She would hear his soft and careful step behind her on the damp stone floor and some memory of delight would cause her to turn. His hand outstretched—a gentleman's courtesy to assist her as she stood; his winsome smile. A memory of joy—of love, to propel her into his arms. And then the pain. Sharp and deep and penetrating, and a curious sensation of warmth spreading across her hips. And the winsome smile no longer winsome but cruel and bitter and vengeful as he would step away to reveal his handiwork. She would stare down at her own jagged flesh, at the bulbous pink organs spilling from the wound; and she would gape at him, at the red-glazed hand he held out before her, palm up. At the tiny curled-up being that mewled pitifully in his enormous hand as he squeezed it shut, extinguishing the fragile life. Then he would mock a gentleman's bow, backing into the shadows as she would sink to the floor, her vision dim and fading until the blackness of oblivion overtook her.
And she would awaken.
As now. Alone. In a room dancing with shadows because she could no longer bear the dark or the corners where he might lurk, keeping malignant vigil in dark parody of his once tender care. The low hiss of the dimmed gaslights whispered conspiratorially, like ladies gossiping behind their fans. And she knew sleep would allude her once more. Vivid as they were, the dream images would quickly fade. Unlike the real ones—the ones seared into her mind and her heart—which were far more difficult to dispel, or the decision that lay before her, which plagued her thoughts and drove sleep away.
The child. For all her medical training—for all her understanding of the science that already was decades ahead of her peers—she could think of it in no other terms than this. It would be easier if she could. Infinitely easier if she could simply envision it a barely recognizable conglomeration of cells which hardly resembled anything approaching the human being it was destined to be.
But she could not. Not when she knew that, under other circumstances, it would have represented every hope and dream for their future. The truth of their love made incarnate. The pride of a father's eye. The joy of her own heart. The treasured acolyte of a doting grandfather. Everything a child, beloved and wanted, had a right to be.
Everything this child would have been.
Should have been.
Could have been.
Perhaps it was a punishment. How arrogant had they been—had she been—to dare presume immortality was within their grasp. To try to wrest that control from whatever power it was that authored their days. And while she no more followed the tracts of any one religion than her father did, it seemed that this was nothing less than retribution being demanded from her for what had proven to be her many sins.
And now, she would compound them. She could not bring this child to term. It was unthinkable. And even—even if she did not fear the dark corners of her room or the solitude of her father's library or the isolation of her own laboratory—she was, when all was said and done, an unmarried woman. And while she had had the courage to fly in the face of convention to become what she had, it had been, after all, only her own reputation she had risked. She would not give this child to her detractors to hold up as proof for their sanctimonious recriminations. No one would ever call it Bastard. Not when it had been conceived in love.
Because it had. Regardless of what had followed. Regardless of what he had done. Of what she had done…the genesis of their child had been love. No one would taint that. No one would take that away. No one would make her surrender that belief—not when it was all that remained.
And yet, she could surrender the child. She must. It was her only choice. To save it from a monster who would destroy it and a world that would revile it, she must give it up. Take back the very thing which she herself had given. Life.
Except.
How could she? How could she let go of the only remnant of the man with whom she had desired to spend eternity? The man who had loved her, cherished her, trusted her…. The man she had failed in ways she was only beginning to understand. Would she fail in this as well…to protect the one thing which remained of what they had sacrificed so much to preserve? There was life in her womb. Life. In the dark and quiet embrace of her own body, their love lived. If she cut it down…cut it out…would she be any different than John, who with one swift stroke had destroyed them both?
There was…another choice.
She had rejected it at first. James was brilliant and his concept, if she'd had the wherewithal at the time to fully appreciate it, ingenious. But there had been no question in her mind what she must do. Besides, it was only a design on paper. There was no chamber. No cooling mechanism. No proven method for retrieval. James had assured her it could be done in a timely manner; all she had to give was the word. But in her grief she had declined. There had been only one path laid before her. One road only that she could take.
Though now she was less certain. If she could save the child—preserve it—keep it out of harm's way…. Was that not to be preferred? And if, by some chance, in their efforts they tried and failed, then it would not have been for lack of desire. She could not have this child, yet neither, she realized now, could she destroy it. It was all she would ever have. She could not give that up.
The wind whistled at the windows. A summer storm settling in. The gaslights danced in the draft, causing the shadows to leap madly, but she no longer feared them. Nor the dream. He had taken from her everything he possibly could. She would protect the only thing that remained.
With that thought came a certain…peace.
o-o-o-o
There was a muffled tapping at his study door which caused him to look up just as the knob turned and his housekeeper trundled him.
"Yes, Alice…what is it?" There was no point in sounding annoyed. The woman did as she pleased for all his admonitions.
She offered him a note, creased and stamped. He recognized the seal at once.
"This arrived for you from that Dr. Magnus." He noted the tone of disapproval in her voice. Helen's midnight visit a few weeks back had not gone unheeded.
"Thank you," he replied, taking it and staring pointedly at the woman, hoping he'd encourage her to depart. Either she took the hint or she had no intention of remaining in the first place, because she turned on her heels and walked out, even managing to shut the door behind her without his having to ask.
Sliding his finger beneath the wax he opened the paper. The text was brief.
James…Please proceed. Helen
He didn't need to read it a second time. He had work to do.